part I

put my questions new, If mine be any prize, or run its course, Be my soul free, or captived in close wood.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET CLXXIX.

_In nobil sangue vita umile e queta._

SHE UNITES IN HERSELF THE HIGHEST EXCELLENCES OF VIRTUE AND BEAUTY.

High birth in humble life, reserved yet kind, On youth's gay flower ripe fruits of age and rare, A virtuous heart, therewith a lofty mind, A happy spirit in a pensive air; Her planet, nay, heaven's king, has fitly shrined All gifts and graces in this lady fair, True honour, purest praises, worth refined, Above what rapt dreams of best poets are. Virtue and Love so rich in her unite, With natural beauty dignified address, Gestures that still a silent grace express, And in her eyes I know not what strange light, That makes the noonday dark, the dusk night clear, Bitter the sweet, and e'en sad absence dear.

MACGREGOR.

Though nobly born, so humbly calm she dwells, So bright her intellect--so pure her mind-- The blossom and its bloom in her we find; With pensive look, her heart with mirth rebels: Thus by her planets' union she excels, (Nay--His, the stars' proud sov'reign, who enshrined There honour, worth, and fortitude combined!) Which to the bard inspired, his hope dispels. Love blooms in her, but 'tis his home most pure; Her daily virtues blend with native grace; Her noiseless movements speak, though she is mute: Such power her eyes, they can the day obscure, Illume the night,--the honey's sweetness chase, And wake its stream, where gall doth oft pollute.

WOLLASTON.

SONNET CLXXX.

_Tutto 'l di piango; e poi la notte, quando._

HER CRUELTY RENDERS LIFE WORSE THAN DEATH TO HIM.

Through the long lingering day, estranged from rest, My sorrows flow unceasing; doubly flow, Painful prerogative of lover's woe! In that still hour, when slumber soothes th' unblest. With such deep anguish is my heart opprest, So stream mine eyes with tears! Of things below Most miserable I; for Cupid's bow Has banish'd quiet from this heaving breast. Ah me! while thus in suffering, morn to morn And eve to eve succeeds, of death I view (So should this life be named) one-half gone by-- Yet this I weep not, but another's scorn; That she, my friend, so tender and so true, Should see me hopeless burn, and yet her aid deny.

WRANGHAM.

SONNET CLXXXI.

_Già desiai con sì giusta querela._

HE LIVES DESTITUTE OF ALL HOPE SAVE THAT OF RENDERING HER IMMORTAL.

Erewhile I labour'd with complaint so true, And in such fervid rhymes to make me heard, Seem'd as at last some spark of pity stirr'd In the hard heart which frost in summer knew. Th' unfriendly cloud, whose cold veil o'er it grew, Broke at the first breath of mine ardent word Or low'ring still she others' blame incurr'd Her bright and killing eyes who thus withdrew No ruth for self I crave, for her no hate; I wish not this--_that_ passes power of mine: Such was mine evil star and cruel fate. But I shall ever sing her charms divine, That, when I have resign'd this mortal breath, The world may know how sweet to me was death.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET CLXXXII.

_Tra quantunque leggiadre donne e belle._

ALL NATURE WOULD BE IN DARKNESS WERE SHE, ITS SUN, TO PERISH.

Where'er she moves, whatever dames among, Beauteous or graceful, matchless she below. With her fair face she makes all others show Dim, as the day's bright orb night's starry throng. And Love still whispers, with prophetic tongue,-- "Long as on earth is seen that glittering brow, Shall life have charms: but she shall cease to glow And with her all my power shall fleet along, Should Nature from the skies their twin-lights wrest; Hush every breeze, each herb and flower destroy; Strip man of reason--speech; from Ocean's breast His tides, his tenants chase--such, earth's annoy; Yea, still more darken'd were it and unblest, Had she, thy Laura, closed her eyes to love and joy."

WRANGHAM.

Whene'er amidst the damsels, blooming bright, She shows herself, whose like was never made, At her approach all other beauties fade, As at morn's orient glow the gems of night. Love seems to whisper,--"While to mortal sight Her graces shall on earth be yet display'd, Life shall be blest; 'till soon with her decay'd, The virtues, and my reign shall sink outright." Of moon and sun, should nature rob the sky, The air of winds, the earth of herbs and leaves, Mankind of speech and intellectual eye, The ocean's bed of fish, and dancing waves; Even so shall all things dark and lonely lye, When of her beauty Death the world bereaves!

CHARLEMONT.

SONNET CLXXXIII.

_Il cantar novo e 'l pianger degli augelli._

MORNING.

The birds' sweet wail, their renovated song, At break of morn, make all the vales resound; With lapse of crystal waters pouring round, In clear, swift runnels, the fresh shores among. She, whose pure passion knows nor guile nor wrong, With front of snow, with golden tresses crown'd, Combing her aged husband's hoar locks found, Wakes me when sportful wakes the warbling throng. Thus, roused from sleep, I greet the dawning day, And its succeeding sun, with one more bright, Still dazzling, as in early youth, my sight: Both suns I've seen at once uplift their ray; This drives the radiance of the stars away, But that which gilds my life eclipses e'en his light.

NOTT.

Soon as gay morn ascends her purple car, The plaintive warblings of the new-waked grove, The murmuring streams, through flowery meads that rove, Fill with sweet melody the valleys fair. Aurora, famed for constancy in love, Whose face with snow, whose locks with gold compare. Smoothing her aged husband's silvery hair, Bids me the joys of rural music prove. Then, waking, I salute the sun of day; But chief that beauteous sun, whose cheering ray Once gilt, nay gilds e'en now, life's scene so bright. Dear suns! which oft I've seen together rise; This dims each meaner lustre of the skies, And that sweet sun I love dims every light.

ANON. 1777.

SONNET CLXXXIV.

_Onde tolse Amor l' oro e di qual vena._

THE CHARMS OF HER COUNTENANCE AND VOICE.

Whence could Love take the gold, and from what vein, To form those bright twin locks? What thorn could grow Those roses? And what mead that white bestow Of the fresh dews, which pulse and breath obtain? Whence came those pearls that modestly restrain Accents which courteous, sweet, and rare can flow? And whence those charms that so divinely show, Spread o'er a face serene as heaven's blue plain? Taught by what angel, or what tuneful sphere, Was that celestial song, which doth dispense Such potent magic to the ravish'd ear? What sun illumed those bright commanding eyes, Which now look peaceful, now in hostile guise; Now torture me with hope, and now with fear?

NOTT.

Say, from what vein did Love procure the gold To make those sunny tresses? From what thorn Stole he the rose, and whence the dew of morn, Bidding them breathe and live in Beauty's mould? What depth of ocean gave the pearls that told Those gentle accents sweet, though rarely born? Whence came so many graces to adorn That brow more fair than summer skies unfold? Oh! say what angels lead, what spheres control The song divine which wastes my life away? (Who can with trifles now my senses move?) What sun gave birth unto the lofty soul Of those enchanting eyes, whose glances stray To burn and freeze my heart--the sport of Love?

WROTTESLEY.

SONNET CLXXXV.

_Qual mio destin, qual forza o qual inganno._

THOUGH HER EYES DESTROY HIM, HE CANNOT TEAR HIMSELF AWAY.

What destiny of mine, what fraud or force, Unarm'd again conducts me to the field, Where never came I but with shame to yield 'Scape I or fall, which better is or worse? --Not worse, but better; from so sweet a source Shine in my heart those lights, so bright reveal'd The fatal fire, e'en now as then, which seal'd My doom, though twenty years have roll'd their course I feel death's messengers when those dear eyes, Dazzling me from afar, I see appear, And if on me they turn as she draw near, Love with such sweetness tempts me then and tries, Tell it I cannot, nor recall in sooth, For wit and language fail to reach the truth!

MACGREGOR.

SONNET CLXXXVI.

_Liete e pensose, accompagnate e sole._

NOT FINDING HER WITH HER FRIENDS, HE ASKS THEM WHY SHE IS ABSENT.

_P._ Pensive and glad, accompanied, alone, Ladies who cheat the time with converse gay, Where does my life, where does my death delay? Why not with you her form, as usual, shown? _L._ Glad are we her rare lustre to have known, And sad from her dear company to stay, Which jealousy and envy keep away O'er other's bliss, as their own ill who moan. _P._ Who lovers can restrain, or give them law? _L._ No one the soul, harshness and rage the frame; As erst in us, this now in her appears. As oft the face, betrays the heart, we saw Clouds that, obscuring her high beauty, came, And in her eyes the dewy trace of tears.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET CLXXXVII.

_Quando 'l sol bagna in mur l' aurato carro._

HIS NIGHTS ARE, LIKE HIS DAYS, PASSED IN TORMENT.

When in the sea sinks the sun's golden light, And on my mind and nature darkness lies, With the pale moon, faint stars and clouded skies I pass a weary and a painful night: To her who hears me not I then rehearse My sad life's fruitless toils, early and late; And with the world and with my gloomy fate, With Love, with Laura and myself, converse. Sleep is forbid me: I have no repose, But sighs and groans instead, till morn returns, And tears, with which mine eyes a sad heart feeds; Then comes the dawn, the thick air clearer grows, But not my soul; the sun which in it burns Alone can cure the grief his fierce warmth breeds.

NOTT.

When Phoebus lashes to the western main His fiery steeds, and shades the lurid air; Grief shades my soul, my night is spent in care; Yon moon, yon stars, yon heaven begin my pain. Wretch that I am! full oft I urge in vain To heedless beings all those pangs I bear; Of the false world, of an unpitying fair, Of Love, and fickle fortune I complain! From eve's last glance, till morning's earliest ray, Sleep shuns my couch; rest quits my tearful eye; And my rack'd breast heaves many a plaintive sigh. Then bright Aurora cheers the rising day, But cheers not me--for to my sorrowing heart One sun alone can cheering light impart!

ANON. 1777.

SONNET CLXXVIII.

_S' una fede amorosa, un cor non finto._

THE MISERY OF HIS LOVE.

If faith most true, a heart that cannot feign, If Love's sweet languishment and chasten'd thought, And wishes pure by nobler feelings taught, If in a labyrinth wanderings long and vain, If on the brow each pang pourtray'd to bear, Or from the heart low broken sounds to draw, Withheld by shame, or check'd by pious awe, If on the faded cheek Love's hue to wear, If than myself to hold one far more dear, If sighs that cease not, tears that ever flow, Wrung from the heart by all Love's various woe, In absence if consumed, and chill'd when near,-- If these be ills in which I waste my prime, Though I the sufferer be, yours, lady, is the crime.

DACRE.

If fondest faith, a heart to guile unknown, By melting languors the soft wish betray'd; If chaste desires, with temper'd warmth display'd; If weary wanderings, comfortless and lone; If every thought in every feature shown, Or in faint tones and broken sounds convey'd, As fear or shame my pallid cheek array'd In violet hues, with Love's thick blushes strown; If more than self another to hold dear; If still to weep and heave incessant sighs, To feed on passion, or in grief to pine, To glow when distant, and to freeze when near,-- If hence my bosom's anguish takes its rise, Thine, lady, is the crime, the punishment is mine.

WRANGHAM.

SONNET CLXXXIX.

_Dodici donne onestamente lasse._

HAPPY WHO STEERED THE BOAT, OR DROVE THE CAR, WHEREIN SHE SAT AND SANG.

Twelve ladies, their rare toil who lightly bore, Rather twelve stars encircling a bright sun, I saw, gay-seated a small bark upon, Whose like the waters never cleaved before: Not such took Jason to the fleece of yore, Whose fatal gold has ev'ry heart now won, Nor such the shepherd boy's, by whom undone Troy mourns, whose fame has pass'd the wide world o'er. I saw them next on a triumphal car, Where, known by her chaste cherub ways, aside My Laura sate and to them sweetly sung. Things not of earth to man such visions are! Blest Tiphys! blest Automedon! to guide The bark, or car of band so bright and young.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET CXC

_Passer mai solitario in alcun tetto._

FAR FROM HIS BELOVED, LIFE IS MISERABLE BY NIGHT AS BY DAY.

Never was bird, spoil'd of its young, more sad, Or wild beast in his lair more lone than me, Now that no more that lovely face I see, The only sun my fond eyes ever had. In ceaseless sorrow is my chief delight: My food to poison turns, to grief my joy; The night is torture, dark the clearest sky, And my lone pillow a hard field of fight. Sleep is indeed, as has been well express'd. Akin to death, for it the heart removes From the dear thought in which alone I live. Land above all with plenty, beauty bless'd! Ye flowery plains, green banks and shady groves! Ye hold the treasure for whose loss I grieve!

MACGREGOR.

SONNET CXCI.

_Aura, che quelle chiome bionde e crespe._

HE ENVIES THE BREEZE WHICH SPORTS WITH HER, THE STREAM THAT FLOWS TOWARDS HER.

Ye laughing gales, that sporting with my fair, The silky tangles of her locks unbraid; And down her breast their golden treasures spread; Then in fresh mazes weave her curling hair, You kiss those bright destructive eyes, that bear The flaming darts by which my heart has bled; My trembling heart! that oft has fondly stray'd To seek the nymph, whose eyes such terrors wear. Methinks she's found--but oh! 'tis fancy's cheat! Methinks she's seen--but oh! 'tis love's deceit! Methinks she's near--but truth cries "'tis not so!" Go happy gale, and with my Laura dwell! Go happy stream, and to my Laura tell What envied joys in thy clear crystal flow!

ANON. 1777.

Thou gale, that movest, and disportest round Those bright crisp'd locks, by them moved sweetly too, That all their fine gold scatter'st to the view, Then coil'st them up in beauteous braids fresh wound; About those eyes thou playest, where abound The am'rous swarms, whose stings my tears renew! And I my treasure tremblingly pursue, Like some scared thing that stumbles o'er the ground. Methinks I find her now, and now perceive She's distant; now I soar, and now descend; Now what I wish, now what is true believe. Stay and enjoy, blest air, the living beam; And thou, O rapid, and translucent stream, Why can't I change my course, and thine attend?

NOTT.

SONNET CXCII.

_Amor con la man destra il lato manco._

UNDER THE FIGURE OF A LAUREL, HE RELATES THE GROWTH OF HIS LOVE.

My poor heart op'ning with his puissant hand, Love planted there, as in its home, to dwell A Laurel, green and bright, whose hues might well In rivalry with proudest emeralds stand: Plough'd by my pen and by my heart-sighs fann'd, Cool'd by the soft rain from mine eyes that fell, It grew in grace, upbreathing a sweet smell, Unparallel'd in any age or land. Fair fame, bright honour, virtue firm, rare grace, The chastest beauty in celestial frame,-- These be the roots whence birth so noble came. Such ever in my mind her form I trace, A happy burden and a holy thing, To which on rev'rent knee with loving prayer I cling.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET CXCIII.

_Cantai, or piango; e non men di dolcezza._

THOUGH IN THE MIDST OF PAIN, HE DEEMS HIMSELF THE HAPPIEST OF MEN.

I sang, who now lament; nor less delight Than in my song I found, in tears I find; For on the cause and not effect inclined, My senses still desire to scale that height: Whence, mildly if she smile or hardly smite, Cruel and cold her acts, or meek and kind, All I endure, nor care what weights they bind, E'en though her rage would break my armour quite. Let Love and Laura, world and fortune join, And still pursue their usual course for me, I care not, if unblest, in life to be. Let me or burn to death or living pine, No gentler state than mine beneath the sun, Since from a source so sweet my bitters run.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET CXCIV.

_I' piansi, or canto; che 'l celeste lume._

AT HER RETURN, HIS SORROWS VANISH.

I wept, but now I sing; its heavenly light That living sun conceals not from my view, But virtuous love therein revealeth true His holy purposes and precious might; Whence, as his wont, such flood of sorrow springs To shorten of my life the friendless course, Nor bridge, nor ford, nor oar, nor sails have force To forward mine escape, nor even wings. But so profound and of so full a vein My suff'ring is, so far its shore appears, Scarcely to reach it can e'en thought contrive: Nor palm, nor laurel pity prompts to gain, But tranquil olive, and the dark sky clears, And checks my grief and wills me to survive.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET CXCV.

_I' mi vivea di mia sorte contento._

HE FEARS THAT AN ILLNESS WHICH HAS ATTACKED THE EYES OF LAURA MAY DEPRIVE HIM OF THEIR SIGHT.

I lived so tranquil, with my lot content, No sorrow visited, nor envy pined, To other loves if fortune were more kind One pang of mine their thousand joys outwent; But those bright eyes, whence never I repent The pains I feel, nor wish them less to find, So dark a cloud and heavy now does blind, Seems as my sun of life in them were spent. O Nature! mother pitiful yet stern, Whence is the power which prompts thy wayward deeds, Such lovely things to make and mar in turn? True, from one living fount all power proceeds: But how couldst Thou consent, great God of Heaven, That aught should rob the world of what thy love had given?

MACGREGOR.

SONNET CXCVI.

_Vincitore Alessandro l' ira vinse._

THE EVIL RESULTS OF UNRESTRAINED ANGER.

What though the ablest artists of old time Left us the sculptured bust, the imaged form Of conq'ring Alexander, wrath o'ercame And made him for the while than Philip less? Wrath to such fury valiant Tydeus drove That dying he devour'd his slaughter'd foe; Wrath made not Sylla merely blear of eye, But blind to all, and kill'd him in the end. Well Valentinian knew that to such pain Wrath leads, and Ajax, he whose death it wrought. Strong against many, 'gainst himself at last. Wrath is brief madness, and, when unrestrain'd, Long madness, which its master often leads To shame and crime, and haply e'en to death.

ANON.

SONNET CXCVII.

_Qual ventura mi fu, quando dall' uno._

HE REJOICES AT PARTICIPATING IN HER SUFFERINGS.

Strange, passing strange adventure! when from one Of the two brightest eyes which ever were, Beholding it with pain dis urb'd and dim, Moved influence which my own made dull and weak. I had return'd, to break the weary fast Of seeing her, my sole care in this world, Kinder to me were Heaven and Love than e'en If all their other gifts together join'd, When from the right eye--rather the right sun-- Of my dear Lady to my right eye came The ill which less my pain than pleasure makes; As if it intellect possess'd and wings It pass'd, as stars that shoot along the sky: Nature and pity then pursued their course.

ANON.

SONNET CXCVIII.

_O cameretta che già fosti un porto._

HE NO LONGER FINDS RELIEF IN SOLITUDE.

Thou little chamber'd haven to the woes Whose daily tempest overwhelms my soul! From shame, I in Heaven's light my grief control; Thou art its fountain, which each night o'erflows. My couch! that oft hath woo'd me to repose, 'Mid sorrows vast--Love's iv'ried hand hath stole Griefs turgid stream, which o'er thee it doth roll, That hand which good on all but me bestows. Not only quiet and sweet rest I fly, But from myself and thought, whose vain pursuit On pinion'd fancy doth my soul transport: The multitude I did so long defy, Now as my hope and refuge I salute, So much I tremble solitude to court.

WOLLASTON.

Room! which to me hast been a port and shield From life's rude daily tempests for long years, Now the full fountain of my nightly tears Which in the day I bear for shame conceal'd: Bed! which, in woes so great, wert wont to yield Comfort and rest, an urn of doubts and fears Love o'er thee now from those fair hands uprears, Cruel and cold to me alone reveal'd. But e'en than solitude and rest, I flee More from myself and melancholy thought, In whose vain quest my soul has heavenward flown. The crowd long hateful, hostile e'en to me, Strange though it sound, for refuge have I sought, Such fear have I to find myself alone!

MACGREGOR.

SONNET CXCIX.

_Lasso! Amor mi trasporta ov' io non voglio._

HE EXCUSES HIMSELF FOR VISITING LAURA TOO OFTEN, AND LOVING HER TOO MUCH.

Alas! Love bears me where I would not go, And well I see how duty is transgress'd, And how to her who, queen-like, rules my breast, More than my wont importunate I grow. Never from rocks wise sailor guarded so His ship of richest merchandise possess'd, As evermore I shield my bark distress'd From shocks of her hard pride that would o'erthrow Torrents of tears, fierce winds of infinite sighs --For, in my sea, nights horrible and dark And pitiless winter reign--have driven my bark, Sail-less and helm-less where it shatter'd lies, Or, drifting at the mercy of the main, Trouble to others bears, distress to me and pain.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET CC.

_Amor, io fallo e veggio il mio fallire._

HE PRAYS LOVE, WHO IS THE CAUSE OF HIS OFFENCES, TO OBTAIN PARDON FOR HIM.

O Love, I err, and I mine error own, As one who burns, whose fire within him lies And aggravates his grief, while reason dies, With its own martyrdom almost o'erthrown. I strove mine ardent longing to restrain, Her fair calm face that I might ne'er disturb: I can no more; falls from my hand the curb, And my despairing soul is bold again; Wherefore if higher than her wont she aim, The act is thine, who firest and spur'st her so, No way too rough or steep for her to go: But the rare heavenly gifts are most to blame Shrined in herself: let her at least feel this, Lest of my faults her pardon I should miss.

MACGREGOR.

SESTINA VII.

_Non ha tanti animali il mar fra l' onde._

HE DESPAIRS OF ESCAPE FROM THE TORMENTS BY WHICH HE IS SURROUNDED.

Nor Ocean holds such swarms amid his waves, Not overhead, where circles the pale moon, Were stars so numerous ever seen by night, Nor dwell so many birds among the woods, Nor plants so many clothe the field or hill, As holds my tost heart busy thoughts each eve.

Each day I hope that this my latest eve Shall part from my quick clay the sad salt waves, And leave me in last sleep on some cold hill; So many torments man beneath the moon Ne'er bore as I have borne; this know the woods Through which I wander lonely day and night.

For never have I had a tranquil night, But ceaseless sighs instead from morn till eve, Since love first made me tenant of the woods: The sea, ere I can rest, shall lose his waves, The sun his light shall borrow from the moon, And April flowers be blasted o'er each hill.

Thus, to myself a prey, from hill to hill, Pensive by day I roam, and weep at night, No one state mine, but changeful as the moon; And when I see approaching the brown eve, Sighs from my bosom, from my eyes fall waves, The herbs to moisten and to move the woods.

Hostile the cities, friendly are the woods To thoughts like mine, which, on this lofty hill, Mingle their murmur with the moaning waves, Through the sweet silence of the spangled night, So that the livelong day I wait the eve, When the sun sets and rises the fair moon.

Would, like Endymion, 'neath the enamour'd moon, That slumbering I were laid in leafy woods, And that ere vesper she who makes my eve, With Love and Luna on that favour'd hill, Alone, would come, and stay but one sweet night, While stood the sun nor sought his western waves.

Upon the hard waves, 'neath the beaming moon, Song, that art born of night amid the woods, Thou shalt a rich hill see to-morrow eve!

MACGREGOR.

Count the ocean's finny droves; Count the twinkling host of stars. Round the night's pale orb that moves; Count the groves' wing'd choristers; Count each verdant blade that grows; Counted then will be my woes.

When shall these eyes cease to weep; When shall this world-wearied frame, Cover'd by the cold sod, sleep?-- Sure, beneath yon planet's beam, None like me have made such moan; This to every bower is known.

Sad my nights; from morn till eve, Tenanting the woods, I sigh: But, ere I shall cease to grieve, Ocean's vast bed shall be dry, Suns their light from moons shall gain. And spring wither on each plain.

Pensive, weeping, night and day, From this shore to that I fly, Changeful as the lunar ray; And, when evening veils the sky, Then my tears might swell the floods, Then my sighs might bow the woods!

Towns I hate, the shades I love; For relief to yon green height, Where the rill resounds, I rove At the grateful calm of night; There I wait the day's decline, For the welcome moon to shine.

Oh, that in some lone retreat, Like Endymion I were lain; And that she, who rules my fate, There one night to stay would deign; Never from his billowy bed More might Phoebus lift his head!

Song, that on the wood-hung stream In the silent hour wert born, Witness'd but by Cynthia's beam. Soon as breaks to-morrow's morn, Thou shalt seek a glorious plain, There with Laura to remain!

DACRE.

SESTINA VIII.

_Là ver l' aurora, che sì dolce l' aura._

SHE IS MOVED NEITHER BY HIS VERSES NOR HIS TEARS.

When music warbles from each thorn, And Zephyr's dewy wings Sweep the young flowers; what time the morn Her crimson radiance flings: Then, as the smiling year renews, I feel renew'd Love's tender pain; Renew'd is Laura's cold disdain; And I for comfort court the weeping muse.

Oh! could my sighs in accents flow So musically lorn, That thou might'st catch my am'rous woe, And cease, proud Maid! thy scorn: Yet, ere within thy icy breast The smallest spark of passion's found, Winter's cold temples shall be bound With all the blooms that paint spring's glowing vest.

The drops that bathe the grief-dew'd eye, The love-impassion'd strain To move thy flinty bosom try Full oft;--but, ah! in vain Would tears, and melting song avail; As vainly might the silken breeze, That bends the flowers, that fans the trees, Some rugged rock's tremendous brow assail.

Both gods and men alike are sway'd By Love, as poets tell;-- And I, when flowers in every shade Their bursting gems reveal, First felt his all-subduing power: While Laura knows not yet the smart; Nor heeds the tortures of my heart, My prayers, my plaints, and sorrow's pearly shower!

Thy wrongs, my soul! with patience bear, While life shall warm this clay; And soothing sounds to Laura's ear My numbers shall convey; Numbers with forceful magic charm All nature o'er the frost-bound earth, Wake summer's fragrant buds to birth, And the fierce serpent of its rage disarm.

The blossom'd shrubs in smiles are drest, Now laughs his purple plain; And shall the nymph a foe profest To tenderness remain? But oh! what solace shall I find, If fortune dooms me yet to bear The frowns of my relentless Fair, Save with soft moan to vex the pitying wind? In baffling nets the light-wing'd gale I'd fetter as it blows, The vernal rose that scents the vale I'd cull on wintery snows; Still I'd ne'er hope that mind to move Which dares defy the wiles of verse, and Love.

ANON. 1777.

SONNET CCI.

_Real natura, angelico intelletto._

ON THE KISS OF HONOUR GIVEN BY CHARLES OF LUXEMBURG TO LAURA AT A BANQUET.

A kingly nature, an angelic mind, A spotless soul, prompt aspect and keen eye, Quick penetration, contemplation high And truly worthy of the breast which shrined: In bright assembly lovely ladies join'd To grace that festival with gratulant joy, Amid so many and fair faces nigh Soon his good judgment did the fairest find. Of riper age and higher rank the rest Gently he beckon'd with his hand aside, And lovingly drew near the perfect ONE: So courteously her eyes and brow he press'd, All at his choice in fond approval vied-- Envy through my sole veins at that sweet freedom run.

MACGREGOR.

A sovereign nature,--an exalted mind,-- A soul proud--sleepless--with a lynx's eye,-- An instant foresight,--thought as towering high, E'en as the heart in which they are enshrined: A bright assembly on that day combined Each other in his honour to outvie, When 'mid the fair his judgment did descry That sweet perfection all to her resign'd. Unmindful of her rival sisterhood, He motion'd silently his preference, And fondly welcomed her, that humblest one: So pure a kiss he gave, that all who stood, Though fair, rejoiced in beauty's recompense: By that strange act nay heart was quite undone!

WOLLASTON.

SONNET CCII.

_I' ho pregato Amor, e nel riprego._

HE PLEADS THE EXCESS OF HIS PASSION IN PALLIATION OF HIS FAULT.

Oft have I pray'd to Love, and still I pray, My charming agony, my bitter joy! That he would crave your grace, if consciously From the right path my guilty footsteps stray. That Reason, which o'er happier minds holds sway, Is quell'd of Appetite, I not deny; And hence, through tracks my better thoughts would fly, The victor hurries me perforce away, You, in whose bosom Genius, Virtue reign With mingled blaze lit by auspicious skies-- Ne'er shower'd kind star its beams on aught so rare! You, you should say with pity, not disdain; "How could he 'scape, lost wretch! these lightning eyes-- So passionate he, and I so direly fair?"

WRANGHAM.

SONNET CCIII.

_L' alto signor, dinanzi a cui non vale._

HIS SORROW FOR THE ILLNESS OF LAURA INCREASES, NOT LESSENS, HIS FLAME.

The sovereign Lord, 'gainst whom of no avail Concealment, or resistance is, or flight, My mind had kindled to a new delight By his own amorous and ardent ail: Though his first blow, transfixing my best mail Were mortal sure, to push his triumph quite He took a shaft of sorrow in his right, So my soft heart on both sides to assail. A burning wound the one shed fire and flame, The other tears, which ever grief distils, Through eyes for your weak health that are as rills. But no relief from either fountain came My bosom's conflagration to abate, Nay, passion grew by very pity great.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET CCIV.

_Mira quel colle, o stanco mio cor vago._

HE BIDS HIS HEART RETURN TO LAURA, NOT PERCEIVING THAT IT HAD NEVER LEFT HER.

_P._ Look on that hill, my fond but harass'd heart! Yestreen we left her there, who 'gan to take Some care of us and friendlier looks to dart; Now from our eyes she draws a very lake: Return alone--I love to be apart-- Try, if perchance the day will ever break To mitigate our still increasing smart, Partner and prophet of my lifelong ache. _H._ O wretch! in whom vain thoughts and idle swell, Thou, who thyself hast tutor'd to forget, Speak'st to thy heart as if 'twere with thee yet? When to thy greatest bliss thou saidst farewell, Thou didst depart alone: it stay'd with her, Nor cares from those bright eyes, its home, to stir.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET CCV.

_Fresco ambroso fiorito e verde colle._

HE CONGRATULATES HIS HEART ON ITS REMAINING WITH HER.

O hill with green o'erspread, with groves o'erhung! Where musing now, now trilling her sweet lay, Most like what bards of heavenly spirits say, Sits she by fame through every region sung: My heart, which wisely unto her has clung-- More wise, if there, in absence blest, it stay! Notes now the turf o'er which her soft steps stray, Now where her angel-eyes' mild beam is flung; Then throbs and murmurs, as they onward rove, "Ah! were he here, that man of wretched lot, Doom'd but to taste the bitterness of love!" She, conscious, smiles: our feelings tally not: Heartless am I, mere stone; heaven is thy grove-- O dear delightful shade, O consecrated spot!

WRANGHAM.

Fresh, shaded hill! with flowers and verdure crown'd, Where, in fond musings, or with music sweet, To earth a heaven-sent spirit takes her seat! She who from all the world has honour found. Forsaking me, to her my fond heart bound --Divorce for aye were welcome as discreet-- Notes where the turf is mark'd by her fair feet, Or from these eyes for her in sorrow drown'd, Then inly whispers as her steps advance, "Would for awhile that wreteh were here alone Who pines already o'er his bitter lot." She conscious smiles. Not equal is the chance; An Eden thou, while I a heartless stone. O holy, happy, and beloved spot!

MACGREGOR.

SONNET CCVI.

_Il mal mi preme, e mi spaventa il peggio._

TO A FRIEND, IN LOVE LIKE HIMSELF, HE CAN GIVE NO ADVICE BUT TO RAISE HIS SOUL TO GOD.

Evil oppresses me and worse dismay, To which a plain and ample way I find; Driven like thee by frantic passion, blind, Urged by harsh thoughts I bend like thee my way. Nor know I if for war or peace to pray: To war is ruin, shame to peace, assign'd. But wherefore languish thus?--Rather, resign'd, Whate'er the Will Supreme ordains, obey. However ill that honour me beseem By thee conferr'd, whom that affection cheats Which many a perfect eye to error sways, To raise thy spirit to that realm supreme My counsel is, and win those blissful seats: For short the time, and few the allotted days.

CAPEL LOFFT.

The bad oppresses me, the worse dismays, To which so broad and plain a path I see; My spirit, to like frenzy led with thee, Tried by the same hard thoughts, in dotage strays, Nor knows if peace or war of God it prays, Though great the loss and deep the shame to me. But why pine longer? Best our lot will be, What Heaven's high will ordains when man obeys. Though I of that great honour worthless prove Offer'd by thee--herein Love leads to err Who often makes the sound eye to see wrong-- My counsel this, instant on Heaven above Thy soul to elevate, thy heart to spur, For though the time be short, the way is long.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET CCVII.

_Due rose fresche, e colte in paradiso._

THE TWO ROSES.

Two brilliant roses, fresh from Paradise, Which there, on May-day morn, in beauty sprung Fair gift, and by a lover old and wise Equally offer'd to two lovers young: At speech so tender and such winning guise, As transports from a savage might have wrung, A living lustre lit their mutual eyes, And instant on their cheeks a soft blush hung. The sun ne'er look'd upon a lovelier pair, With a sweet smile and gentle sigh he said, Pressing the hands of both and turn'd away. Of words and roses each alike had share. E'en now my worn heart thrill with joy and dread, O happy eloquence! O blessed day!

MACGREGOR.

SONNET CCVIII.

_L' aura che 'l verde Lauro e l' aureo crine._

HE PRAYS THAT HE MAY DIE BEFORE LAURA.

The balmy gale, that, with its tender sigh, Moves the green laurel and the golden hair, Makes with its graceful visitings and rare The gazer's spirit from his body fly. A sweet and snow-white rose in hard thorns set! Where in the world her fellow shall we find? The glory of our age! Creator kind! Grant that ere hers my death shall first be met. So the great public loss I may not see, The world without its sun, in darkness left, And from my desolate eyes their sole light reft, My mind with which no other thoughts agree, Mine ears which by no other sound are stirr'd Except her ever pure and gentle word.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET CCIX.

_Parrà forse ad alcun, che 'n lodar quella._

HE INVITES THOSE TO WHOM HIS PRAISES SEEM EXCESSIVE TO BEHOLD THE OBJECT OF THEM.

Haply my style to some may seem too free In praise of her who holds my being's chain, Queen of her sex describing her to reign, Wise, winning, good, fair, noble, chaste to be: To me it seems not so; I fear that she My lays as low and trifling may disdain, Worthy a higher and a better strain; --Who thinks not with me let him come and see. Then will he say, She whom his wishes seek Is one indeed whose grace and worth might tire The muses of all lands and either lyre. But mortal tongue for state divine is weak, And may not soar; by flattery and force, As Fate not choice ordains, Love rules its course.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET CCX.

_Chi vuol veder quantunque può Natura._

WHOEVER BEHOLDS HER MUST ADMIT THAT HIS PRAISES CANNOT REACH HER PERFECTION.

Who wishes to behold the utmost might Of Heaven and Nature, on her let him gaze, Sole sun, not only in my partial lays, But to the dark world, blind to virtue's light! And let him haste to view; for death in spite The guilty leaves, and on the virtuous preys; For this loved angel heaven impatient stays; And mortal charms are transient as they're bright! Here shall he see, if timely he arrive, Virtue and beauty, royalty of mind, In one bless'd union join'd. Then shall he say That vainly my weak rhymes to praise her strive, Whose dazzling beams have struck my genius blind:-- He must for ever weep if he delay!

CHARLEMONT.

Stranger, whose curious glance delights to trace What Heaven and Nature join'd to frame most rare; Here view mine eyes' bright sun--a sight so fair, That purblind worlds, like me, enamour'd gaze. But speed thy step; for Death with rapid pace Pursues the best, nor makes the bad his care: Call'd to the skies through yon blue fields of air, On buoyant plume the mortal grace obeys. Then haste, and mark in one rich form combined (And, for that dazzling lustre dimm'd mine eye, Chide the weak efforts of my trembling lay) Each charm of person, and each power of mind-- But, slowly if thy lingering foot comply, Grief and repentant shame shall mourn the brief delay.

WRANGHAM.

SONNET CCXI.

_Qual paura ho, quando mi torna a mente._

MELANCHOLY RECOLLECTIONS AND PRESAGES.

O Laura! when my tortured mind The sad remembrance bears Of that ill-omen'd day, When, victim to a thousand doubts and fears, I left my soul behind, That soul that could not from its partner stray; In nightly visions to my longing eyes Thy form oft seems to rise, As ever thou wert seen, Fair like the rose, 'midst paling flowers the queen, But loosely in the wind, Unbraided wave the ringlets of thy hair, That late with studious care, I saw with pearls and flowery garlands twined: On thy wan lip, no cheerful smile appears; Thy beauteous face a tender sadness wears; Placid in pain thou seem'st, serene in grief, As conscious of thy fate, and hopeless of relief! Cease, cease, presaging heart! O angels, deign To hear my fervent prayer, that all my fears be vain!

WOODHOUSELEE.

What dread I feel when I revolve the day I left my mistress, sad, without repose, My heart too with her: and my fond thought knows Nought on which gladlier, oft'ner it can stay. Again my fancy doth her form portray Meek among beauty's train, like to some rose Midst meaner flowers; nor joy nor grief she shows; Not with misfortune prest but with dismay. Then were thrown by her custom'd cheerfulness, Her pearls, her chaplets, and her gay attire, Her song, her laughter, and her mild address; Thus doubtingly I quitted her I love: Now dark ideas, dreams, and bodings dire Raise terrors, which Heaven grant may groundless prove!

NOTT.

SONNET CCXII.

_Solea lontana in sonno consolarme._

SHE ANNOUNCES TO HIM, IN A VISION, THAT HE WILL NEVER SEE HER MORE.

To soothe me distant far, in days gone by, With dreams of one whose glance all heaven combined, Was mine; now fears and sorrow haunt my mind, Nor can I from that grief, those terrors fly: For oft in sleep I mark within her eye Deep pity with o'erwhelming sadness join'd; And oft I seem to hear on every wind Accents, which from my breast chase peace and joy. "That last dark eve," she cries, "remember'st thou, When to those doting eyes I bade farewell, Forced by the time's relentless tyranny? I had not then the power, nor heart to tell, What thou shalt find, alas! too surely true-- Hope not again on earth thy Laura's face to see."

WRANGHAM.

SONNET CCXIII.

_O misera ed orribil visione._

HE CANNOT BELIEVE IN HER DEATH, BUT IF TRUE, HE PRAYS GOD TO TAKE HIM ALSO FROM LIFE.

O misery! horror! can it, then, be true, That the sweet light before its time is spent, 'Mid all its pains which could my life content, And ever with fresh hopes of good renew? If so, why sounds not other channels through, Nor only from herself, the great event? No! God and Nature could not thus consent, And my dark fears are groundless and undue. Still it delights my heart to hope once more The welcome sight of that enchanting face, The glory of our age, and life to me. But if, to her eternal home to soar, That heavenly spirit have left her earthly place, Oh! then not distant may my last day be!

MACGREGOR.

SONNET CCXIV.

_In dubbio di mio stato, or piango, or canto._

TO HIS LONGING TO SEE HER AGAIN IS NOW ADDED THE FEAR OF SEEING HER NO MORE.

Uncertain of my state, I weep and sing, I hope and tremble, and with rhymes and sighs I ease my load, while Love his utmost tries How worse my sore afflicted heart to sting. Will her sweet seraph face again e'er bring Their former light to these despairing eyes. (What to expect, alas! or how advise) Or must eternal grief my bosom wring? For heaven, which justly it deserves to win, It cares not what on earth may be their fate, Whose sun it was, where centred their sole gaze. Such terror, so perpetual warfare in, Changed from my former self, I live of late As one who midway doubts, and fears and strays.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET CCXV.

_O dolci sguardi, o parolette accorte._

HE SIGHS FOR THOSE GLANCES FROM WHICH, TO HIS GRIEF, FORTUNE EVER DELIGHTS TO WITHDRAW HIM.

O angel looks! O accents of the skies! Shall I or see or hear you once again? O golden tresses, which my heart enchain, And lead it forth, Love's willing sacrifice! O face of beauty given in anger's guise, Which still I not enjoy, and still complain! O dear delusion! O bewitching pain! Transports, at once my punishment and prize! If haply those soft eyes some kindly beam (Eyes, where my soul and all my thoughts reside) Vouchsafe, in tender pity to bestow; Sudden, of all my joys the murtheress tried, Fortune with steed or ship dispels the gleam; Fortune, with stern behest still prompt to work my woe.

WRANGHAM.

O gentle looks! O words of heavenly sound! Shall I behold you, hear you once again? O waving locks, that Love has made the chain, In which this wretched ruin'd heart is bound! O face divine! whose magic spells surround My soul, distemper'd with unceasing pain: O dear deceit! O loving errors vain! To hug the dart and doat upon the wound! Did those soft eyes, in whose angelic light My life, my thoughts, a constant mansion find, Ever impart a pure unmixed delight? Or if they have one moment, then unkind Fortune steps in, and sends me from their sight, And gives my opening pleasures to the wind.

MOREHEAD.

SONNET CCXVI.

_I' pur ascolto, e non odo novella._

HEARING NO TIDINGS OF HER, HE BEGINS TO DESPAIR.

Still do I wait to hear, in vain still wait, Of that sweet enemy I love so well: What now to think or say I cannot tell, 'Twixt hope and fear my feelings fluctuate: The beautiful are still the marks of fate; And sure her worth and beauty most excel: What if her God have call'd her hence, to dwell Where virtue finds a more congenial state? If so, she will illuminate that sphere Even as a sun: but I--'tis done with me! I then am nothing, have no business here! O cruel absence! why not let me see The worst? my little tale is told, I fear, My scene is closed ere it accomplish'd be.

MOREHEAD.

No tidings yet--I listen, but in vain; Of her, my beautiful belovèd foe, What or to think or say I nothing know, So thrills my heart, my fond hopes so sustain, Danger to some has in their beauty lain; Fairer and chaster she than others show; God haply seeks to snatch from earth below Virtue's best friend, that heaven a star may gain, Or rather sun. If what I dread be nigh, My life, its trials long, its brief repose Are ended all. O cruel absence! why Didst thou remove me from the menaced woes? My short sad story is already done, And midway in its course my vain race run.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET CCXVII.

_La sera desiar, odiar l' aurora._

CONTRARY TO THE WONT OF LOVERS, HE PREFERS MORN TO EVE.

Tranquil and happy loves in this agree, The evening to desire and morning hate: On me at eve redoubled sorrows wait-- Morning is still the happier hour for me. For then my sun and Nature's oft I see Opening at once the orient's rosy gate, So match'd in beauty and in lustre great, Heaven seems enamour'd of our earth to be! As when in verdant leaf the dear boughs burst Whose roots have since so centred in my core, Another than myself is cherish'd more. Thus the two hours contrast, day's last and first: Reason it is who calms me to desire, And fear and hate who fiercer feed my fire.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET CCXVIII.

_Far potess' io vendetta di colei._

HIS SOUL VISITS HER IN SLEEP.

Oh! that from her some vengeance I could wrest With words and glances who my peace destroys, And then abash'd, for my worse sorrow, flies, Veiling her eyes so cruel, yet so blest; Thus mine afflicted spirits and oppress'd By sure degrees she sorely drains and dries, And in my heart, as savage lion, cries Even at night, when most I should have rest. My soul, which sleep expels from his abode, The body leaves, and, from its trammels free, Seeks her whose mien so often menace show'd. I marvel much, if heard its advent be, That while to her it spake, and o'er her wept, And round her clung, asleep she alway kept.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET CCXIX.

_In quel bel viso, ch' i' sospiro e bramo._

ON LAURA PUTTING HER HAND BEFORE HER EYES WHILE HE WAS GAZING ON HER.

On the fair face for which I long and sigh Mine eyes were fasten'd with desire intense. When, to my fond thoughts, Love, in best reply, Her honour'd hand uplifting, shut me thence. My heart there caught--as fish a fair hook by, Or as a young bird on a limèd fence-- For good deeds follow from example high, To truth directed not its busied sense. But of its one desire my vision reft, As dreamingly, soon oped itself a way, Which closed, its bliss imperfect had been left: My soul between those rival glories lay, Fill'd with a heavenly and new delight, Whose strange surpassing sweets engross'd it quite.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET CCXX.

_Vive faville uscian de' duo bei lumi._

A SMILING WELCOME, WHICH LAURA GAVE HIM UNEXPECTEDLY, ALMOST KILLS HIM WITH JOY.

Live sparks were glistening from her twin bright eyes, So sweet on me whose lightning flashes beam'd, And softly from a feeling heart and wise, Of lofty eloquence a rich flood stream'd: Even the memory serves to wake my sighs When I recall that day so glad esteem'd, And in my heart its sinking spirit dies As some late grace her colder wont redeem'd. My soul in pain and grief that most has been (How great the power of constant habit is!) Seems weakly 'neath its double joy to lean: For at the sole taste of unusual bliss, Trembling with fear, or thrill'd by idle hope, Oft on the point I've been life's door to ope.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET CCXXI.

_Cercato ho sempre solitaria vita._

THINKING ALWAYS OF LAURA, IT PAINS HIM TO REMEMBER WHERE SHE IS LEFT.

Still have I sought a life of solitude; The streams, the fields, the forests know my mind; That I might 'scape the sordid and the blind, Who paths forsake trod by the wise and good: Fain would I leave, were mine own will pursued, These Tuscan haunts, and these soft skies behind, Sorga's thick-wooded hills again to find; And sing and weep in concert with its flood. But Fortune, ever my sore enemy, Compels my steps, where I with sorrow see Cast my fair treasure in a worthless soil: Yet less a foe she justly deigns to prove, For once, to me, to Laura, and to love; Favouring my song, my passion, with her smile.

NOTT.

Still have I sought a life of solitude-- This know the rivers, and each wood and plain-- That I might 'scape the blind and sordid train Who from the path have flown of peace and good: Could I my wish obtain, how vainly would This cloudless climate woo me to remain; Sorga's embowering woods I'd seek again, And sing, weep, wander, by its friendly flood. But, ah! my fortune, hostile still to me, Compels me where I must, indignant, find Amid the mire my fairest treasure thrown: Yet to my hand, not all unworthy, she Now proves herself, at least for once, more kind, Since--but alone to Love and Laura be it known.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET CCXXII.

_In tale Stella duo begli occhi vidi._

THE BEAUTY OF LAURA IS PEERLESS.

In one fair star I saw two brilliant eyes, With sweetness, modesty, so glistening o'er, That soon those graceful nests of Love before My worn heart learnt all others to despise: Equall'd not her whoever won the prize In ages gone on any foreign shore; Not she to Greece whose wondrous beauty bore Unnumber'd ills, to Troy death's anguish'd cries: Not the fair Roman, who, with ruthless blade Piercing her chaste and outraged bosom, fled Dishonour worse than death, like charms display'd; Such excellence should brightest glory shed On Nature, as on me supreme delight, But, ah! too lately come, too soon it takes its flight.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET CCXXIII.

_Qual donna attende a gloriosa fama._

THE EYES OF LAURA ARE THE SCHOOL OF VIRTUE.

Feels any fair the glorious wish to gain Of sense, of worth, of courtesy, the praise? On those bright eyes attentive let her gaze Of her miscall'd my love, but sure my foe. Honour to gain, with love of God to glow, Virtue more bright how native grace displays, May there be learn'd; and by what surest ways To heaven, that for her coming pants, to go. The converse sweet, beyond what poets write, Is there; the winning silence, and the meek And saint-like manners man would paint in vain. The matchless beauty, dazzling to the sight, Can ne'er be learn'd; for bootless 'twere to seek By art, what by kind chance alone we gain.

ANON., OX., 1795.

SONNET CCXXIV.

_Cara la vita, e dopo lei mi pare._

HONOUR TO BE PREFERRED TO LIFE.

Methinks that life in lovely woman first, And after life true honour should be dear; Nay, wanting honour--of all wants the worst-- Friend! nought remains of loved or lovely here. And who, alas! has honour's barrier burst, Unsex'd and dead, though fair she yet appear, Leads a vile life, in shame and torment curst, A lingering death, where all is dark and drear. To me no marvel was Lucretia's end, Save that she needed, when that last disgrace Alone sufficed to kill, a sword to die. Sophists in vain the contrary defend: Their arguments are feeble all and base, And truth alone triumphant mounts on high!

MACGREGOR.

SONNET CCXXV.

_Arbor vittoriosa e trionfale._

HE EXTOLS THE VIRTUE OF LAURA.

Tree, victory's bright guerdon, wont to crown Heroes and bards with thy triumphal leaf, How many days of mingled joy and grief Have I from thee through life's short passage known. Lady, who, reckless of the world's renown, Reapest in virtue's field fair honour's sheaf; Nor fear'st Love's limed snares, "that subtle thief," While calm discretion on his wiles looks down. The pride of birth, with all that here we deem Most precious, gems and gold's resplendent grace. Abject alike in thy regard appear: Nay, even thine own unrivall'd beauties beam No charm to thee--save as their circling blaze Clasps fitly that chaste soul, which still thou hold'st most dear.

WRANGHAM.

Blest laurel! fadeless and triumphant tree! Of kings and poets thou the fondest pride! How much of joy and sorrow's changing tide In my short breath hath been awaked by thee! Lady, the will's sweet sovereign! thou canst see No bliss but virtue, where thou dost preside; Love's chain, his snare, thou dost alike deride; From man's deceit thy wisdom sets thee free. Birth's native pride, and treasure's precious store, (Whose bright possession we so fondly hail) To thee as burthens valueless appear: Thy beauty's excellence--(none viewed before) Thy soul had wearied--but thou lov'st the veil, That shrine of purity adorneth here.

WOLLASTON.

CANZONE XXI.

_I' vo pensando, e nel pensier m' assale._

SELF-CONFLICT.

Ceaseless I think, and in each wasting thought So strong a pity for myself appears, That often it has brought My harass'd heart to new yet natural tears; Seeing each day my end of life draw nigh, Instant in prayer, I ask of God the wings With which the spirit springs, Freed from its mortal coil, to bliss on high; But nothing, to this hour, prayer, tear, or sigh, Whatever man could do, my hopes sustain: And so indeed in justice should it be; Able to stay, who went and fell, that he Should prostrate, in his own despite, remain. But, lo! the tender arms In which I trust are open to me still, Though fears my bosom fill Of others' fate, and my own heart alarms, Which worldly feelings spur, haply, to utmost ill.

One thought thus parleys with my troubled mind-- "What still do you desire, whence succour wait? Ah! wherefore to this great, This guilty loss of time so madly blind? Take up at length, wisely take up your part: Tear every root of pleasure from your heart, Which ne'er can make it blest, Nor lets it freely play, nor calmly rest. If long ago with tedium and disgust You view'd the false and fugitive delights With which its tools a treacherous world requites, Why longer then repose in it your trust, Whence peace and firmness are in exile thrust? While life and vigour stay, The bridle of your thoughts is in your power: Grasp, guide it while you may: So clogg'd with doubt, so dangerous is delay, The best for wise reform is still the present hour.

"Well known to you what rapture still has been Shed on your eyes by the dear sight of her Whom, for your peace it were Better if she the light had never seen; And you remember well (as well you ought) Her image, when, as with one conquering bound, Your heart in prey she caught, Where flame from other light no entrance found. She fired it, and if that fallacious heat Lasted long years, expecting still one day, Which for our safety came not, to repay, It lifts you now to hope more blest and sweet, Uplooking to that heaven around your head Immortal, glorious spread; If but a glance, a brief word, an old song, Had here such power to charm Your eager passion, glad of its own harm, How far 'twill then exceed if now the joy so strong."

Another thought the while, severe and sweet, Laborious, yet delectable in scope, Takes in my heart its seat, Filling with glory, feeding it with hope; Till, bent alone on bright and deathless fame, It feels not when I freeze, or burn in flame, When I am pale or ill, And if I crush it rises stronger still. This, from my helpless cradle, day by day, Has strengthen'd with my strength, grown with my growth, Till haply now one tomb must cover both: When from the flesh the soul has pass'd away, No more this passion comrades it as here; For fame--if, after death, Learning speak aught of me--is but a breath: Wherefore, because I fear Hopes to indulge which the next hour may chase, I would old error leave, and the one truth embrace.

But the third wish which fills and fires my heart O'ershadows all the rest which near it spring: Time, too, dispels a part, While, but for her, self-reckless grown, I sing. And then the rare light of those beauteous eyes, Sweetly before whose gentle heat I melt, As a fine curb is felt, To combat which avails not wit or force; What boots it, trammell'd by such adverse ties, If still between the rocks must lie her course, To trim my little bark to new emprize? Ah! wilt Thou never, Lord, who yet dost keep Me safe and free from common chains, which bind, In different modes, mankind, Deign also from my brow this shame to sweep? For, as one sunk in sleep, Methinks death ever present to my sight, Yet when I would resist I have no arms to fight.

Full well I see my state, in nought deceived By truth ill known, but rather forced by Love, Who leaves not him to move In honour, who too much his grace believed: For o'er my heart from time to time I feel A subtle scorn, a lively anguish, steal, Whence every hidden thought, Where all may see, upon my brow is writ. For with such faith on mortal things to dote, As unto God alone is just and fit, Disgraces worst the prize who covets most: Should reason, amid things of sense, be lost. This loudly calls her to the proper track: But, when she would obey And home return, ill habits keep her back, And to my view portray Her who was only born my death to be, Too lovely in herself, too loved, alas! by me.

I neither know, to me what term of life Heaven destined when on earth I came at first To suffer this sharp strife, 'Gainst my own peace which I myself have nursed, Nor can I, for the veil my body throws, Yet see the time when my sad life may close. I feel my frame begin To fail, and vary each desire within: And now that I believe my parting day Is near at hand, or else not distant lies, Like one whom losses wary make and wise, I travel back in thought, where first the way, The right-hand way, I left, to peace which led. While through me shame and grief, Recalling the vain past on this side spread, On that brings no relief, Passion, whose strength I now from habit, feel, So great that it would dare with death itself to deal.

Song! I am here, my heart the while more cold With fear than frozen snow, Feels in its certain core death's coming blow; For thus, in weak self-communing, has roll'd Of my vain life the better portion by: Worse burden surely ne'er Tried mortal man than that which now I bear; Though death be seated nigh, For future life still seeking councils new, I know and love the good, yet, ah! the worse pursue.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET CCXXVI.

_Aspro core e selvaggio, e cruda voglia._

HOPE ALONE SUPPORTS HIM IN HIS MISERY.

Hard heart and cold, a stern will past belief, In angel form of gentle sweet allure; If thus her practised rigour long endure, O'er me her triumph will be poor and brief. For when or spring, or die, flower, herb, and leaf. When day is brightest, night when most obscure, Alway I weep. Great cause from Fortune sure, From Love and Laura have I for my grief. I live in hope alone, remembering still How by long fall of small drops I have seen Marble and solid stone that worn have been. No heart there is so hard, so cold no will, By true tears, fervent prayers, and faithful love That will not deign at length to melt and move.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET CCXXVII.

_Signor mio caro, ogni pensier mi tira._

HE LAMENTS HIS ABSENCE FROM LAURA AND COLONNA, THE ONLY OBJECTS OF HIS AFFECTION.

My lord and friend! thoughts, wishes, all inclined My heart to visit one so dear to me, But Fortune--can she ever worse decree?-- Held me in hand, misled, or kept behind. Since then the dear desire Love taught my mind But leads me to a death I did not see, And while my twin lights, wheresoe'er I be, Are still denied, by day and night I've pined. Affection for my lord, my lady's love, The bonds have been wherewith in torments long I have been bound, which round myself I wove. A Laurel green, a Column fair and strong, This for three lustres, that for three years more In my fond breast, nor wish'd it free, I bore.

MACGREGOR.

[Illustration: SELVA PIANA, NEAR PARMA.]

TO LAURA IN DEATH.

SONNET I.

_Oimè il bel viso! oimè il soave sguardo!_

ON THE ANNOUNCEMENT OF THE DEATH OF LAURA.

Woe for the 'witching look of that fair face! The port where ease with dignity combined! Woe for those accents, that each savage mind To softness tuned, to noblest thoughts the base! And the sweet smile, from whence the dart I trace, Which now leaves death my only hope behind! Exalted soul, most fit on thrones to 've shined, But that too late she came this earth to grace! For you I still must burn, and breathe in you; For I was ever yours; of you bereft, Full little now I reck all other care. With hope and with desire you thrill'd me through, When last my only joy on earth I left:-- But caught by winds each word was lost in air.

ANON., OX., 1795.

Alas! that touching glance, that beauteous face! Alas! that dignity with sweetness fraught! Alas! that speech which tamed the wildest thought! That roused the coward, glory to embrace! Alas! that smile which in me did encase That fatal dart, whence here I hope for nought-- Oh! hadst thou earlier our regions sought, The world had then confess'd thy sovereign grace! In thee I breathed, life's flame was nursed by thee, For I was thine; and since of thee bereaved, Each other woe hath lost its venom'd sting: My soul's blest joy! when last thy voice on me In music fell, my heart sweet hope conceived; Alas! thy words have sped on zephyrs' wings!

WOLLASTON.

CANZONE I.

_Che debb' io far? che mi consigli, Amore?_

HE ASKS COUNSEL OF LOVE, WHETHER HE SHOULD FOLLOW LAURA, OR STILL ENDURE EXISTENCE.

What should I do? what, Love, dost thou advise? Full time it is to die: And longer than I wish have I delay'd. My mistress is no more, and with her gone my heart; To follow her, I must need Break short the course of my afflictive years: To view her here below I ne'er can hope; and irksome 'tis to wait. Since that my every joy By her departure unto tears is turn'd, Of all its sweets my life has been deprived.

Thou, Love, dost feel, therefore to thee I plain, How grievous is my loss; I know my sorrows grieve and weigh thee down, E'en as our common cause: for on one rock We both have wreck'd our bark; And in one instant was its sun obscured. What genius can with words Rightly describe my lamentable state? Ah, blind, ungrateful world! Thou hast indeed just cause with me to mourn; That beauty thou didst hold with her is fled!

Fall'n is thy glory, and thou seest it not; Unworthy thou with her, While here she dwelt, acquaintance to maintain. Or to be trodden by her saintly feet; For that, which is so fair, Should with its presence decorate the skies But I, a wretch who, reft Of her, prize nor myself nor mortal life, Recall her with my tears: This only of my hope's vast sum remains; And this alone doth still support me here.

Ah, me! her charming face is earth become, Which wont unto our thought To picture heaven and happiness above! Her viewless form inhabits paradise, Divested of that veil, Which shadow'd while below her bloom of life, Once more to put it on, And never then to cast it off again; When so much more divine, And glorious render'd, 'twill by us be view'd, As mortal beauty to eternal yields.

More bright than ever, and a lovelier fair, Before me she appears, Where most she's conscious that her sight will please This is one pillar that sustains my life; The other her dear name, That to my heart sounds so delightfully. But tracing in my mind, That she who form'd my choicest hope is dead E'en in her blossom'd prime; Thou knowest, Love, full well what I become: She I trust sees it too, who dwells with truth.

Ye sweet associates, who admired her charms, Her life angelical, And her demeanour heavenly upon earth For me lament, and be by pity wrought No wise for her, who, risen To so much peace, me has in warfare left; Such, that should any shut The road to follow her, for some length of time, What Love declares to me Alone would check my cutting through the tie; But in this guise he reasons from within:

"The mighty grief transporting thee restrain; For passions uncontroll'd Forfeit that heaven, to which thy soul aspires, Where she is living whom some fancy dead; While at her fair remains She smiles herself, sighing for thee alone; And that her fame, which lives In many a clime hymn'd by thy tongue, may ne'er Become extinct, she prays; But that her name should harmonize thy voice; If e'er her eyes were lovely held, and dear." Fly the calm, green retreat; And ne'er approach where song and laughter dwell, O strain; but wail be thine! It suits thee ill with the glad throng to stay, Thou sorrowing widow wrapp'd in garb of woe.

NOTT.

SONNET II.

_Rotta è l' alta Colonna, e 'l verde Lauro._

HE BEWAILS HIS DOUBLE LOSS IN THE DEATHS OF LAURA, AND OF COLONNA.

Fall'n that proud Column, fall'n that Laurel tree, Whose shelter once relieved my wearied mind; I'm reft of what I ne'er again shall find, Though ransack'd every shore and every sea: Double the treasure death has torn from me, In which life's pride was with its pleasure join'd; Not eastern gems, nor the world's wealth combined, Can give it back, nor land, nor royalty. But, if so fate decrees, what can I more, Than with unceasing tears these eyes bedew, Abase my visage, and my lot deplore? Ah, what is life, so lovely to the view! How quickly in one little morn is lost What years have won with labour and with cost!

NOTT.

My laurell'd hope! and thou, Colonna proud! Your broken strength can shelter me no more! Nor Boreas, Auster, Indus, Afric's shore, Can give me that, whose loss my soul hath bow'd: My step exulting, and my joy avow'd, Death now hath quench'd with ye, my heart's twin store; Nor earth's high rule, nor gems, nor gold's bright ore, Can e'er bring back what once my heart endow'd But if this grief my destiny hath will'd, What else can I oppose but tearful eyes, A sorrowing bosom, and a spirit quell'd? O life! whose vista seems so brightly fill'd, A sunny breath, and that exhaling, dies The hope, oft, many watchful years have swell'd.

WOLLASTON.

CANZONE II.

_Amor, se vuoi ch' i' torni al giogo antico._

UNLESS LOVE CAN RESTORE HER TO LIFE, HE WILL NEVER AGAIN BE HIS SLAVE.

If thou wouldst have me, Love, thy slave again, One other proof, miraculous and new, Must yet be wrought by you, Ere, conquer'd, I resume my ancient chain-- Lift my dear love from earth which hides her now, For whose sad loss thus beggar'd I remain; Once more with warmth endow That wise chaste heart where wont my life to dwell; And if as some divine, thy influence so, From highest heaven unto the depths of hell, Prevail in sooth--for what its scope below, 'Mid us of common race, Methinks each gentle breast may answer well-- Rob Death of his late triumph, and replace Thy conquering ensign in her lovely face!

Relume on that fair brow the living light, Which was my honour'd guide, and the sweet flame. Though spent, which still the same Kindles me now as when it burn'd most bright; For thirsty hind with such desire did ne'er Long for green pastures or the crystal brook, As I for the dear look, Whence I have borne so much, and--if aright I read myself and passion--more must bear: This makes me to one theme my thoughts thus bind, An aimless wanderer where is pathway none, With weak and wearied mind Pursuing hopes which never can be won. Hence to thy summons answer I disdain, Thine is no power beyond thy proper reign.

Give me again that gentle voice to hear, As in my heart are heard its echoes still, Which had in song the skill Hate to disarm, rage soften, sorrow cheer, To tranquillize each tempest of the mind, And from dark lowering clouds to keep it clear; Which sweetly then refined And raised my verse where now it may not soar. And, with desire that hope may equal vie, Since now my mind is waked in strength, restore Their proper business to my ear and eye, Awanting which life must All tasteless be and harder than to die. Vainly with me to your old power you trust, While my first love is shrouded still in dust.

Give her dear glance again to bless my sight, Which, as the sun on snow, beam'd still for me; Open each window bright Where pass'd my heart whence no return can be; Resume thy golden shafts, prepare thy bow, And let me once more drink with old delight Of that dear voice the sound, Whence what love is I first was taught to know. And, for the lures, which still I covet so, Were rifest, richest there my soul that bound, Waken to life her tongue, and on the breeze Let her light silken hair, Loosen'd by Love's own fingers, float at ease; Do this, and I thy willing yoke will bear, Else thy hope faileth my free will to snare.

Oh! never my gone heart those links of gold, Artlessly negligent, or curl'd with grace, Nor her enchanting face, Sweetly severe, can captive cease to hold; These, night and day, the amorous wish in me Kept, more than laurel or than myrtle, green, When, doff'd or donn'd, we see Of fields the grass, of woods their leafy screen. And since that Death so haughty stands and stern The bond now broken whence I fear'd to flee, Nor thine the art, howe'er the world may turn, To bind anew the chain, What boots it, Love, old arts to try again? Their day is pass'd: thy power, since lost the arms Which were my terror once, no longer harms.

Thy arms were then her eyes, unrivall'd, whence Live darts were freely shot of viewless flame; No help from reason came, For against Heaven avails not man's defence; Thought, Silence, Feeling, Gaiety, Wit, Sense, Modest demeanour, affable discourse, In words of sweetest force Whence every grosser nature gentle grew, That angel air, humble to all and kind, Whose praise, it needs not mine, from all we find; Stood she, or sat, a grace which often threw Doubt on the gazer's mind To which the meed of highest praise was due-- O'er hardest hearts thy victory was sure, With arms like these, which lost I am secure.

The minds which Heaven abandons to thy reign, Haply are bound in many times and ways, But mine one only chain, Its wisdom shielding me from more, obeys; Yet freedom brings no joy, though that he burst. Rather I mournful ask, "Sweet pilgrim mine, Alas! what doom divine Me earliest bound to life yet frees thee first: God, who has snatch'd thee from the world so soon, Only to kindle our desires, the boon Of virtue, so complete and lofty, gave Now, Love, I may deride Thy future wounds, nor fear to be thy slave; In vain thy bow is bent, its bolts fall wide, When closed her brilliant eyes their virtue died.

"Death from thy every law my heart has freed; She who my lady was is pass'd on high, Leaving me free to count dull hours drag by, To solitude and sorrow still decreed."

MACGREGOR.

SONNET III.

_L' ardente nodo ov' io fui, d' ora in ora._

ON THE DEATH OF ANOTHER LADY.

That burning toil, in which I once was caught, While twice ten years and one I counted o'er, Death has unloosed: like burden I ne'er bore; That grief ne'er fatal proves I now am taught. But Love, who to entangle me still sought, Spread in the treacherous grass his net once more, So fed the fire with fuel as before, That my escape I hardly could have wrought. And, but that my first woes experience gave, Snarèd long since and kindled I had been, And all the more, as I'm become less green: My freedom death again has come to save, And break my bond; that flame now fades, and fails, 'Gainst which nor force nor intellect prevails.

NOTT.

SONNET IV.

_La vita fugge, e non s' arresta un' ora._

PAST, PRESENT, AND FUTURE ARE NOW ALIKE PAINFUL TO HIM.

Life passes quick, nor will a moment stay, And death with hasty journeys still draws near; And all the present joins my soul to tear, With every past and every future day: And to look back or forward, so does prey On this distracted breast, that sure I swear, Did I not to myself some pity bear, I were e'en now from all these thoughts away. Much do I muse on what of pleasures past This woe-worn heart has known; meanwhile, t' oppose My passage, loud the winds around me roar. I see my bliss in port, and torn my mast And sails, my pilot faint with toil, and those Fair lights, that wont to guide me, now no more.

ANON., OX., 1795.

Life ever flies with course that nought may stay, Death follows after with gigantic stride; Ills past and present on my spirit prey, And future evils threat on every side: Whether I backward look or forward fare, A thousand ills my bosom's peace molest; And were it not that pity bids me spare My nobler part, I from these thoughts would rest. If ever aught of sweet my heart has known, Remembrance wakes its charms, while, tempest tost, I mark the clouds that o'er my course still frown; E'en in the port I see the storm afar; Weary my pilot, mast and cable lost, And set for ever my fair polar star.

DACRE.

SONNET V.

_Che fai? che pensi? che pur dietro guardi._

HE ENCOURAGES HIS SOUL TO LIFT ITSELF TO GOD, AND TO ABANDON THE VANITIES OF EARTH.

What dost thou? think'st thou? wherefore bend thine eye Back on the time that never shall return? The raging fire, where once 'twas thine to burn, Why with fresh fuel, wretched soul, supply? Those thrilling tones, those glances of the sky, Which one by one thy fond verse strove to adorn, Are fled; and--well thou knowest, poor forlorn!-- To seek them here were bootless industry. Then toil not bliss so fleeting to renew; To chase a thought so fair, so faithless, cease: Thou rather that unwavering good pursue, Which guides to heaven; since nought below can please. Fatal for us that beauty's torturing view, Living or dead alike which desolates our peace.

WRANGHAM.

SONNET VI.

_Datemi pace, o duri miei pensieri._

HE COMPARES HIMSELF TO A BESIEGED CITY, AND ACCUSES HIS OWN HEART OF TREASON.

O tyrant thoughts, vouchsafe me some repose! Sufficeth not that Love, and Death, and Fate, Make war all round me to my very gate, But I must in me armèd hosts enclose? And thou, my heart, to me alone that shows Disloyal still, what cruel guides of late In thee find shelter, now the chosen mate Of my most mischievous and bitter foes? Love his most secret embassies in thee, In thee her worst results hard Fate explains, And Death the memory of that blow, to me Which shatters all that yet of hope remains; In thee vague thoughts themselves with error arm, And thee alone I blame for all my harm.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET VII.

_Occhi miei, oscurato è 'l nostro sole._

HE ENDEAVOURS TO FIND PEACE IN THE THOUGHT THAT SHE IS IN HEAVEN.

Mine eyes! our glorious sun is veil'd in night, Or set to us, to rise 'mid realms of love; There we may hail it still, and haply prove It mourn'd that we delay'd our heavenward flight. Mine ears! the music of her tones delight Those, who its harmony can best approve; My feet! who in her track so joy'd to move. Ye cannot penetrate her regions bright! But wherefore should your wrath on me descend? No spell of mine hath hush'd for ye the joy Of seeing, hearing, feeling, she was near: Go, war with Death--yet, rather let us bend To Him who can create--who can destroy-- And bids the ready smile succeed the tear.

WOLLASTON.

O my sad eyes! our sun is overcast,-- Nay, rather borne to heaven, and there is shining, Waiting our coming, and perchance repining At our delay; there shall we meet at last: And there, mine ears, her angel words float past, Those who best understand their sweet divining; Howe'er, my feet, unto the search inclining, Ye cannot reach her in those regions vast. Why, then, do ye torment me thus, for, oh! It is no fault of mine, that ye no more Behold, and hear, and welcome her below; Blame Death,--or rather praise Him and adore, Who binds and frees, restrains and letteth go, And to the weeping one can joy restore.

WROTTESLEY.

SONNET VIII.

_Poichè la vista angelica serena._

WITH HER, HIS ONLY SOLACE, IS TAKEN AWAY ALL HIS DESIRE OF LIFE.

Since her calm angel face, long beauty's fane, My beggar'd soul by this brief parting throws In darkest horrors and in deepest woes, I seek by uttering to allay my pain. Certes, just sorrow leads me to complain: This she, who is its cause, and Love too shows; No other remedy my poor heart knows Against the troubles that in life obtain. Death! thou hast snatch'd her hence with hand unkind, And thou, glad Earth! that fair and kindly face Now hidest from me in thy close embrace; Why leave me here, disconsolate and blind, Since she who of mine eyes the light has been, Sweet, loving, bright, no more with me is seen?

MACGREGOR.

SONNET IX.

_S' Amor novo consiglio non n' apporta._

HE DESCRIBES HIS SAD STATE.

If Love to give new counsel still delay, My life must change to other scenes than these; My troubled spirit grief and terror freeze, Desire augments while all my hopes decay. Thus ever grows my life, by night and day, Despondent, and dismay'd, and ill at ease, Harass'd and helmless on tempestuous seas, With no sure escort on a doubtful way. Her path a sick imagination guides, Its true light underneath--ah, no! on high, Whence on my heart she beams more bright than eye, Not on mine eyes; from them a dark veil hides Those lovely orbs, and makes me, ere life's span Is measured half, an old and broken man.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET X.

_Nell' età sua più bella e più fiorita._

HE DESIRES TO DIE, THAT HIS SOUL MAY BE WITH HER, AS HIS THOUGHTS ALREADY ARE.

E'en in youth's fairest flower, when Love's dear sway Is wont with strongest power our hearts to bind, Leaving on earth her fleshly veil behind, My life, my Laura, pass'd from me away; Living, and fair, and free from our vile clay, From heaven she rules supreme my willing mind: Alas! why left me in this mortal rind That first of peace, of sin that latest day? As my fond thoughts her heavenward path pursue, So may my soul glad, light, and ready be To follow her, and thus from troubles flee. Whate'er delays me as worst loss I rue: Time makes me to myself but heavier grow: Death had been sweet to-day three years ago!

MACGREGOR.

SONNET XI.

_Se lamentar augelli, o Verdi fronde._

SHE IS EVER PRESENT TO HIM.

If the lorn bird complain, or rustling sweep Soft summer airs o'er foliage waving slow, Or the hoarse brook come murmuring down the steep, Where on the enamell'd bank I sit below With thoughts of love that bid my numbers flow; 'Tis then I see her, though in earth she sleep! Her, form'd in heaven! I see, and hear, and know! Responsive sighing, weeping as I weep: "Alas," she pitying says, "ere yet the hour, Why hurry life away with swifter flight? Why from thy eyes this flood of sorrow pour? No longer mourn my fate! through death my days Become eternal! to eternal light These eyes, which seem'd in darkness closed, I raise!"

DACRE.

Where the green leaves exclude the summer beam, And softly bend as balmy breezes blow, And where with liquid lapse the lucid stream Across the fretted rock is heard to flow, Pensive I lay: when she whom earth conceals As if still living to my eye appears; And pitying Heaven her angel form reveals To say, "Unhappy Petrarch, dry your tears. Ah! why, sad lover, thus before your time In grief and sadness should your life decay, And, like a blighted flower, your manly prime In vain and hopeless sorrow fade away? Ah! yield not thus to culpable despair; But raise thine eyes to heaven and think I wait thee there!"

CHARLOTTE SMITH.

Moved by the summer wind when all is still, The light leaves quiver on the yielding spray; Sighs from its flowery bank the lucid rill, While the birds answer in their sweetest lay. Vain to this sickening heart these scenes appear: No form but hers can meet my tearful eyes; In every passing gale her voice I hear; It seems to tell me, "I have heard thy sighs. But why," she cries, "in manhood's towering prime, In grief's dark mist thy days, inglorious, hide? Ah! dost thou murmur, that my span of time Has join'd eternity's unchanging tide? Yes, though I seem'd to shut mine eyes in night, They only closed to wake in everlasting light!"

ANNE BANNERMAN.

SONNET XII.

_Mai non fu' in parte ove sì chiar' vedessi._

VAUCLUSE.

Nowhere before could I so well have seen Her whom my soul most craves since lost to view; Nowhere in so great freedom could have been Breathing my amorous lays 'neath skies so blue; Never with depths of shade so calm and green A valley found for lover's sigh more true; Methinks a spot so lovely and serene Love not in Cyprus nor in Gnidos knew. All breathes one spell, all prompts and prays that I Like them should love--the clear sky, the calm hour, Winds, waters, birds, the green bough, the gay flower-- But thou, beloved, who call'st me from on high, By the sad memory of thine early fate, Pray that I hold the world and these sweet snares in hate.

MACGREGOR.

Never till now so clearly have I seen Her whom my eyes desire, my soul still views; Never enjoy'd a freedom thus serene; Ne'er thus to heaven breathed my enamour'd muse, As in this vale sequester'd, darkly green; Where my soothed heart its pensive thought pursues, And nought intrusively may intervene, And all my sweetly-tender sighs renews. To Love and meditation, faithful shade, Receive the breathings of my grateful breast! Love not in Cyprus found so sweet a nest As this, by pine and arching laurel made! The birds, breeze, water, branches, whisper love; Herb, flower, and verdant path the lay symphonious move.

CAPEL LOFFT.

SONNET XIII.

_Quante fiate al mio dolce ricetto._

HER FORM STILL HAUNTS HIM IN SOLITUDE.

How oft, all lonely, to my sweet retreat From man and from myself I strive to fly, Bathing with dewy eyes each much-loved seat, And swelling every blossom with a sigh! How oft, deep musing on my woes complete, Along the dark and silent glens I lie, In thought again that dearest form to meet By death possess'd, and therefore wish to die! How oft I see her rising from the tide Of Sorga, like some goddess of the flood; Or pensive wander by the river's side; Or tread the flowery mazes of the wood; Bright as in life; while angel pity throws O'er her fair face the impress of my woes.

MERIVALE.

SONNET XIV.

_Alma felice, che sovente torni._

HE THANKS HER THAT FROM TIME TO TIME SHE RETURNS TO CONSOLE HIM WITH HER PRESENCE.

O blessed spirit! who dost oft return, Ministering comfort to my nights of woe, From eyes which Death, relenting in his blow, Has lit with all the lustres of the morn: How am I gladden'd, that thou dost not scorn O'er my dark days thy radiant beam to throw! Thus do I seem again to trace below Thy beauties, hovering o'er their loved sojourn. There now, thou seest, where long of thee had been My sprightlier strain, of thee my plaint I swell-- Of thee!--oh, no! of mine own sorrows keen. One only solace cheers the wretched scene: By many a sign I know thy coming well-- Thy step, thy voice and look, and robe of favour'd green.

WRANGHAM.

When welcome slumber locks my torpid frame, I see thy spirit in the midnight dream; Thine eyes that still in living lustre beam: In all but frail mortality the same. Ah! then, from earth and all its sorrows free, Methinks I meet thee in each former scene: Once the sweet shelter of a heart serene; Now vocal only while I weep for thee. For thee!--ah, no! From human ills secure. Thy hallow'd soul exults in endless day; 'Tis I who linger on the toilsome way: No balm relieves the anguish I endure; Save the fond feeble hope that thou art near To soothe my sufferings with an angel's tear.

ANNE BANNERMAN.

SONNET XV.

_Discolorato hai, Morte, il più bel volto._

HER PRESENCE IN VISIONS IS HIS ONLY CONSOLATION.

Death, thou of fairest face hast 'reft the hue, And quench'd in deep thick night the brightest eyes, And loosed from all its tenderest, closest ties A spirit to faith and ardent virtue true. In one short hour to all my bliss adieu! Hush'd are those accents worthy of the skies, Unearthly sounds, whose loss awakes my sighs; And all I hear is grief, and all I view. Yet oft, to soothe this lone and anguish'd heart, By pity led, she comes my couch to seek, Nor find I other solace here below: And if her thrilling tones my strain could speak And look divine, with Love's enkindling dart Not man's sad breast alone, but fiercest beasts should glow.

WRANGHAM.

Thou hast despoil'd the fairest face e'er seen-- Thou hast extinguish'd, Death, the brightest eyes, And snapp'd the cord in sunder of the ties Which bound that spirit brilliantly serene: In one short moment all I love has been Torn from me, and dark silence now supplies Those gentle tones; my heart, which bursts with sighs, Nor sight nor sound from weariness can screen: Yet doth my lady, by compassion led, Return to solace my unfailing woe; Earth yields no other balm:--oh! could I tell How bright she seems, and how her accents flow, Not unto man alone Love's flames would spread, But even bears and tigers share the spell.

WROTTESLEY.

SONNET XVI.

_Sì breve è 'l tempo e 'l pensier sì veloce._

THE REMEMBRANCE OF HER CHASES SADNESS FROM HIS HEART.

So brief the time, so fugitive the thought Which Laura yields to me, though dead, again, Small medicine give they to my giant pain; Still, as I look on her, afflicts me nought. Love, on the rack who holds me as he brought, Fears when he sees her thus my soul retain, Where still the seraph face and sweet voice reign, Which first his tyranny and triumph wrought. As rules a mistress in her home of right, From my dark heavy heart her placid brow Dispels each anxious thought and omen drear. My soul, which bears but ill such dazzling light, Says with a sigh: "O blessed day! when thou Didst ope with those dear eyes thy passage here!"

MACGREGOR.

SONNET XVII.

_Nè mai pietosa madre al caro figlio._

HER COUNSEL ALONE AFFORDS HIM RELIEF.

Ne'er did fond mother to her darling son, Or zealous spouse to her belovèd mate, Sage counsel give, in perilous estate, With such kind caution, in such tender tone, As gives that fair one, who, oft looking down On my hard exile from her heavenly seat, With wonted kindness bends upon my fate Her brow, as friend or parent would have done: Now chaste affection prompts her speech, now fear, Instructive speech, that points what several ways To seek or shun, while journeying here below; Then all the ills of life she counts, and prays My soul ere long may quit this terrene sphere: And by her words alone I'm soothed and freed from woe.

NOTT.

Ne'er to the son, in whom her age is blest, The anxious mother--nor to her loved lord The wedded dame, impending ill to ward, With careful sighs so faithful counsel press'd, As she, who, from her high eternal rest, Bending--as though my exile she deplored-- With all her wonted tenderness restored, And softer pity on her brow impress'd! Now with a mother's fears, and now as one Who loves with chaste affection, in her speech She points what to pursue and what to shun! Our years retracing of long, various grief, Wooing my soul at higher good to reach, And while she speaks, my bosom finds relief!

DACRE.

SONNET XVIII.

_Se quell' aura soave de' sospiri._

SHE RETURNS IN PITY TO COMFORT HIM WITH HER ADVICE.

If that soft breath of sighs, which, from above, I hear of her so long my lady here, Who, now in heaven, yet seems, as of our sphere, To breathe, and move, to feel, and live, and love, I could but paint, my passionate verse should move Warmest desires; so jealous, yet so dear O'er me she bends and breathes, without a fear, That on the way I tire, or turn, or rove. She points the path on high: and I who know Her chaste anxiety and earnest prayer, In whispers sweet, affectionate, and low, Train, at her will, my acts and wishes there: And find such sweetness in her words alone As with their power should melt the hardest stone.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET XIX.

_Sennuccio mio, benchè doglioso e solo._

ON THE DEATH OF HIS FRIEND SENNUCCIO.

O friend! though left a wretched pilgrim here, By thee though left in solitude to roam, Yet can I mourn that thou hast found thy home, On angel pinions borne, in bright career? Now thou behold'st the ever-turning sphere, And stars that journey round the concave dome; Now thou behold'st how short of truth we come, How blind our judgment, and thine own how clear! That thou art happy soothes my soul oppress'd. O friend! salute from me the laurell'd band, Guitton and Cino, Dante, and the rest: And tell my Laura, friend, that here I stand, Wasting in tears, scarce of myself possess'd, While her blest beauties all my thoughts command.

MOREHEAD.

Sennuccio mine! I yet myself console, Though thou hast left me, mournful and alone, For eagerly to heaven thy spirit has flown, Free from the flesh which did so late enrol; Thence, at one view, commands it either pole, The planets and their wondrous courses known, And human sight how brief and doubtful shown; Thus with thy bliss my sorrow I control. One favour--in the third of those bright spheres. Guido and Dante, Cino, too, salute, With Franceschin and all that tuneful train, And tell my lady how I live, in tears, (Savage and lonely as some forest brute) Her sweet face and fair works when memory brings again.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET XX.

_I' ho pien di sospir quest' aer tutto._

VAUCLUSE HAS BECOME TO HIM A SCENE OF PAIN.

To every sound, save sighs, this air is mute, When from rude rocks, I view the smiling land Where she was born, who held my life in hand From its first bud till blossoms turn'd to fruit: To heaven she's gone, and I'm left destitute To mourn her loss, and cast around in pain These wearied eyes, which, seeking her in vain Where'er they turn, o'erflow with grief acute; There's not a root or stone amongst these hills, Nor branch nor verdant leaf 'midst these soft glades, Nor in the valley flowery herbage grows, Nor liquid drop the sparkling fount distils, Nor savage beast that shelters in these shades, But knows how sharp my grief--how deep my woes.

WROTTESLEY.

SONNET XXI.

_L' alma mia fiamma oltra le belle bella._

HE ACKNOWLEDGES THE WISDOM OF HER PAST COLDNESS TO HIM.

My noble flame--more fair than fairest are Whom kind Heaven here has e'er in favour shown-- Before her time, alas for me! has flown To her celestial home and parent star. I seem but now to wake; wherein a bar She placed on passion 'twas for good alone, As, with a gentle coldness all her own, She waged with my hot wishes virtuous war. My thanks on her for such wise care I press, That with her lovely face and sweet disdain She check'd my love and taught me peace to gain. O graceful artifice! deserved success! I with my fond verse, with her bright eyes she, Glory in her, she virtue got in me.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET XXII.

_Come va 'l mondo! or mi diletta e piace._

HE BLESSES LAURA FOR HER VIRTUE.

How goes the world! now please me and delight What most displeased me: now I see and feel My trials were vouchsafed me for my weal, That peace eternal should brief war requite. O hopes and wishes, ever fond and slight, In lovers most, which oftener harm than heal! Worse had she yielded to my warm appeal Whom Heaven has welcomed from the grave's dark night. But blind love and my dull mind so misled, I sought to trespass even by main force Where to have won my precious soul were dead. Blessèd be she who shaped mine erring course To better port, by turns who curb'd and lured My bold and passionate will where safety was secured.

MACGREGOR.

Alas! this changing world! my present joy Was once my grief's dark source, and now I feel My sufferings pass'd were but my soul to heal Its fearful warfare--peace's soft decoy. Poor human wishes! Hope, thou fragile toy To lovers oft! my woe had met its seal, Had she but hearken'd to my love's appeal, Who, throned in heaven, hath fled this world's alloy. My blinded love, and yet more stubborn mind, Resistless urged me to my bosom's shame, And where my soul's destruction I had met: But blessèd she who bade life's current find A holier course, who still'd my spirit's flame With gentle hope that soul might triumph yet.

WOLLASTON.

SONNET XXIII.

_Quand' io veggio dal ciel scender l' Aurora._

MORN RENDERS HIS GRIEF MORE POIGNANT.

When from the heavens I see Aurora beam, With rosy-tinctured cheek and golden hair, Love bids my face the hue of sadness wear: "There Laura dwells!" I with a sigh exclaim. Thou knowest well the hour that shall redeem, Happy Tithonus, thy much-valued fair; But not to her I love can I repair, Till death extinguishes this vital flame. Yet need'st thou not thy separation mourn; Certain at evening's close is the return Of her, who doth not thy hoar locks despise; But my nights sad, my days are render'd drear, By her, who bore my thoughts to yonder skies, And only a remember'd name left here.

NOTT.

When from the east appears the purple ray Of morn arising, and salutes the eyes That wear the night in watching for the day, Thus speaks my heart: "In yonder opening skies, In yonder fields of bliss, my Laura lies!" Thou sun, that know'st to wheel thy burning car, Each eve, to the still surface of the deep, And there within thy Thetis' bosom sleep; Oh! could I thus my Laura's presence share, How would my patient heart its sorrows bear! Adored in life, and honour'd in the dust, She that in this fond breast for ever reigns Has pass'd the gulph of death!--To deck that bust, No trace of her but the sad name remains.

WOODHOUSELEE.

SONNET XXIV.

_Gli occhi di ch' io parlai sì caldamente._

HIS LYRE IS NOW ATTUNED ONLY TO WOE.

The eyes, the face, the limbs of heavenly mould, So long the theme of my impassion'd lay, Charms which so stole me from myself away, That strange to other men the course I hold; The crispèd locks of pure and lucid gold, The lightning of the angelic smile, whose ray To earth could all of paradise convey, A little dust are now!--to feeling cold! And yet I live!--but that I live bewail, Sunk the loved light that through the tempest led My shatter'd bark, bereft of mast and sail: Hush'd be for aye the song that breathed love's fire! Lost is the theme on which my fancy fed, And turn'd to mourning my once tuneful lyre.

DACRE.

The eyes, the arms, the hands, the feet, the face, Which made my thoughts and words so warm and wild, That I was almost from myself exiled, And render'd strange to all the human race; The lucid locks that curl'd in golden grace, The lightening beam that, when my angel smiled, Diffused o'er earth an Eden heavenly mild; What are they now? Dust, lifeless dust, alas! And I live on, a melancholy slave, Toss'd by the tempest in a shatter'd bark, Reft of the lovely light that cheer'd the wave. The flame of genius, too, extinct and dark, Here let my lays of love conclusion have; Mute be the lyre: tears best my sorrows mark.

MOREHEAD.

Those eyes whose living lustre shed the heat Of bright meridian day; the heavenly mould Of that angelic form; the hands, the feet, The taper arms, the crispèd locks of gold; Charms that the sweets of paradise enfold; The radiant lightning of her angel-smile, And every grace that could the sense beguile Are now a pile of ashes, deadly cold! And yet I bear to drag this cumbrous chain, That weighs my soul to earth--to bliss or pain Alike insensible:--her anchor lost, The frail dismantled bark, all tempest-toss'd, Surveys no port of comfort--closed the scene Of life's delusive joys;--and dry the Muse's vein.

WOODHOUSELEE.

Those eyes, sweet subject of my rapturous strain! The arms, the hands, the feet, that lovely face, By which I from myself divided was, And parted from the vulgar and the vain; Those crispèd locks, pure gold unknown to stain! Of that angelic smile the lightening grace, Which wont to make this earth a heavenly place! Dissolved to senseless ashes now remain! And yet I live, to endless grief a prey, 'Reft of that star, my loved, my certain guide, Disarm'd my bark, while tempests round me blow! Stop, then, my verse--dry is the fountain's tide. That fed my genius! Cease, my amorous lay! Changed is my lyre, attuned to endless woe!

CHARLEMONT.

SONNET XXV.

_S' io avessi pensato che sì care._

HIS POEMS WERE WRITTEN ONLY TO SOOTHE HIS OWN GRIEF: OTHERWISE HE WOULD HAVE LABOURED TO MAKE THEM MORE DESERVING OF THE FAME THEY HAVE ACQUIRED.

Had I e'er thought that to the world so dear The echo of my sighs would be in rhyme, I would have made them in my sorrow's prime Rarer in style, in number more appear. Since she is dead my muse who prompted here, First in my thoughts and feelings at all time, All power is lost of tender or sublime My rough dark verse to render soft and clear. And certes, my sole study and desire Was but--I knew not how--in those long years To unburthen my sad heart, not fame acquire. I wept, but wish'd no honour in my tears. Fain would I now taste joy; but that high fair, Silent and weary, calls me to her there.

MACGREGOR.

Oh! had I deem'd my sighs, in numbers rung, Could e'er have gain'd the world's approving smile, I had awoke my rhymes in choicer style, My sorrow's birth more tunefully had sung: But she is gone whose inspiration hung On all my words, and did my thoughts beguile; My numbers harsh seem'd melody awhile, Now she is mute who o'er them music flung. Nor fame, nor other incense, then I sought, But how to quell my heart's o'erwhelming grief; I wept, but sought no honour in my tear: But could the world's fair suffrage now be bought, 'Twere joy to gain, but that my hour is brief, Her lofty spirit waves me to her bier.

WOLLASTON.

SONNET XXVI.

_Soleasi nel mio cor star bella e viva._

SINCE HER DEATH, NOTHING IS LEFT TO HIM BUT GRIEF.

She stood within my heart, warm, young, alone, As in a humble home a lady bright; By her last flight not merely am I grown Mortal, but dead, and she an angel quite. A soul whence every bliss and hope is flown, Love shorn and naked of its own glad light, Might melt with pity e'en a heart of stone: But none there is to tell their grief or write; These plead within, where deaf is every ear Except mine own, whose power its griefs so mar That nought is left me save to suffer here. Verily we but dust and shadows are! Verily blind and evil is our will! Verily human hopes deceive us still!

MACGREGOR.

'Mid life's bright glow she dwelt within my soul, The sovereign tenant of a humble cell, But when for heaven she bade the world farewell, Death seem'd to grasp me in his fierce control: My wither'd love torn from its brightening goal-- My soul without its treasure doom'd to dwell-- Could I but trace their grief, their sorrow tell, A stone might wake, and fain with them condole. They inly mourn, where none can hear their woe Save I alone, who too with grief oppress'd, Can only soothe my anguish by my sighs: Life is indeed a shadowy dream below; Our blind desires by Reason's chain unbless'd, Whilst Hope in treacherous wither'd fragments lies.

WOLLASTON.

SONNET XXVII.

_Soleano i miei pensier soavemente._

HE COMFORTS HIMSELF WITH THE HOPE THAT SHE HEARS HIM.

My thoughts in fair alliance and array Hold converse on the theme which most endears: Pity approaches and repents delay: E'en now she speaks of us, or hopes, or fears. Since the last day, the terrible hour when Fate This present life of her fair being reft, From heaven she sees, and hears, and feels our state: No other hope than this to me is left. O fairest miracle! most fortunate mind! O unexampled beauty, stately, rare! Whence lent too late, too soon, alas! rejoin'd. Hers is the crown and palm of good deeds there, Who to the world so eminent and clear Made her great virtue and my passion here.

MACGREGOR.

My thoughts were wont with sentiment so sweet To meditate their object in my breast-- Perhaps her sympathies my wishes meet With gentlest pity, seeing me distress'd: Nor when removed to that her sacred rest The present life changed for that blest retreat, Vanish'd in air my former visions fleet, My hopes, my tears, in vain to her address'd. O lovely miracle! O favour'd mind! Beauty beyond example high and rare, So soon return'd from us to whence it came! There the immortal wreaths her temples bind; The sacred palm is hers: on earth so fair Who shone by her own virtues and my flame.

CAPEL LOFFT.

SONNET XXVIII.

_I' mi soglio accusare, ed or mi scuso._

HE GLORIES IN HIS LOVE.

I now excuse myself who wont to blame, Nay, more, I prize and even hold me dear, For this fair prison, this sweet-bitter shame, Which I have borne conceal'd so many a year. O envious Fates! that rare and golden frame Rudely ye broke, where lightly twined and clear, Yarn of my bonds, the threads of world-wide fame Which lovely 'gainst his wont made Death appear. For not a soul was ever in its days Of joy, of liberty, of life so fond, That would not change for her its natural ways, Preferring thus to suffer and despond, Than, fed by hope, to sing in others' praise, Content to die, or live in such a bond.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET XXIX.

_Due gran nemiche insieme erano aggiunte._

THE UNION OF BEAUTY AND VIRTUE IS DISSOLVED BY HER DEATH.

Two mortal foes in one fair breast combined, Beauty and Virtue, in such peace allied That ne'er rebellion ruffled that pure mind, But in rare union dwelt they side by side; By Death they now are shatter'd and disjoin'd; One is in heaven, its glory and its pride, One under earth, her brilliant eyes now blind, Whence stings of love once issued far and wide. That winning air, that rare discourse and meek, Surely from heaven inspired, that gentle glance Which wounded my poor heart, and wins it still, Are gone; if I am slow her road to seek, I hope her fair and graceful name perchance To consecrate with this worn weary quill.

MACGREGOR.

Within one mortal shrine two foes had met-- Beauty and Virtue--yet they dwelt so bright, That ne'er within the soul did they excite Rebellious thought, their union might beget: But, parted to fulfil great nature's debt, One blooms in heaven, exulting in its height; Its twin on earth doth rest, from whose veil'd night No more those eyes of love man's soul can fret. That speech by Heaven inspired, so humbly wise-- That graceful air--her look so winning, meek, That woke and kindles still my bosom's pain-- They all have fled; but if to gain her skies I tardy seem, my weary pen would seek For her blest name a consecrated reign!

WOLLASTON.

SONNET XXX.

_Quand' io mi volgo indietro a mirar gli anni._

THE REMEMBRANCE OF THE PAST ENHANCES HIS MISERY.

When I look back upon the many years Which in their flight my best thoughts have entomb'd, And spent the fire, that, spite her ice, consumed, And finish'd the repose so full of tears, Broken the faith which Love's young dream endears, And the two parts of all my blessing doom'd, This low in earth, while heaven has that resumed, And lost the guerdon of my pains and fears, I wake, and feel me to the bitter wind So bare, I envy the worst lot I see; Self-terror and heart-grief on me so wait. O Death, O Fate, O Fortune, stars unkind! O day for ever dark and drear to me! How have ye sunk me in this abject state!

MACGREGOR.

When memory turns to gaze on time gone by (Which in its flight hath arm'd e'en thought with wings), And to my troubled rest a period brings, Quells, too, the flame which long could ice defy; And when I mark Love's promise wither'd lie, That treasure parted which my bosom wrings (For she in heaven, her shrine to nature clings), Whilst thus my toils' reward she doth deny;-- I then awake and feel bereaved indeed! The darkest fate on earth seems bliss to mine-- So much I fear myself, and dread its woe! O Fortune!--Death! O star! O fate decreed! O bitter day! that yet must sweetly shine, Alas! too surely thou hast laid me low!

WOLLASTON.

SONNET XXXI.

_Ov' è la fronte che con picciol cenno._

HE ENUMERATES AND EULOGISES THE GRACES OF LAURA.

Where is the brow whose gentlest beckonings led My raptured heart at will, now here, now there? Where the twin stars, lights of this lower sphere, Which o'er my darkling path their radiance shed? Where is true worth, and wit, and wisdom fled? The courteous phrase, the melting accent, where? Where, group'd in one rich form, the beauties rare, Which long their magic influence o'er me shed? Where is the shade, within whose sweet recess My wearied spirit still forgot its sighs, And all my thoughts their constant record found? Where, where is she, my life's sole arbitress?-- Ah, wretched world! and wretched ye, mine eyes (Of her pure light bereft) which aye with tears are drown'd.

WRANGHAM.

Where is that face, whose slightest air could move My trembling heart, and strike the springs of love? That heaven, where two fair stars, with genial ray, Shed their kind influence on life's dim way? Where are that science, sense, and worth confess'd? That speech by virtue, by the graces dress'd? Where are those beauties, where those charms combined, That caused this long captivity of mind? Where the dear shade of all that once was fair, The source, the solace, of each amorous care-- My heart's sole sovereign, Nature's only boast? --Lost to the world, to me for ever lost!

LANGHORNE.

SONNET XXXII.

_Quanta invidia ti porto, avara terra._

HE ENVIES EARTH, HEAVEN, AND DEATH THEIR POSSESSION OF HIS TREASURE.

O earth, whose clay-cold mantle shrouds that face, And veils those eyes that late so brightly shone, Whence all that gave delight on earth was known, How much I envy thee that harsh embrace! O heaven, that in thy airy courts confined That purest spirit, when from earth she fled, And sought the mansions of the righteous dead; How envious, thus to leave my panting soul behind! O angels, that in your seraphic choir Received her sister-soul, and now enjoy Still present, those delights without alloy, Which my fond heart must still in vain desire! In her I lived--in her my life decays; Yet envious Fate denies to end my hapless days.

WOODHOUSELEE.

What envy of the greedy earth I bear, That holds from me within its cold embrace The light, the meaning, of that angel face, On which to gaze could soften e'en despair. What envy of the saints, in realms so fair, Who eager seem'd, from that bright form of grace The spirit pure to summon to its place, Amidst those joys, which few can hope to share; What envy of the blest in heaven above, With whom she dwells in sympathies divine Denied to me on earth, though sought in sighs; And oh! what envy of stern Death I prove, That with her life has ta'en the light of mine, Yet calls me not,--though fixed and cold those eyes.

WROTTESLEY.

SONNET XXXIII.

_Valle che d' lamenti miei se' piena._

ON HIS RETURN TO VAUCLUSE AFTER LAURA'S DEATH.

Valley, which long hast echoed with my cries; Stream, which my flowing tears have often fed; Beasts, fluttering birds, and ye who in the bed Of Cabrieres' wave display your speckled dyes; Air, hush'd to rest and soften'd by my sighs; Dear path, whose mazes lone and sad I tread; Hill of delight--though now delight is fled-- To rove whose haunts Love still my foot decoys; Well I retain your old unchanging face! Myself how changed! in whom, for joy's light throng, Infinite woes their constant mansion find! Here bloom'd my bliss: and I your tracks retrace, To mark whence upward to her heaven she sprung, Leaving her beauteous spoil, her robe of flesh behind!

WRANGHAM.

Ye vales, made vocal by my plaintive lay; Ye streams, embitter'd with the tears of love; Ye tenants of the sweet melodious grove; Ye tribes that in the grass fringed streamlet play; Ye tepid gales, to which my sighs convey A softer warmth; ye flowery plains, that move Reflection sad; ye hills, where yet I rove, Since Laura there first taught my steps to stray;-- You, you are still the same! How changed, alas, Am I! who, from a state of life so blest, Am now the gloomy dwelling-place of woe! 'Twas here I saw my love: here still I trace Her parting steps, when she her mortal vest Cast to the earth, and left these scenes below.

ANON.

SONNET XXXIV.

_Levommi il mio pensier in parte ov' era._

SOARING IN IMAGINATION TO HEAVEN, HE MEETS LAURA, AND IS HAPPY.

Fond fancy raised me to the spot, where strays She, whom I seek but find on earth no more: There, fairer still and humbler than before, I saw her, in the third heaven's blessèd maze. She took me by the hand, and "Thou shalt trace, If hope not errs," she said, "this happy shore: I, I am she, thy breast with slights who tore, And ere its evening closed my day's brief space. What human heart conceives, my joys exceed; Thee only I expect, and (what remain Below) the charms, once objects of thy love." Why ceased she? Ah! my captive hand why freed? Such of her soft and hallow'd tones the chain, From that delightful heaven my soul could scarcely move.

WRANGHAM.

Thither my ecstatic thought had rapt me, where She dwells, whom still on earth I seek in vain; And there, with those whom the third heavens contain, I saw her, much more kind, and much more fair. My hand she took, and said: "Within this sphere, If hope deceive me not, thou shalt again With me reside: who caused thy mortal pain Am I, and even in summer closed my year. My bliss no human thought can understand: Thee only I await; and, that erewhile You held so dear, the veil I left behind."-- She ceased--ah why? Why did she loose my hand? For oh! her hallow'd words, her roseate smile In heaven had well nigh fix'd my ravish'd mind!

CHARLEMONT.

SONNET XXXV.

_Amor che meco al buon tempo ti stavi._

HE VENTS HIS SORROW TO ALL WHO WITNESSED HIS FORMER FELICITY.

Love, that in happier days wouldst meet me here Along these meads that nursed our kindred strains; And that old debt to clear which still remains, Sweet converse with the stream and me wouldst share: Ye flowers, leaves, grass, woods, grots, rills, gentle air, Low valleys, lofty hills, and sunny plains: The harbour where I stored my love-sick pains, And all my various chance, my racking care: Ye playful inmates of the greenwood shade; Ye nymphs, and ye that in the waves pursue That life its cool and grassy bottom lends:-- My days were once so fair; now dark and dread As death that makes them so. Thus the world through On each as soon as born his fate attends.

ANON., OX., 1795.

On these green banks in happier days I stray'd With Love, who whisper'd many a tender tale; And the glad waters, winding through the dale, Heard the sweet eloquence fond Love display'd. You, purpled plain, cool grot, and arching glade; Ye hills, ye streams, where plays the silken gale; Ye pathless wilds, you rock-encircled vale Which oft have beard the tender plaints I made; Ye blue-hair'd nymphs, who ceaseless revel keep, In the cool bosom of the crystal deep; Ye woodland maids who climb the mountain's brow; Ye mark'd how joy once wing'd each hour so gay; Ah, mark how sad each hour now wears away! So fate with human bliss blends human woe!

ANON. 1777.

SONNET XXXVI.

_Mentre che 'l cor dagli amorosi vermi._

HAD SHE NOT DIED SO EARLY, HE WOULD HAVE LEARNED TO PRAISE HER MORE WORTHILY.

While on my heart the worms consuming prey'd Of Love, and I with all his fire was caught; The steps of my fair wild one still I sought To trace o'er desert mountains as she stray'd; And much I dared in bitter strains to upbraid Both Love and her, whom I so cruel thought; But rude was then my genius, and untaught My rhymes, while weak and new the ideas play'd. Dead is that fire; and cold its ashes lie In one small tomb; which had it still grown on E'en to old age, as oft by others felt, Arm'd with the power of rhyme, which wretched I E'en now disclaim, my riper strains had won E'en stones to burst, and in soft sorrows melt.

ANON., OX., 1795.

SONNET XXXVII.

_Anima bella, da quel nodo sciolta._

HE PRAYS LAURA TO LOOK DOWN UPON HIM FROM HEAVEN.

Bright spirit, from those earthly bonds released, The loveliest ever wove in Nature's loom, From thy bright skies compassionate the gloom Shrouding my life that once of joy could taste! Each false suggestion of thy heart has ceased, That whilom bade thee stem disdain assume; Now, all secure, heaven's habitant become, List to my sighs, thy looks upon me cast. Mark the huge rock, whence Sorga's waters rise; And see amidst its waves and borders stray One fed by grief and memory that ne'er dies But from that spot, oh! turn thy sight away Where I first loved, where thy late dwelling lies; That in thy friends thou nought ungrateful may'st survey!

NOTT.

Blest soul, that, loosen'd from those bands, art flown-- Bands than which Nature never form'd more fair, Look down and mark how changed to carking care From gladdest thoughts I pass my days unknown. Each false opinion from my heart is gone, That once to me made thy sweet sight appear Most harsh and bitter; now secure from fear Here turn thine eyes, and listen to my moan. Turn to this rock whence Sorga's waters rise, And mark, where through the mead its waters flow, One who of thee still mindful ceaseless sighs: But leave me there unsought for, where to glow Our flames began, and where thy mansion lies, Lest thou in thine shouldst see what grieved thee so.

ANON., OX., 1795.

SONNET XXXVIII.

_Quel sol che mi mostrava il cammin destro._

LOVE AND HE SEEK LAURA, BUT FIND NO TRACES OF HER EXCEPT IN THE SKY.

That sun, which ever signall'd the right road, Where flash'd her own bright feet, to heaven to fly, Returning to the Eternal Sun on high, Has quench'd my light, and cast her earthly load; Thus, lone and weary, my oft steps have trode, As some wild animal, the sere woods by, Fleeing with heavy heart and downcast eye The world which since to me a blank has show'd. Still with fond search each well-known spot I pace Where once I saw her: Love, who grieves me so, My only guide, directs me where to go. I find her not: her every sainted trace Seeks, in bright realms above, her parent star From grisly Styx and black Avernus far.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET XXXIX.

_Io pensava assai destro esser sull' ale._

UNWORTHY TO HAVE LOOKED UPON HER, HE IS STILL MORE SO TO ATTEMPT HER PRAISES.

I thought me apt and firm of wing to rise (Not of myself, but him who trains us all) In song, to numbers fitting the fair thrall Which Love once fasten'd and which Death unties. Slow now and frail, the task too sorely tries, As a great weight upon a sucker small: "Who leaps," I said, "too high may midway fall: Man ill accomplishes what Heaven denies." So far the wing of genius ne'er could fly-- Poor style like mine and faltering tongue much less-- As Nature rose, in that rare fabric, high. Love follow'd Nature with such full success In gracing her, no claim could I advance Even to look, and yet was bless'd by chance.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET XL.

_Quella per cui con Sorga ho cangiat' Arno._

HE ATTEMPTS TO PAINT HER BEAUTIES, BUT NOT HER VIRTUES.

She, for whose sake fair Arno I resign, And for free poverty court-affluence spurn, Has known to sour the precious sweets to turn On which I lived, for which I burn and pine. Though since, the vain attempt has oft been mine That future ages from my song should learn Her heavenly beauties, and like me should burn, My poor verse fails her sweet face to define. The gifts, though all her own, which others share, Which were but stars her bright sky scatter'd o'er, Haply of these to sing e'en I might dare; But when to the diviner