part I

soar, To the dull world a brief and brilliant light, Courage and wit and art are baffled quite.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET XLI.

_L' alto e novo miracol ch' a dì nostri._

IT IS IMPOSSIBLE FOR HIM TO DESCRIBE HER EXCELLENCES.

The wonder, high and new, that, in our days, Dawn'd on the world, yet would not there remain, Which heaven but show'd to us to snatch again Better to blazon its own starry ways; That to far times I her should paint and praise Love wills, who prompted first my passionate strain; But now wit, leisure, pen, page, ink in vain To the fond task a thousand times he sways. My slow rhymes struggle not to life the while; I feel it, and whoe'er to-day below, Or speak or write of love will prove it so. Who justly deems the truth beyond all style, Here silent let him muse, and sighing say, Blessèd the eyes who saw her living day!

MACGREGOR.

SONNET XLII.

_Zefiro torna, e 'l bel tempo rimena._

RETURNING SPRING BRINGS TO HIM ONLY INCREASE OF GRIEF.

Zephyr returns; and in his jocund train Brings verdure, flowers, and days serenely clear; Brings Progne's twitter, Philomel's lorn strain, With every bloom that paints the vernal year; Cloudless the skies, and smiling every plain; With joyance flush'd, Jove views his daughter dear; Love's genial power pervades earth, air, and main; All beings join'd in fond accord appear. But nought to me returns save sorrowing sighs, Forced from my inmost heart by her who bore Those keys which govern'd it unto the skies: The blossom'd meads, the choristers of air, Sweet courteous damsels can delight no more; Each face looks savage, and each prospect drear.

NOTT.

The spring returns, with all her smiling train; The wanton Zephyrs breathe along the bowers, The glistening dew-drops hang on bending flowers, And tender green light-shadows o'er the plain: And thou, sweet Philomel, renew'st thy strain, Breathing thy wild notes to the midnight grove: All nature feels the kindling fire of love, The vital force of spring's returning reign. But not to me returns the cheerful spring! O heart! that know'st no period to thy grief, Nor Nature's smiles to thee impart relief, Nor change of mind the varying seasons bring: She, she is gone! All that e'er pleased before, Adieu! ye birds ye flowers, ye fields, that charm no more!

WOODHOUSELEE.

Returning Zephyr the sweet season brings, With flowers and herbs his breathing train among, And Progne twitters, Philomela sings, Leading the many-colour'd spring along; Serene the sky, and fair the laughing field, Jove views his daughter with complacent brow; Earth, sea, and air, to Love's sweet influence yield, And creatures all his magic power avow: But nought, alas! for me the season brings, Save heavier sighs, from my sad bosom drawn By her who can from heaven unlock its springs; And warbling birds and flower-bespangled lawn, And fairest acts of ladies fair and mild, A desert seem, and its brute tenants wild.

DACRE.

Zephyr returns and winter's rage restrains, With herbs, with flowers, his blooming progeny! Now Progne prattles, Philomel complains, And spring assumes her robe of various dye; The meadows smile, heaven glows, nor Jove disdains To view his daughter with delighted eye; While Love through universal nature reigns, And life is fill'd with amorous sympathy! But grief, not joy, returns to me forlorn, And sighs, which from my inmost heart proceed For her, by whom to heaven its keys were borne. The song of birds, the flower-enamell'd mead, And graceful acts, which most the fair adorn, A desert seem, and beasts of savage prey!

CHARLEMONT.

SONNET XLIII.

_Quel rosignuol che sì soave piagne._

THE SONG OF THE NIGHTINGALE REMINDS HIM OF HIS UNHAPPY LOT.

Yon nightingale, whose bursts of thrilling tone, Pour'd in soft sorrow from her tuneful throat, Haply her mate or infant brood bemoan, Filling the fields and skies with pity's note; Here lingering till the long long night is gone, Awakes the memory of my cruel lot-- But I my wretched self must wail alone: Fool, who secure from death an angel thought! O easy duped, who thus on hope relies! Who would have deem'd the darkness, which appears, From orbs more brilliant than the sun should rise? Now know I, made by sad experience wise, That Fate would teach me by a life of tears, On wings how fleeting fast all earthly rapture flies!

WRANGHAM.

Yon nightingale, whose strain so sweetly flows, Mourning her ravish'd young or much-loved mate, A soothing charm o'er all the valleys throws And skies, with notes well tuned to her sad state: And all the night she seems my kindred woes With me to weep and on my sorrows wait; Sorrows that from my own fond fancy rose, Who deem'd a goddess could not yield to fate. How easy to deceive who sleeps secure! Who could have thought that to dull earth would turn Those eyes that as the sun shone bright and pure? Ah! now what Fortune wills I see full sure: That loathing life, yet living I should see How few its joys, how little they endure!

ANON., OX., 1795.

That nightingale, who now melodious mourns Perhaps his children or his consort dear, The heavens with sweetness fills; the distant bourns Resound his notes, so piteous and so clear; With me all night he weeps, and seems by turns To upbraid me with my fault and fortune drear, Whose fond and foolish heart, where grief sojourns, A goddess deem'd exempt from mortal fear. Security, how easy to betray! The radiance of those eyes who could have thought Should e'er become a senseless clod of clay? Living, and weeping, late I've learn'd to say That here below--Oh, knowledge dearly bought!-- Whate'er delights will scarcely last a day!

CHARLEMONT.

SONNET XLIV.

_Nè per sereno cielo ir vaghe stelle._

NOTHING THAT NATURE OFFERS CAN AFFORD HIM CONSOLATION.

Not skies serene, with glittering stars inlaid, Nor gallant ships o'er tranquil ocean dancing, Nor gay careering knights in arms advancing, Nor wild herds bounding through the forest glade, Nor tidings new of happiness delay'd, Nor poesie, Love's witchery enhancing, Nor lady's song beside clear fountain glancing, In beauty's pride, with chastity array'd; Nor aught of lovely, aught of gay in show, Shall touch my heart, now cold within her tomb Who was erewhile my life and light below! So heavy--tedious--sad--my days unblest, That I, with strong desire, invoke Death's gloom, Her to behold, whom ne'er to have seen were best!

DACRE.

Nor stars bright glittering through the cool still air, Nor proud ships riding on the tranquil main, Nor armed knights light pricking o'er the plain, Nor deer in glades disporting void of care, Nor tidings hoped by recent messenger, Nor tales of love in high and gorgeous strain, Nor by clear stream, green mead, or shady lane Sweet-chaunted roundelay of lady fair; Nor aught beside my heart shall e'er engage-- Sepulchred, as 'tis henceforth doom'd to be, With her, my eyes' sole mirror, beam, and bliss. Oh! how I long this weary pilgrimage To close; that I again that form may see, Which never to have seen had been my happiness!

WRANGHAM.

SONNET XLV.

_Passato è 'l tempo omai, lasso! che tanto._

HIS ONLY DESIRE IS AGAIN TO BE WITH HER.

Fled--fled, alas! for ever--is the day, Which to my flame some soothing whilom brought; And fled is she of whom I wept and wrote: Yet still the pang, the tear, prolong their stay! And fled that angel vision far away; But flying, with soft glance my heart it smote ('Twas then my own) which straight, divided, sought Her, who had wrapp'd it in her robe of clay. Part shares her tomb, part to her heaven is sped; Where now, with laurel wreathed, in triumph's car She reaps the meed of matchless holiness: So might I, of this flesh discumberèd, Which holds me prisoner here, from sorrow far With her expatiate free 'midst realms of endless bliss!

WRANGHAM.

Ah! gone for ever are the happy years That soothed my soul amid Love's fiercest fire, And she for whom I wept and tuned my lyre Has gone, alas!--But left my lyre, my tears: Gone is that face, whose holy look endears; But in my heart, ere yet it did retire, Left the sweet radiance of its eyes, entire;-- My heart? Ah; no! not mine! for to the spheres Of light she bore it captive, soaring high, In angel robe triumphant, and now stands Crown'd with the laurel wreath of chastity: Oh! could I throw aside these earthly bands That tie me down where wretched mortals sigh,-- To join blest spirits in celestial lands!

MOREHEAD.

SONNET XLVI.

_Mente mia che presaga de' tuoi danni._

HE RECALLS WITH GRIEF THEIR LAST MEETING.

My mind! prophetic of my coming fate, Pensive and gloomy while yet joy was lent, On the loved lineaments still fix'd, intent To seek dark bodings, ere thy sorrow's date! From her sweet acts, her words, her looks, her gait, From her unwonted pity with sadness blent, Thou might'st have said, hadst thou been prescient, "I taste my last of bliss in this low state!" My wretched soul! the poison, oh, how sweet! That through my eyes instill'd the burning smart, Gazing on hers, no more on earth to meet! To them--my bosom's wealth! condemn'd to part On a far journey--as to friends discreet, All my fond thoughts I left, and lingering heart.

DACRE.

SONNET XLVII.

_Tutta la mia fiorita e verde etade._

JUST WHEN HE MIGHT FAIRLY HOPE SOME RETURN OF AFFECTION, ENVIOUS DEATH CARRIES HER OFF.

All my green years and golden prime of man Had pass'd away, and with attemper'd sighs My bosom heaved--ere yet the days arise When life declines, contracting its brief span. Already my loved enemy began To lull suspicion, and in sportive guise, With timid confidence, though playful, wise, In gentle mockery my long pains to scan: The hour was near when Love, at length, may mate With Chastity; and, by the dear one's side, The lover's thoughts and words may freely flow: Death saw, with envy, my too happy state, E'en its fair promise--and, with fatal pride, Strode in the midway forth, an armèd foe!

DACRE.

Now of my life each gay and greener year Pass'd by, and cooler grew each hour the flame With which I burn'd: and to that point we came Whence life descends, as to its end more near; Now 'gan my lovely foe each virtuous fear Gently to lay aside, as safe from blame; And though with saint-like virtue still the same, Mock'd my sweet pains indeed, but deign'd to hear Nigh drew the time when Love delights to dwell With Chastity; and lovers with their mate Can fearless sit, and all they muse of tell. Death envied me the joys of such a state; Nay, e'en the hopes I form'd: and on them fell E'en in midway, like some arm'd foe in wait.

ANON., OX., 1795.

SONNET XLVIII.

_Tempo era omai da trovar pace o tregua._

HE CONSOLES HIMSELF WITH THE BELIEF THAT SHE NOW AT LAST SYMPATHISES WITH HIM.

'Twas time at last from so long war to find Some peace or truce, and, haply, both were nigh, But Death their welcome feet has turn'd behind, Who levels all distinctions, low as high; And as a cloud dissolves before the wind, So she, who led me with her lustrous eye, Whom ever I pursue with faithful mind, Her fair life briefly ending, sought the sky. Had she but stay'd, as I grew changed and old Her tone had changed, and no distrust had been To parley with me on my cherish'd ill: With what frank sighs and fond I then had told My lifelong toils, which now from heaven, I ween, She sees, and with me sympathises still.

MACGREGOR.

My life's long warfare seem'd about to cease, Peace had my spirit's contest well nigh freed; But levelling Death, who doth to all concede An equal doom, clipp'd Time's blest wings of peace: As zephyrs chase the clouds of gathering fleece, So did her life from this world's breath recede, Their vision'd light could once my footsteps lead, But now my all, save thought, she doth release. Oh! would that she her flight awhile had stay'd, For Time had stamp'd on me his warning hand, And calmer I had told my storied love: To her in virtue's tone I had convey'd My heart's long grief--now, she doth understand, And sympathises with that grief above.

WOLLASTON.

SONNET XLIX.

_Tranquillo porto avea mostrato Amore._

DEATH HAS ROBBED HIM IN ONE MOMENT OF THE FRUIT OF HIS LIFE.

From life's long storm of trouble and of tears Love show'd a tranquil haven and fair end 'Mid better thoughts which riper age attend, That vice lays bare and virtue clothes and cheers. She saw my true heart, free from doubts and fears, And its high faith which could no more offend; Ah, cruel Death! how quick wert thou to rend In so few hours the fruit of many years! A longer life the time had surely brought When in her chaste ear my full heart had laid The ancient burthen of its dearest thought; And she, perchance, might then have answer made, Forth-sighing some blest words, whilst white and few Our locks became, and wan our cheeks in hue.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET L.

_Al cader d' una pianta che si svelse._

UNDER THE ALLEGORY OF A LAUREL HE AGAIN DEPLORES HER DEATH.

As a fair plant, uprooted by oft blows Of trenchant spade, or which the blast upheaves, Scatters on earth its green and lofty leaves, And its bare roots to the broad sunlight shows; Love such another for my object chose, Of whom for me the Muse a subject weaves, Who in my captured heart her home achieves, As on some wall or tree the ivy grows That living laurel--where their chosen nest My high thoughts made, where sigh'd mine ardent grief, Yet never stirr'd of its fair boughs a leaf-- To heaven translated, in my heart, her rest, Left deep its roots, whence ever with sad cry I call on her, who ne'er vouchsafes reply.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET LI.

_I dì miei più leggier che nessun cervo._

HIS PASSION FINDS ITS ONLY CONSOLATION IN CONTEMPLATING HER IN HEAVEN.

My days more swiftly than the forest hind Have fled like shadows, and no pleasure seen Save for a moment, and few hours serene, Whose bitter-sweet I treasure in true mind. O wretched world, unstable, wayward! Blind Whose hopes in thee alone have centred been; In thee my heart was captived by her mien Who bore it with her when she earth rejoin'd: Her better spirit, now a deathless flower, And in the highest heaven that still shall be, Each day inflames me with its beauties more. Alone, though frailer, fonder every hour, I muse on her--Now what, and where is she, And what the lovely veil which here she wore?

MACGREGOR.

Oh! swifter than the hart my life hath fled, A shadow'd dream; one winged glance hath seen Its only good; its hours (how few serene!) The sweet and bitter tide of thought have fed: Ephemeral world! in pride and sorrow bred, Who hope in thee, are blind as I have been; I hoped in thee, and thus my heart's loved queen Hath borne it mid her nerveless, kindred dead. Her form decay'd--its beauty still survives, For in high heaven that soul will ever bloom, With which each day I more enamour'd grow: Thus though my locks are blanch'd, my hope revives In thinking on her home--her soul's high doom: Alas! how changed the shrine she left below!

WOLLASTON.

SONNET LII.

_Sente l' aura mia antica, e i dolci colli._

HE REVISITS VAUCLUSE.

I feel the well-known gale; the hills I spy So pleasant, whence my fair her being drew, Which made these eyes, while Heaven was willing, shew Wishful, and gay; now sad, and never dry. O feeble hopes! O thoughts of vanity! Wither'd the grass, the rills of turbid hue; And void and cheerless is that dwelling too, In which I live, in which I wish'd to die; Hoping its mistress might at length afford Some respite to my woes by plaintive sighs, And sorrows pour'd from her once-burning eyes. I've served a cruel and ungrateful lord: While lived my beauteous flame, my heart be fired; And o'er its ashes now I weep expired.

NOTT.

Once more, ye balmy gales, I feel you blow; Again, sweet hills, I mark the morning beams Gild your green summits; while your silver streams Through vales of fragrance undulating flow. But you, ye dreams of bliss, no longer here Give life and beauty to the glowing scene: For stern remembrance stands where you have been, And blasts the verdure of the blooming year. O Laura! Laura! in the dust with thee, Would I could find a refuge from despair! Is this thy boasted triumph. Love, to tear A heart thy coward malice dares not free; And bid it live, while every hope is fled, To weep, among the ashes of the dead?

ANNE BANNERMAN.

SONNET LIII.

_E questo 'l nido in che la mia Fenice._

THE SIGHT OF LAURA'S HOUSE REMINDS HIM OF HIS MISERY.

Is this the nest in which my phoenix first Her plumage donn'd of purple and of gold, Beneath her wings who knew my heart to hold, For whom e'en yet its sighs and wishes burst? Prime root in which my cherish'd ill had birth, Where is the fair face whence that bright light came. Alive and glad which kept me in my flame? Now bless'd in heaven as then alone on earth; Wretched and lonely thou hast left me here, Fond lingering by the scenes, with sorrows drown'd, To thee which consecrate I still revere. Watching the hills as dark night gathers round, Whence its last flight to heaven thy soul did take, And where my day those bright eyes wont to make.

MACGREGOR.

Is this the nest in which her wings of gold, Of gold and purple plume, my phoenix laid? How flutter'd my fond heart beneath their shade! But now its sighs proclaim that dwelling cold: Sweet source! from which my bliss, my bane, have roll'd, Where is that face, in living light array'd, That burn'd me, yet my sole enjoyment made? Unparallel'd on earth, the heavens now hold Thee bless'd!--but I am left wretched, alone! Yet ever in my grief return to see And honour this sweet place, though thou art gone. A black night veils the hills, whence rising free Thou took'st thy heavenward flight! Ah! when they shone In morning radiance, it was all from thee!

MOREHEAD.

SONNET LIV.

_Mai non vedranno le mie luci asciutte._

TO THE MEMORY OF GIACOMO COLONNA, WHO DIED BEFORE PETRARCH COULD REPLY TO A LETTER OF HIS.

Ne'er shall I see again with eyes unwet, Or with the sure powers of a tranquil mind, Those characters where Love so brightly shined, And his own hand affection seem'd to set; Spirit! amid earth's strifes unconquer'd yet, Breathing such sweets from heaven which now has shrined, As once more to my wandering verse has join'd The style which Death had led me to forget. Another work, than my young leaves more bright, I thought to show: what envying evil star Snatch'd thee, my noble treasure, thus from me? So soon who hides thee from my fond heart's sight, And from thy praise my loving tongue would bar? My soul has rest, sweet sigh! alone in thee.

MACGREGOR.

Oh! ne'er shall I behold with tearless eye Or tranquil soul those characters of thine, In which affection doth so brightly shine, And charity's own hand I can descry! Blest soul! that could this earthly strife defy, Thy sweets instilling from thy home divine, Thou wakest in me the tone which once was mine, To sing my rhymes Death's power did long deny. With these, my brow's young leaves, I fondly dream'd Another work than this had greeted thee: What iron planet envied thus our love? My treasure! veil'd ere age had darkly gleam'd; Thou--whom my song records--my heart doth see; Thou wakest my sigh, and sighing, rest I prove.

WOLLASTON.

CANZONE III.

_Standomi un giorno solo alla finestra._

UNDER VARIOUS ALLEGORIES HE PAINTS THE VIRTUE, BEAUTY, AND UNTIMELY DEATH OF LAURA.

While at my window late I stood alone, So new and many things there cross'd my sight, To view them I had almost weary grown. A dappled hind appear'd upon the right, In aspect gentle, yet of stately stride, By two swift greyhounds chased, a black and white, Who tore in the poor side Of that fair creature wounds so deep and wide, That soon they forced her where ravine and rock The onward passage block: Then triumph'd Death her matchless beauties o'er, And left me lonely there her sad fate to deplore.

Upon the summer wave a gay ship danced, Her cordage was of silk, of gold her sails, Her sides with ivory and ebon glanced, The sea was tranquil, favouring were the gales, And heaven as when no cloud its azure veils. A rich and goodly merchandise is hers; But soon the tempest wakes, And wind and wave to such mad fury stirs, That, driven on the rocks, in twain she breaks; My heart with pity aches, That a short hour should whelm, a small space hide, Riches for which the world no equal had beside.

In a fair grove a bright young laurel made --Surely to Paradise the plant belongs!-- Of sacred boughs a pleasant summer shade, From whose green depths there issued so sweet songs Of various birds, and many a rare delight Of eye and ear, what marvel from the world They stole my senses quite! While still I gazed, the heavens grew black around, The fatal lightning flash'd, and sudden hurl'd, Uprooted to the ground, That blessed birth. Alas! for it laid low, And its dear shade whose like we ne'er again shall know.

A crystal fountain in that very grove Gush'd from a rock, whose waters fresh and clear Shed coolness round and softly murmur'd love; Never that leafy screen and mossy seat Drew browsing flock or whistling rustic near But nymphs and muses danced to music sweet. There as I sat and drank With infinite delight their carols gay, And mark'd their sport, the earth before me sank And bore with it away The fountain and the scene, to my great grief, Who now in memory find a sole and scant relief.

A lovely and rare bird within the wood, Whose crest with gold, whose wings with purple gleam'd, Alone, but proudly soaring, next I view'd, Of heavenly and immortal birth which seem'd, Flitting now here, now there, until it stood Where buried fount and broken laurel lay, And sadly seeing there The fallen trunk, the boughs all stripp'd and bare, The channel dried--for all things to decay So tend--it turn'd away As if in angry scorn, and instant fled, While through me for her loss new love and pity spread.

At length along the flowery sward I saw So sweet and fair a lady pensive move That her mere thought inspires a tender awe; Meek in herself, but haughty against Love, Flow'd from her waist a robe so fair and fine Seem'd gold and snow together there to join: But, ah! each charm above Was veil'd from sight in an unfriendly cloud: Stung by a lurking snake, as flowers that pine Her head she gently bow'd, And joyful pass'd on high, perchance secure: Alas! that in the world grief only should endure.

My song! in each sad change, These visions, as they rise, sweet, solemn, strange, But show how deeply in thy master's breast The fond desire abides to die and be at rest.

MACGREGOR.

BALLATA I.

_Amor, quando fioria._

HIS GRIEF AT SURVIVING HER IS MITIGATED BY THE CONSCIOUSNESS THAT SHE NOW KNOWS HIS HEART.

Yes, Love, at that propitious time When hope was in its bloomy prime, And when I vainly fancied nigh The meed of all my constancy; Then sudden she, of whom I sought Compassion, from my sight was caught. O ruthless Death! O life severe! The one has sunk me deep in care, And darken'd cruelly my day, That shone with hope's enlivening ray: The other, adverse to my will, Doth here on earth detain me still; And interdicts me to pursue Her, who from all its scenes withdrew: Yet in my heart resides the fair, For ever, ever present there; Who well perceives the ills that wait Upon my wretched, mortal state.

NOTT.

Yes, Love, while hope still bloom'd with me in pride, While seem'd of all my faith the guerdon nigh, She, upon whom for mercy I relied, Was ravish'd from my doting desolate eye. O ruthless Death! O life unwelcome! this Plunged me in deepest woe, And rudely crush'd my every hope of bliss; Against my will that keeps me here below, Who else would yearn to go, And join the sainted fair who left us late; Yet present every hour In my heart's core there wields she her old power, And knows, whate'er my life, its every state!

MACGREGOR.

CANZONE IV.

_Tacer non posso, e temo non adopre._

HE RECALLS HER MANY GRACES.

Fain would I speak--too long has silence seal'd Lips that would gladly with my full heart move With one consent, and yield Homage to her who listens from above; Yet how can I, without thy prompting, Love, With mortal words e'er equal things divine, And picture faithfully The high humility whose chosen shrine Was that fair prison whence she now is free? Which held, erewhile, her gentle spirit, when So in my conscious heart her power began. That, instantly, I ran, --Alike o' th' year and me 'twas April then-- From these gay meadows round sweet flowers to bind, Hoping rich pleasure at her eyes to find.

The walls were alabaster, the roof gold, Ivory the doors, the sapphire windows lent Whence on my heart of old Its earliest sigh, as shall my last, was sent; In arrowy jets of fire thence came and went Arm'd messengers of love, whereof to think As then they were, with awe --Though now for them with laurel crown'd--I shrink Of one rare diamond, square, without a flaw, High in the midst a stately throne was placed Where sat the lovely lady all alone: In front a column shone Of crystal, and thereon each thought was traced In characters so clear, and quick, and true, By turns it gladden'd me and grieved to view.

To weapons such as these, sharp, burning, bright, To the green glorious banner waved above, --'Gainst which would fail in fight Mars, Polypheme, Apollo, mighty Jove-- While still my sorrow fresh and verdant throve, I stood defenceless, doom'd; her easy prey She led me as she chose Whence to escape I knew nor art nor way; But, as a friend, who, haply, grieves yet goes, Sees something still to lure his eyes and heart, Just so on her, for whom I am in thrall, Sole perfect work of all That graced her age, unable to depart, With such desire my rapt regards I set, As soon myself and misery to forget.

On earth myself, my heart in Eden dwelt, Lost in sweet Lethe every other care, As my live frame I felt To marble turn, watching that wonder rare; When old in years, but youthful still in air, A lady briefly, quietly drew nigh, And thus beholding me, With reverent aspect and admiring eye, Kind offer made my counsellor to be: "My power," she said, "is more than mortals know-- Lighter than air, I, in an instant, make Their hearts exult or ache, I loose and bind whate'er is seen below; Thine eyes, upon that sun, as eagles', bend, But to my words with willing ears attend.

"The day when she was born, the stars that win Prosperity for man shone bright above; Their high glad homes within Each on the other smiled with gratulant love; Fair Venus, and, with gentle aspect, Jove The beautiful and lordly mansions held: Seem'd as each adverse light Throughout all heaven was darken'd and dispell'd, The sun ne'er look'd upon a day so bright; The air and earth rejoiced; the waves had rest By lake and river, and o'er ocean green: 'Mid the enchanting scene One distant cloud alone my thought distress'd, Lest sometime it might be of tears the source Unless kind Heaven should elsewhere turn its course.

"When first she enter'd on this life below, Which, to say sooth, not worthy was to hold, 'Twas strange to see her so Angelical and dear in baby mould; A snowy pearl she seem'd in finest gold; Next as she crawl'd, or totter'd with short pace, Wood, water, earth, and stone Grew green, and clear, and soft; with livelier grace The sward beneath her feet and fingers shone; With flowers the champain to her bright eyes smiled; At her sweet voice, babbling through lips that yet From Love's own fount were wet, The hoarse wind silent grew, the tempest mild: Thus clearly showing to the dull blind world How much in her was heaven's own light unfurl'd.

"At length, her life's third flowery epoch won, She, year by year, so grew in charms and worth, That ne'er, methinks, the sun Such gracefulness and beauty saw on earth; Her eyes so full of modesty and mirth, Music and welcome on her words so hung, That mute in her high praise, Which thine alone may sound, is every tongue: So bright her countenance with heavenly rays, Not long thy dazzled vision there may rest; From this her fair and fleshly tenement Such fire through thine is sent (Though gentler never kindled human breast), That yet I fear her sudden flight may be Too soon the cause of bitter grief to thee."

This said, she turn'd her to the rapid wheel Whereon she winds of mortal life the thread; Too true did she reveal The doom of woe which darken'd o'er my head! A few brief years flew by, When she, for whom I so desire to die, By black and pitiless Death, who could not slay A fairer form than hers, was snatch'd away!

MACGREGOR.

SONNET LV.

_Or hai fatto l' estremo di tua possa._

DEATH MAY DEPRIVE HIM OF THE SIGHT OF HER BEAUTIES, BUT NOT OF THE MEMORY OF HER VIRTUES.

Now hast thou shown, fell Death! thine utmost might. Through Love's bright realm hast want and darkness spread, Hast now cropp'd beauty's flower, its heavenly light Quench'd, and enclosed in the grave's narrow bed; Now hast thou life despoil'd of all delight, Its ornament and sovereign honour shed: But fame and worth it is not thine to blight; These mock thy power, and sleep not with the dead. Be thine the mortal part; heaven holds the best, And, glorying in its brightness, brighter glows, While memory still records the great and good. O thou, in thine high triumph, angel blest! Let thy heart yield to pity of my woes, E'en as thy beauty here my soul subdued.

DACRE.

Now hast thou shown the utmost of thy might, O cruel Death! Love's kingdom hast thou rent, And made it poor; in narrow grave hast pent The blooming flower of beauty and its light! Our wretched life thou hast despoil'd outright Of every honour, every ornament! But then her fame, her worth, by thee unblent, Shall still survive!--her dust is all thy right; The rest heaven holds, proud of her charms divine As of a brighter sun. Nor dies she here-- Her memory lasts, to good men ever dear! O angel new, in thy celestial sphere Let pity now thy sainted heart incline, As here below thy beauty vanquish'd mine!

CHARLEMONT.

SONNET LVI.

_L' aura e l' odore e 'l refrigerio e l' ombra._

HER OWN VIRTUES IMMORTALISE HER IN HEAVEN, AND HIS PRAISES ON EARTH.

The air and scent, the comfort and the shade Of my sweet laurel, and its flowery sight, That to my weary life gave rest and light, Death, spoiler of the world, has lowly laid. As when the moon our sun's eclipse has made, My lofty light has vanish'd so in night; For aid against himself I Death invite; With thoughts so dark does Love my breast invade. Thou didst but sleep, bright lady, a brief sleep, In bliss amid the chosen spirits to wake, Who gaze upon their God, distinct and near: And if my verse shall any value keep, Preserved and praised 'mid noble minds to make Thy name, its memory shall be deathless here.

MACGREGOR.

The fragrant gale, and the refreshing shade Of my sweet laurel, and its verdant form, That were my shelter in life's weary storm, Have felt the power that makes all nature fade: Now has my light been lost in gloomy shade, E'en as the sun behind his sister's form: I call for Death to free me from Death's storm, But Love descends and brings me better aid! He tells me, lady, that one moment's sleep Alone was thine, and then thou didst awake Among the elect, and in thy Maker's arms: And if my verse oblivion's power can keep Aloof, thy name its place on earth-will take Where Genius still will dote upon thy charms!

MOREHEAD.

SONNET LVII.

_L' ultimo, lasso! de' miei giorni allegri._

HE REVERTS TO THEIR LAST MEETING.

The last, alas! of my bright days and glad --Few have been mine in this brief life below-- Had come; I felt my heart as tepid snow, Presage, perchance, of days both dark and sad. As one in nerves, and pulse, and spirits bad, Who of some frequent fever waits the blow, E'en so I felt--for how could I foreknow Such near end of the half-joys I have had? Her beauteous eyes, in heaven now bright and bless'd With the pure light whence health and life descends, (Wretched and beggar'd leaving me behind,) With chaste and soul-lit beams our grief address'd: "Tarry ye here in peace, beloved friends, Though here no more, we yet shall there be join'd."

MACGREGOR.

Ah me! the last of all my happy days (Not many happy days my years can show) Was come! I felt my heart as turn'd to snow, Presage, perhaps, that happiness decays! E'en as the man whose shivering frame betrays, And fluttering pulse, the ague's coming blow; 'Twas thus I felt!--but could I therefore know How soon would end the bliss that never stays? Those eyes that now, in heaven's delicious light, Drink in pure beams which life and glory rain, Just as they left mine, blinded, sunk in night, Seem'd thus to say, sparkling unwonted bright,-- "Awhile, beloved friends, in peace remain, Oh, we shall yet elsewhere exchange fond looks again!"

MOREHEAD.

SONNET LVIII.

_O giorno, o ora, o ultimo momento._

HE MOURNS HIS WANT OF PERCEPTION AT THAT MEETING.

O Day, O hour, O moment sweetest, last, O stars conspired to make me poor indeed! O look too true, in which I seem'd to read. At parting, that my happiness was past; Now my full loss I know, I feel at last: Then I believed (ah! weak and idle creed!) 'Twas but a part alone I lost; instead, Was there a hope that flew not with the blast? For, even then, it was in heaven ordain'd That the sweet light of all my life should die: 'Twas written in her sadly-pensive eye! But mine unconscious of the truth remain'd; Or, what it would not see, to see refrain'd, That I might sink in sudden misery!

MOREHEAD.

Dark hour, last moment of that fatal day! Stars which to beggar me of bliss combined! O faithful glance, too well which seem'dst to say Farewell to me, farewell to peace of mind! Awaken'd now, my losses I survey: Alas! I fondly thought--thoughts weak and blind!-- That absence would take part, not all, away; How many hopes it scatter'd to the wind. Heaven had already doom'd it otherwise, To quench for ever my life's genial light, And in her sad sweet face 'twas written so. Surely a veil was placed around mine eyes, That blinded me to all before my sight, And sank at once my life in deepest woe.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET LIX.

_Quel vago, dolce, caro, onesto sguardo._

HE SHOULD HAVE FORESEEN HIS LOSS IN THE UNUSUAL LUSTRE OF HER EYES.

That glance of hers, pure, tender, clear, and sweet, Methought it said, "Take what thou canst while nigh; For here no more thou'lt see me, till on high From earth have mounted thy slow-moving feet." O intellect than forest pard more fleet! Yet slow and dull thy sorrow to descry, How didst thou fail to see in her bright eye What since befell, whence I my ruin meet. Silently shining with a fire sublime, They said, "O friendly lights, which long have been Mirrors to us where gladly we were seen, Heaven waits for you, as ye shall know in time; Who bound us to the earth dissolves our bond, But wills in your despite that you shall live beyond."

MACGREGOR.

CANZONE V.

_Solea dalla fontana di mia vita._

MEMORY IS HIS ONLY SOLACE AND SUPPORT.

I who was wont from life's best fountain far So long to wander, searching land and sea, Pursuing not my pleasure, but my star, And alway, as Love knows who strengthen'd me, Ready in bitter exile to depart, For hope and memory both then fed my heart; Alas! now wring my hands, and to unkind And angry Fortune, which away has reft That so sweet hope, my armour have resign'd; And, memory only left, I feed my great desire on that alone, Whence frail and famish'd is my spirit grown.

As haply by the way, if want of food Compel the traveller to relax his speed, Losing that strength which first his steps endued, So feeling, for my weary life, the need Of that dear nourishment Death rudely stole, Leaving the world all bare, and sad my soul, From time to time fair pleasures pall, my sweet To bitter turns, fear rises, and hopes fail, My course, though brief, that I shall e'er complete: Cloudlike before the gale, To win some resting-place from rest I flee, --If such indeed my doom, so let it be.

Never to mortal life could I incline, --Be witness, Love, with whom I parley oft-- Except for her who was its light and mine. And since, below extinguish'd, shines aloft The life in which I lived, if lawful 'twere, My chief desire would be to follow her: But mine is ample cause of grief, for I To see my future fate was ill supplied; This Love reveal'd within her beauteous eye Elsewhere my hopes to guide: Too late he dies, disconsolate and sad, Whom death a little earlier had made glad.

In those bright eyes, where wont my heart to dwell, Until by envy my hard fortune stirr'd Rose from so rich a temple to expel, Love with his proper hand had character'd In lines of pity what, ere long, I ween The issue of my old desire had been. Dying alone, and not my life with me, Comely and sweet it then had been to die, Leaving my life's best part unscathed and free; But now my fond hopes lie Dead in her silent dust: a secret chill Shoots through me when I think that I live still.

If my poor intellect had but the force To help my need, and if no other lure Had led it from the plain and proper course, Upon my lady's brow 'twere easy sure To have read this truth, "Here all thy pleasure dies, And hence thy lifelong trial dates its rise." My spirit then had gently pass'd away In her dear presence from all mortal care; Freed from this troublesome and heavy clay, Mounting, before her, where Angels and saints prepared on high her place, Whom I but follow now with slow sad pace.

My song! if one there be Who in his love finds happiness and rest, Tell him this truth from me, "Die, while thou still art bless'd, For death betimes is comfort, not dismay, And who can rightly die needs no delay."

MACGREGOR.

SESTINA I.

_Mia benigna fortuna e 'l viver lieto._

IN HIS MISERY HE DESIRES DEATH THE MORE HE REMEMBERS HIS PAST CONTENTMENT AND COMFORT.

My favouring fortune and my life of joy, My days so cloudless, and my tranquil nights, The tender sigh, the pleasing power of song, Which gently wont to sound in verse and rhyme, Suddenly darken'd into grief and tears, Make me hate life and inly pray for death!

O cruel, grim, inexorable Death! How hast thou dried my every source of joy, And left me to drag on a life of tears, Through darkling days and melancholy nights. My heavy sighs no longer meet in rhyme, And my hard martyrdom exceeds all song!

Where now is vanish'd my once amorous song? To talk of anger and to treat with death; Where the fond verses, where the happy rhyme Welcomed by gentle hearts with pensive joy? Where now Love's communings that cheer'd my nights? My sole theme, my one thought, is now but tears!

Erewhile to my desire so sweet were tears Their tenderness refined my else rude song, And made me wake and watch the livelong nights; But sorrow now to me is worse than death, Since lost for aye that look of modest joy, The lofty subject of my lowly rhyme!

Love in those bright eyes to my ready rhyme Gave a fair theme, now changed, alas! to tears; With grief remembering that time of joy, My changed thoughts issue find in other song, Evermore thee beseeching, pallid Death, To snatch and save me from these painful nights!

Sleep has departed from my anguish'd nights, Music is absent from my rugged rhyme, Which knows not now to sound of aught but death; Its notes, so thrilling once, all turn'd to tears, Love knows not in his reign such varied song, As full of sadness now as then of joy!

Man lived not then so crown'd as I with joy, Man lives not now such wretched days and nights; And my full festering grief but swells the song Which from my bosom draws the mournful rhyme; I lived in hope, who now live but in tears, Nor against death have other hope save death!

Me Death in her has kill'd; and only Death Can to my sight restore that face of joy, Which pleasant made to me e'en sighs and tears, Balmy the air, and dewy soft the nights, Wherein my choicest thoughts I gave to rhyme While Love inspirited my feeble song!

Would that such power as erst graced Orpheus' song Were mine to win my Laura back from death, As he Eurydice without a rhyme; Then would I live in best excess of joy; Or, that denied me, soon may some sad night Close for me ever these twin founts of tears!

Love! I have told with late and early tears, My grievous injuries in doleful song; Not that I hope from thee less cruel nights; And therefore am I urged to pray for death, Which hence would take me but to crown with joy, Where lives she whom I sing in this sad rhyme!

If so high may aspire my weary rhyme, To her now shelter'd safe from rage and tears, Whose beauties fill e'en heaven with livelier joy, Well would she recognise my alter'd song, Which haply pleased her once, ere yet by death Her days were cloudless made and dark my nights!

O ye, who fondly sigh for better nights, Who listen to love's will, or sing in rhyme, Pray that for me be no delay in death, The port of misery, the goal of tears, But let him change for me his ancient song, Since what makes others sad fills me with joy!

Ay! for such joy, in one or in few nights, I pray in rude song and in anguish'd rhyme, That soon my tears may ended be in death!

MACGREGOR.

SONNET LX.

_Ite, rime dolenti, al duro sasso._

HE PRAYS THAT SHE WILL BE NEAR HIM AT HIS DEATH, WHICH HE FEELS APPROACHING.

Go, plaintive verse, to the cold marble go, Which hides in earth my treasure from these eyes; There call on her who answers from yon skies, Although the mortal part dwells dark and low. Of life how I am wearied make her know, Of stemming these dread waves that round me rise: But, copying all her virtues I so prize, Her track I follow, yet my steps are slow. I sing of her, living, or dead, alone; (Dead, did I say? She is immortal made!) That by the world she should be loved, and known. Oh! in my passage hence may she be near, To greet my coming that's not long delay'd; And may I hold in heaven the rank herself holds there!

NOTT.

Go, melancholy rhymes! your tribute bring To that cold stone, which holds the dear remains Of all that earth held precious;--uttering, If heaven should deign to hear them, earthly strains. Tell her, that sport of tempests, fit no more To stem the troublous ocean,--here at last Her votary treads the solitary shore; His only pleasure to recall the past. Tell her, that she who living ruled his fate, In death still holds her empire: all his care, So grant the Muse her aid,--to celebrate Her every word, and thought, and action fair. Be this my meed, that in the hour of death Her kindred spirit may hail, and bless my parting breath!

WOODHOUSELEE.

SONNET LXI.

_S' onesto amor può meritar mercede._

HE PRAYS THAT, IN REWARD FOR HIS LONG AND VIRTUOUS ATTACHMENT, SHE WILL VISIT HIM IN DEATH.

If Mercy e'er rewardeth virtuous love, If Pity still can do, as she has done, I shall have rest, for clearer than the sun My lady and the world my faith approve. Who fear'd me once, now knows, yet scarce believes I am the same who wont her love to seek, Who seek it still; where she but heard me speak, Or saw my face, she now my soul perceives. Wherefore I hope that e'en in heaven she mourns My heavy anguish, and on me the while Her sweet face eloquent of pity turns, And that when shuffled off this mortal coil, Her way to me with that fair band she'll wend, True follower of Christ and virtue's friend.

MACGREGOR.

If virtuous love doth merit recompense-- If pity still maintain its wonted sway-- I that reward shall win, for bright as day To earth and Laura breathes my faith's incense. She fear'd me once--now heavenly confidence Reveals my heart's first hope's unchanging stay; A word, a look, could this alone convey, My heart she reads now, stripp'd of earth's defence. And thus I hope, she for my heavy sighs To heaven complains, to me she pity shows By sympathetic visits in my dream: And when this mortal temple breathless lies, Oh! may she greet my soul, enclosed by those Whom heaven and virtue love--our friends supreme.

WOLLASTON.

SONNET LXII.

_Vidi fra mille donne una già tale._

BEAUTY SHOWED ITSELF IN, AND DISAPPEARED WITH, LAURA.

'Mid many fair one such by me was seen That amorous fears my heart did instant seize, Beholding her--nor false the images-- Equal to angels in her heavenly mien. Nothing in her was mortal or terrene, As one whom nothing short of heaven can please; My soul well train'd for her to burn and freeze Sought in her wake to mount the blue serene. But ah! too high for earthly wings to rise Her pitch, and soon she wholly pass'd from sight: The very thought still makes me cold and numb; O beautiful and high and lustrous eyes, Where Death, who fills the world with grief and fright, Found entrance in so fair a form to come.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET LXIII.

_Tornami a mente, anzi v' è dentro quella._

SHE IS SO FIXED IN HIS HEART THAT AT TIMES HE BELIEVES HER STILL ALIVE, AND IS FORCED TO RECALL THE DATE OF HER DEATH.

Oh! to my soul for ever she returns; Or rather Lethe could not blot her thence, Such as she was when first she struck my sense, In that bright blushing age when beauty burns: So still I see her, bashful as she turns Retired into herself, as from offence: I cry--"'Tis she! she still has life and sense: Oh, speak to me, my love!"--Sometimes she spurns My call; sometimes she seems to answer straight: Then, starting from my waking dream, I say,-- "Alas! poor wretch, thou art of mind bereft! Forget'st thou the first hour of the sixth day Of April, the three hundred, forty eight, And thousandth year,--when she her earthly mansion left?"

MOREHEAD.

My mind recalls her; nay, her home is there, Nor can Lethean draught drive thence her form, I see that star's pure ray her spirit warm, Whose grace and spring-time beauty she doth wear. As thus my vision paints her charms so rare, That none to such perfection may conform, I cry, "'Tis she! death doth to life transform!" And then to hear that voice, I wake my prayer. She now replies, and now doth mute appear, Like one whose tottering mind regains its power; I speak my heart: "Thou must this cheat resign; The thirteen hundred, eight and fortieth year, The sixth of April's suns, his first bright hour, Thou know'st that soul celestial fled its shrine!"

WOLLASTON.

SONNET LXIV.

_Questo nostro caduco e fragil bene._

NATURE DISPLAYED IN HER EVERY CHARM, BUT SOON WITHDREW HER FROM SIGHT.

This gift of beauty which a good men name, Frail, fleeting, fancied, false, a wind, a shade, Ne'er yet with all its spells one fair array'd, Save in this age when for my cost it came. Not such is Nature's duty, nor her aim, One to enrich if others poor are made, But now on one is all her wealth display'd, --Ladies, your pardon let my boldness claim. Like loveliness ne'er lived, or old or new, Nor ever shall, I ween, but hid so strange, Scarce did our erring world its marvel view, So soon it fled; thus too my soul must change The little light vouchsafed me from the skies Only for pleasure of her sainted eyes.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET LXV.

_O tempo, o ciel volubil che fuggendo._

HE NO LONGER CONTEMPLATES THE MORTAL, BUT THE IMMORTAL BEAUTIES OF LAURA.

O Time! O heavens! whose flying changes frame Errors and snares for mortals poor and blind; O days more swift than arrows or the wind, Experienced now, I know your treacherous aim. You I excuse, myself alone I blame, For Nature for your flight who wings design'd To me gave eyes which still I have inclined To mine own ill, whence follow grief and shame. An hour will come, haply e'en now is pass'd, Their sight to turn on my diviner part And so this infinite anguish end at last. Rejects not your long yoke, O Love, my heart, But its own ill by study, sufferings vast: Virtue is not of chance, but painful art.

MACGREGOR.

O Time! O circling heavens! in your flight Us mortals ye deceive--so poor and blind; O days! more fleeting than the shaft or wind, Experience brings your treachery to my sight! But mine the error--ye yourselves are right; Your flight fulfils but that your wings design'd: My eyes were Nature's gift, yet ne'er could find But one blest light--and hence their present blight. It now is time (perchance the hour is pass'd) That they a safer dwelling should select, And thus repose might soothe my grief acute: Love's yoke the spirit may not from it cast, (With oh what pain!) it may its ill eject; But virtue is attain'd but by pursuit!

WOLLASTON.

SONNET LXVI.

_Quel, che d' odore e di color vincea._

THE LAUREL, IN WHOM HE PLACED ALL HIS JOY HAS BEEN TAKEN FROM HIM TO ADORN HEAVEN.

That which in fragrance and in hue defied The odoriferous and lucid East, Fruits, flowers and herbs and leaves, and whence the West Of all rare excellence obtain'd the prize, My laurel sweet, which every beauty graced, Where every glowing virtue loved to dwell, Beheld beneath its fair and friendly shade My Lord, and by his side my Goddess sit. Still have I placed in that beloved plant My home of choicest thoughts: in fire, in frost Shivering or burning, still I have been bless'd. The world was of her perfect honours full When God, his own bright heaven therewith to grace, Reclaim'd her for Himself, for she was his.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET LXVII.

_Lasciato hai, Morte, senza sole il mondo._

HER TRUE WORTH WAS KNOWN ONLY TO HIM AND TO HEAVEN.

Death, thou the world, since that dire arrow sped, Sunless and cold hast left; Love weak and blind; Beauty and grace their brilliance have resign'd, And from my heavy heart all joy is fled; Honour is sunk, and softness banishèd. I weep alone the woes which all my kind Should weep--for virtue's fairest flower has pined Beneath thy touch: what second blooms instead? Let earth, sea, air, with common wail bemoan Man's hapless race; which now, since Laura died, A flowerless mead, a gemless ring appears. The world possess'd, nor knew her worth, till flown! I knew it well, who here in grief abide; And heaven too knows, which decks its forehead with my tears.

WRANGHAM.

Thou, Death, hast left this world's dark cheerless way Without a sun: Love blind and stripp'd of arms; Left mirth despoil'd; beauty bereaved of charms; And me self-wearied, to myself a prey; Left vanish'd, sunk, whate'er was courteous, gay: I only weep, yet all must feel alarms: If beauty's bud the hand of rapine harms It dies, and not a second views the day! Let air, earth, ocean weep for human kind; For human kind, deprived of Laura, seems A flowerless mead, a ring whose gem is lost. None knew her worth while to this orb confined, Save me her bard, whose sorrow ceaseless streams, And heaven, that's made more beauteous at my cost.

NOTT.

SONNET LXVIII.

_Conobbi, quanto il ciel gli occhi m' aperse._

HER PRAISES ARE, COMPARED WITH HER DESERTS, BUT AS A DROP TO THE OCEAN.

So far as to mine eyes its light heaven show'd, So far as love and study train'd my wings, Novel and beautiful but mortal things From every star I found on her bestow'd: So many forms in rare and varied mode Of heavenly beauty from immortal springs My panting intellect before me brings, Sunk my weak sight before their dazzling load. Hence, whatsoe'er I spoke of her or wrote, Who, at God's right, returns me now her prayers, Is in that infinite abyss a mote: For style beyond the genius never dares; Thus, though upon the sun man fix his sight, He seeth less as fiercer burns its light.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET LXIX.

_Dolce mio caro e prezioso pegno._

HE PRAYS HER TO APPEAR BEFORE HIM IN A VISION.

Dear precious pledge, by Nature snatch'd away, But yet reserved for me in realms undying; O thou on whom my life is aye relying, Why tarry thus, when for thine aid I pray? Time was, when sleep could to mine eyes convey Sweet visions, worthy thee;--why is my sighing Unheeded now?--who keeps thee from replying? Surely contempt in heaven cannot stay: Often on earth the gentlest heart is fain To feed and banquet on another's woe (Thus love is conquer'd in his own domain), But thou, who seest through me, and dost know All that I feel,--thou, who canst soothe my pain, Oh! let thy blessed shade its peace bestow.

WROTTESLEY.

SONNET LXX.

_Deh qual pietà, qual angel fu sì presto._

HIS PRAYER IS HEARD.

What angel of compassion, hovering near, Heard, and to heaven my heart grief instant bore, Whence now I feel descending as of yore My lady, in that bearing chaste and dear, My lone and melancholy heart to cheer, So free from pride, of humbleness such store, In fine, so perfect, though at death's own door, I live, and life no more is dull and drear. Blessèd is she who so can others bless With her fair sight, or with that tender speech To whose full meaning love alone can reach. "Dear friend," she says, "thy pangs my soul distress; But for our good I did thy homage shun"-- In sweetest tones which might arrest the sun.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET LXXI.

_Del cibo onde 'l signor mio sempre abbonda._

HE DESCRIBES THE APPARITION OF LAURA.

Food wherewithal my lord is well supplied, With tears and grief my weary heart I've fed; As fears within and paleness o'er me spread, Oft thinking on its fatal wound and wide: But in her time with whom no other vied, Equal or second, to my suffering bed Comes she to look on whom I almost dread, And takes her seat in pity by my side. With that fair hand, so long desired in vain, She check'd my tears, while at her accents crept A sweetness to my soul, intense, divine. "Is this thy wisdom, to parade thy pain? No longer weep! hast thou not amply wept? Would that such life were thine as death is mine!"

MACGREGOR.

With grief and tears (my soul's proud sovereign's food) I ever nourish still my aching heart; I feel my blanching cheek, and oft I start As on Love's sharp engraven wound I brood. But she, who e'er on earth unrivall'd stood, Flits o'er my couch, when prostrate by his dart I lie; and there her presence doth impart. Whilst scarce my eyes dare meet their vision'd good, With that fair hand in life I so desired, She stays my eyes' sad tide; her voice's tone Awakes the balm earth ne'er to man can give: And thus she speaks:--"Oh! vain hath wisdom fired The hopeless mourner's breast; no more bemoan, I am not dead--would thou like me couldst live!"

WOLLASTON.

SONNET LXXII.

_Ripensando a quel ch' oggi il ciel onora._

HE WOULD DIE OF GRIEF WERE SHE NOT SOMETIMES TO CONSOLE HIM BY HER PRESENCE.

To that soft look which now adorns the skies, The graceful bending of the radiant head, The face, the sweet angelic accents fled, That soothed me once, but now awake my sighs Oh! when to these imagination flies, I wonder that I am not long since dead! 'Tis she supports me, for her heavenly tread Is round my couch when morning visions rise! In every attitude how holy, chaste! How tenderly she seems to hear the tale Of my long woes, and their relief to seek! But when day breaks she then appears in haste The well-known heavenward path again to scale, With moisten'd eye, and soft expressive cheek!

MOREHEAD.

'Tis sweet, though sad, my trembling thoughts to raise, As memory dwells upon that form so dear, And think that now e'en angels join to praise The gentle virtues that adorn'd her here; That face, that look, in fancy to behold-- To hear that voice that did with music vie-- The bending head, crown'd with its locks of gold-- _All, all_ that charm'd, now but sad thoughts supply. How had I lived her bitter loss to weep, If that pure spirit, pitying my woe, Had not appear'd to bless my troubled sleep, Ere memory broke upon the world below? What pure, what gentle greetings then were mine! In what attention wrapt she paused to hear My life's sad course, of which she bade me speak! But as the dawn from forth the East did shine Back to that heaven to which her way was clear, She fled,--while falling tears bedew'd each cheek.

WROTTESLEY.

SONNET LXXIII.

_Fu forse un tempo dolce cosa amore._

HE COMPLAINS OF HIS SUFFERINGS, WHICH ADMIT OF NO RELIEF.

Love, haply, was erewhile a sweet relief; I scarce know when; but now it bitter grows Beyond all else. Who learns from life well knows, As I have learnt to know from heavy grief; She, of our age, who was its honour chief, Who now in heaven with brighter lustre glows, Has robb'd my being of the sole repose It knew in life, though that was rare and brief. Pitiless Death my every good has ta'en! Not the great bliss of her fair spirit freed Can aught console the adverse life I lead. I wept and sang; who now can wake no strain, But day and night the pent griefs of my soul From eyes and tongue in tears and verses roll.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET LXXIV.

_Spinse amor e dolor ove ir non debbe._

REFLECTING THAT LAURA IS IN HEAVEN, HE REPENTS HIS EXCESSIVE GRIEF, AND IS CONSOLED.

Sorrow and Love encouraged my poor tongue, Discreet in sadness, where it should not go, To speak of her for whom I burn'd and sung, What, even were it true, 'twere wrong to show. That blessèd saint my miserable state Might surely soothe, and ease my spirit's strife, Since she in heaven is now domesticate With Him who ever ruled her heart in life. Wherefore I am contented and consoled, Nor would again in life her form behold; Nay, I prefer to die, and live alone. Fairer than ever to my mental eye, I see her soaring with the angels high, Before our Lord, her maker and my own.

MACGREGOR.

My love and grief compell'd me to proclaim My heart's lament, and urged me to convey That, were it true, of her I should not say Who woke alike my song and bosom's flame. For I should comfort find, 'mid this world's shame, To mark her soul's beatified array, To think that He who here had own'd its sway, Doth now within his home its presence claim. And true I comfort find--myself resign'd, I would not woo her back to earthly gloom; Oh! rather let me die, or live still lone! My mental eye, that holds her there enshrined, Now paints her wing'd, bright with celestial bloom, Prostrate beneath our mutual Heaven's throne.

WOLLASTON.

SONNET LXXV.

_Gli angeli eletti e l' anime beate._

HE DIRECTS ALL HIS THOUGHTS TO HEAVEN, WHERE LAURA AWAITS AND BECKONS HIM.

The chosen angels, and the spirits blest, Celestial tenants, on that glorious day My Lady join'd them, throng'd in bright array Around her, with amaze and awe imprest. "What splendour, what new beauty stands confest Unto our sight?"--among themselves they say; "No soul, in this vile age, from sinful clay To our high realms has risen so fair a guest." Delighted to have changed her mortal state, She ranks amid the purest of her kind; And ever and anon she looks behind, To mark my progress and my coming wait; Now my whole thought, my wish to heaven I cast; 'Tis Laura's voice I hear, and hence she bids me haste.

NOTT.

The chosen angels, and the blest above, Heaven's citizens!--the day when Laura ceased To adorn the world, about her thronging press'd, Replete with wonder and with holy love. "What sight is this?--what will this beauty prove?" Said they; "for sure no form in charms so dress'd, From yonder globe to this high place of rest, In all the latter age, did e'er remove!" She, pleased and happy with her mansion new, Compares herself with the most perfect there; And now and then she casts a glance to view If yet I come, and seems to wish me near. Rise then, my thoughts, to heaven!--vain world, adieu! My Laura calls! her quickening voice I hear!

CHARLEMONT.

SONNET LXXVI.

_Donna che lieta col Principio nostro._

HE CONJURES LAURA, BY THE PURE LOVE HE EVER BORE HER, TO OBTAIN FOR HIM A SPEEDY ADMISSION TO HER IN HEAVEN.

Lady, in bliss who, by our Maker's feet, As suited for thine excellent life alone, Art now enthroned in high and glorious seat, Adorn'd with charms nor pearls nor purple own; O model high and rare of ladies sweet! Now in his face to whom all things are known, Look on my love, with that pure faith replete, As long my verse and truest tears have shown, And know at last my heart on earth to thee Was still as now in heaven, nor wish'd in life More than beneath thine eyes' bright sun to be: Wherefore, to recompense the tedious strife, Which turn'd my liege heart from the world away, Pray that I soon may come with thee to stay.

MACGREGOR.

Lady! whose gentle virtues have obtain'd For thee a dwelling with thy Maker blest, To sit enthroned above, in angels' vest (Whose lustre gold nor purple had attain'd): Ah! thou who here the most exalted reign'd, Now through the eyes of Him who knows each breast, That heart's pure faith and love thou canst attest, Which both my pen and tears alike sustain'd. Thou, knowest, too, my heart was thine on earth, As now it is in heaven; no wish was there But to avow thine eyes, its only shrine: Thus to reward the strife which owes its birth To thee, who won my each affection'd care, Pray God to waft me to his home and thine!

WOLLASTON.

SONNET LXXVII.

_Da' più begli occhi e dal più chiaro viso._

HIS ONLY COMFORT IS THE EXPECTATION OF MEETING HER AGAIN IN HEAVEN.

The brightest eyes, the most resplendent face That ever shone; and the most radiant hair, With which nor gold nor sunbeam could compare; The sweetest accent, and a smile all grace; Hands, arms, that would e'en motionless abase Those who to Love the most rebellious were; Fine, nimble feet; a form that would appear Like that of her who first did Eden trace; These fann'd life's spark: now heaven, and all its choir Of angel hosts those kindred charms admire; While lone and darkling I on earth remain. Yet is not comfort fled; she, who can read Each secret of my soul, shall intercede; And I her sainted form behold again.

NOTT.

Yes, from those finest eyes, that face most sweet That ever shone, and from that loveliest hair, With which nor gold nor sunbeam may compare, That speech with love, that smile with grace replete, From those soft hands, those white arms which defeat. Themselves unmoved, the stoutest hearts that e'er To Love were rebels; from those feet so fair, From her whole form, for Eden only meet, My spirit took its life--now these delight The King of Heaven and his angelic train, While, blind and naked, I am left in night. One only balm expect I 'mid my pain-- That she, mine every thought who now can see, May win this grace--that I with her may be.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET LXXVIII.

_E' mi par d' or in ora udire il messo._

HE FEELS THAT THE DAY OF THEIR REUNION IS AT HAND.

Methinks from hour to hour her voice I hear: My Lady calls me! I would fain obey; Within, without, I feel myself decay; And am so alter'd--not with many a year-- That to myself a stranger I appear; All my old usual life is put away-- Could I but know how long I have to stay! Grant, Heaven, the long-wish'd summons may be near! Oh, blest the day when from this earthly gaol I shall be freed, when burst and broken lies This mortal guise, so heavy yet so frail, When from this black night my saved spirit flies, Soaring up, up, above the bright serene, Where with my Lord my Lady shall be seen.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET LXXIX.

_L' aura mia sacra al mio stanco riposo._

HE TELLS HER IN SLEEP OF HIS SUFFERINGS, AND, OVERCOME BY HER SYMPATHY, AWAKES.

On my oft-troubled sleep my sacred air So softly breathes, at last I courage take, To tell her of my past and present ache, Which never in her life my heart did dare. I first that glance so full of love declare Which served my lifelong torment to awake, Next, how, content and wretched for her sake, Love day by day my tost heart knew to tear. She speaks not, but, with pity's dewy trace, Intently looks on me, and gently sighs, While pure and lustrous tears begem her face; My spirit, which her sorrow fiercely tries, So to behold her weep with anger burns, And freed from slumber to itself returns.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET LXXX.

_Ogni giorno mi par più di mill' anni._

FAR FROM FEARING, HE PRAYS FOR DEATH.

Each day to me seems as a thousand years, That I my dear and faithful star pursue, Who guided me on earth, and guides me too By a sure path to life without its tears. For in the world, familiar now, appears No snare to tempt; so rare a light and true Shines e'en from heaven my secret conscience through, Of lost time and loved sin the glass it rears. Not that I need the threats of death to dread, (Which He who loved us bore with greater pain) That, firm and constant, I his path should tread: 'Tis but a brief while since in every vein Of her he enter'd who my fate has been, Yet troubled not the least her brow serene.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET LXXXI.

_Non può far morte il dolce viso amaro._

SINCE HER DEATH HE HAS CEASED TO LIVE.

Death cannot make that beauteous face less fair, But that sweet face may lend to death a grace; My spirit's guide! from her each good I trace; Who learns to die, may seek his lesson there. That holy one! who not his blood would spare, But did the dark Tartarean bolts unbrace; He, too, doth from my soul death's terrors chase: Then welcome, death! thy impress I would wear. And linger not! 'tis time that I had fled; Alas! my stay hath little here avail'd, Since she, my Laura blest, resign'd her breath: Life's spring in me hath since that hour lain dead, In her I lived, my life in hers exhaled, The hour she died I felt within me death!

WOLLASTON.

CANZONE VI.

_Quando il suave mio fido conforto._

SHE APPEARS TO HIM, AND, WITH MORE THAN WONTED AFFECTION, ENDEAVOURS TO CONSOLE HIM.

When she, the faithful soother of my pain, This life's long weary pilgrimage to cheer, Vouchsafes beside my nightly couch to appear, With her sweet speech attempering reason's strain; O'ercome by tenderness, and terror vain, I cry, "Whence comest thou, O spirit blest?" She from her beauteous breast A branch of laurel and of palm displays, And, answering, thus she says. "From th' empyrean seat of holy love Alone thy sorrows to console I move."

In actions, and in words, in humble guise I speak my thanks, and ask, "How may it be That thou shouldst know my wretched state?" and she "Thy floods of tears perpetual, and thy sighs Breathed forth unceasing, to high heaven arise. And there disturb thy blissful state serene; So grievous hath it been, That freed from this poor being, I at last To a better life have pass'd, Which should have joy'd thee hadst thou loved as well As thy sad brow, and sadder numbers tell."

"Oh! not thy ills, I but deplore my own, In darkness, and in grief remaining here, Certain that thou hast reach'd the highest sphere, As of a thing that man hath seen and known. Would God and Nature to the world have shown Such virtue in a young and gentle breast, Were not eternal rest The appointed guerdon of a life so fair? Thou! of the spirits rare, Who, from a course unspotted, pure and high, Are suddenly translated to the sky.

"But I! how can I cease to weep? forlorn, Without thee nothing, wretched, desolate! Oh, in the cradle had I met my fate, Or at the breast! and not to love been born!" And she: "Why by consuming grief thus worn? Were it not better spread aloft thy wings, And now all mortal things, With these thy sweet and idle fantasies, At their just value prize, And follow me, if true thy tender vows, Gathering henceforth with me these honour'd boughs?"

Then answering her:--"Fain would I thou shouldst say What these two verdant branches signify." "Methinks," she says, "thou may'st thyself reply, Whose pen has graced the one by many a lay. The palm shows victory; and in youth's bright day I overcame the world, and my weak heart: The triumph mine in part, Glory to Him who made my weakness strength! And thou, yet turn at length! 'Gainst other powers his gracious aid implore, That we may be with Him thy trial o'er!"

"Are these the crisped locks, and links of gold That bind me still? And these the radiant eyes. To me the Sun?" "Err not with the unwise, Nor think," she says, "as they are wont. Behold In me a spirit, among the blest enroll'd; Thou seek'st what hath long been earth again: Yet to relieve thy pain 'Tis given me thus to appear, ere I resume That beauty from the tomb, More loved, that I, severe in pity, win Thy soul with mine to Heaven, from death and sin."

I weep; and she my cheek, Soft sighing, with her own fair hand will dry; And, gently chiding, speak In tones of power to rive hard rocks in twain; Then vanishing, sleep follows in her train.

DACRE.

CANZONE VII.

_Quell' antiquo mio dolce empio signore._

LOVE, SUMMONED BY THE POET TO THE TRIBUNAL OF REASON, PASSES A SPLENDID EULOGIUM ON LAURA.

Long had I suffer'd, till--to combat more In strength, in hope too sunk--at last before Impartial Reason's seat, Whence she presides our nobler nature o'er, I summon'd my old tyrant, stern and sweet; There, groaning 'neath a weary weight of grief, With fear and horror stung, Like one who dreads to die and prays relief, My plea I open'd thus: "When life was young, I, weakly, placed my peace within his power, And nothing from that hour Save wrong I've met; so many and so great The torments I have borne, That my once infinite patience is outworn, And my life worthless grown is held in very hate!

"Thus sadly has my time till now dragg'd by In flames and anguish: I have left each way Of honour, use, and joy, This my most cruel flatterer to obey. What wit so rare such language to employ That yet may free me from this wretched thrall. Or even my complaint, So great and just, against this ingrate paint? O little sweet! much bitterness and gall! How have you changed my life, so tranquil, ere With the false witchery blind, That alone lured me to his amorous snare! If right I judge, a mind I boasted once with higher feelings rife, --But he destroy'd my peace, he plunged me in this strife!

"Less for myself to care, through him I've grown. And less my God to honour than I ought: Through him my every thought On a frail beauty blindly have I thrown; In this my counsellor he stood alone, Still prompt with cruel aid so to provoke My young desire, that I Hoped respite from his harsh and heavy yoke. But, ah! what boots--though changing time sweep by, If from this changeless passion nought can save-- A genius proud and high? Or what Heaven's other envied gifts to have, If still I groan the slave Of the fierce despot whom I here accuse, Who turns e'en my sad life to his triumphant use?

"'Twas he who made me desert countries seek, Wild tribes and nations dangerous, manners rude, My path with thorns he strew'd, And every error that betrays the weak. Valley and mountain, marsh, and stream, and sea, On every side his snares were set for me. In June December came, With present peril and sharp toil the same; Alone they left me never, neither he, Nor she, whom I so fled, my other foe: Untimely in my tomb, If by some painful death not yet laid low. My safety from such doom Heaven's gracious pity, not this tyrant, deigns, Who feeds upon my grief, and profits in my pains!

"No quiet hour, since first I own'd his reign, I've known, nor hope to know: repose is fled From my unfriendly bed, Nor herb nor spells can bring it back again. By fraud and force he gain'd and guards his power O'er every sense; soundeth from steeple near, By day, by night, the hour, I feel his hand in every stroke I hear. Never did cankerworm fair tree devour, As he my heart, wherein he, gnawing, lurks, And, there, my ruin works. Hence my past martyrdom and tears arise, My present speech, these sighs, Which tear and tire myself, and haply thee, --Judge then between us both, thou knowest him and me!"

With fierce reproach my adversary rose: "Lady," he spoke, "the rebel to a close Is heard at last, the truth Receive from me which he has shrunk to tell: Big words to bandy, specious lies to sell, He plies right well the vile trade of his youth, Freed from whose shame, to share My easy pleasures, by my friendly care, From each false passion which had work'd him ill, Kept safe and pure, laments he, graceless, still The sweet life he has gain'd? And, blindly, thus his fortune dares he blame, Who owes his very fame To me, his genius who sublimed, sustain'd, In the proud flight to which he, else, had dared not aim?

"Well knows he how, in history's every page, The laurell'd chief, the monarch on his throne, The poet and the sage, Favourites of fortune, or for virtue known, Were cursed by evil stars, in loves debased, Soulless and vile, their hearts, their fame, to waste: While I, for him alone, From all the lovely ladies of the earth, Chose one, so graced with beauty and with worth, The eternal sun her equal ne'er beheld. Such charm was in her life, Such virtue in her speech with music rife, Their wondrous power dispell'd Each vain and vicious fancy from his heart, --A foe I am indeed, if this a foeman's part!

"Such was my anger, these my hate and slights, Than all which others could bestow more sweet; Evil for good I meet, If thus ingratitude my grace requites. So high, upon my wings, he soar'd in fame, To hear his song, fair dames and gentle knights In throngs delighted came. Among the gifted spirits of our time His name conspicuous shines; in every clime Admired, approved, his strains an echo find. Such is he, but for me A mere court flatterer who was doom'd to be, Unmark'd amid his kind, Till, in my school, exalted and made known By her, who, of her sex, stood peerless and alone!

"If my great service more there need to tell, I have so fenced and fortified him well, That his pure mind on nought Of gross or grovelling now can brook to dwell; Modest and sensitive, in deed, word, thought, Her captive from his youth, she so her fair And virtuous image press'd Upon his heart, it left its likeness there: Whate'er his life has shown of good or great, In aim or action, he from us possess'd. Never was midnight dream So full of error as to us his hate! For Heaven's and man's esteem If still he keep, the praise is due to us, Whom in its thankless pride his blind rage censures thus!

"In fine, 'twas I, my past love to exceed, Who heavenward fix'd his hope, who gave him wings To fly from mortal things, Which to eternal bliss the path impede; With his own sense, that, seeing how in her Virtues and charms so great and rare combined, A holy pride might stir And to the Great First Cause exalt his mind, (In his own verse confess'd this truth we see,) While that dear lady whom I sent to be The grace, the guard, and guide Of his vain life"--But here a heart-deep groan I sudden gave, and cried, "Yes! sent and snatch'd her from me." He replied, "Not I, but Heaven above, which will'd her for its own!"

At length before that high tribunal each-- With anxious trembling I, while in his mien Was conscious triumph seen-- With earnest prayer concluded thus his speech: "Speak, noble lady! we thy judgment wait." She then with equal air: "It glads me to have heard your keen debate, But in a cause so great, More time and thought it needs just verdict to declare!"

MACGREGOR.

[OF PARTS ONLY]

I cited once t' appear before the noble queen, That ought to guide each mortal life that in this world is seen, That pleasant cruel foe that robbeth hearts of ease, And now doth frown, and then doth fawn, and can both grieve and please; And there, as gold in fire full fined to each intent, Charged with fear, and terror eke I did myself present, As one that doubted death, and yet did justice crave, And thus began t' unfold my cause in hope some help to have.

"Madam, in tender youth I enter'd first this reign, Where other sweet I never felt, than grief and great disdain; And eke so sundry kinds of torments did endure. As life I loathed, and death desired my cursèd case to cure; And thus my woeful days unto this hour have pass'd In smoky sighs and scalding tears, my wearied life to waste; O Lord! what graces great I fled, and eke refused To serve this cruel crafty Sire that doubtless trust abused."

"What wit can use such words to argue and debate, What tongue express the full effect of mine unhappy state; What hand with pen can paint t' uncipher this deceit; What heart so hard that would not yield that once hath seen his bate; What great and grievous wrongs, what threats of ill success, What single sweet, mingled with mass of double bitterness. With what unpleasant pangs, with what an hoard of pains, Hath he acquainted my green years by his false pleasant trains."

"Who by resistless power hath forced me sue his dance, That if I be not much abused had found much better And when I most resolved to lead most quiet life, chance; He spoil'd me of discordless state, and thrust me in truceless strife. He hath bewitch'd me so that God the less I served, And due respect unto myself the further from me swerv'd; He hath the love of one so painted in my thought, That other thing I can none mind, nor care for as I ought. And all this comes from him, both counsel and the cause. That whet my young desire so much to th' honour of his laws."

HARINGTON MS.

SONNET LXXXII.

_Dicemi spesso il mio fidato speglio._

HE AWAKES TO A CONVICTION OF THE NEAR APPROACH OF DEATH.

My faithful mirror oft to me has told-- My weary spirit and my shrivell'd skin My failing powers to prove it all begin-- "Deceive thyself no longer, thou art old." Man is in all by Nature best controll'd, And if with her we struggle, time creeps in; At the sad truth, on fire as waters win, A long and heavy sleep is off me roll'd; And I see clearly our vain life depart, That more than once our being cannot be: Her voice sounds ever in my inmost heart. Who now from her fair earthly frame is free: She walk'd the world so peerless and alone, Its fame and lustre all with her are flown.

MACGREGOR.

The mirror'd friend--my changing form hath read. My every power's incipient decay-- My wearied soul--alike, in warning say "Thyself no more deceive, thy youth hath fled." 'Tis ever best to be by Nature led, We strive with her, and Death makes us his prey; At that dread thought, as flames the waters stay, The dream is gone my life hath sadly fed. I wake to feel how soon existence flies: Once known, 'tis gone, and never to return. Still vibrates in my heart the thrilling tone Of her, who now her beauteous shrine defies: But she, who here to rival, none could learn, Hath robb'd her sex, and with its fame hath flown.

WOLLASTON.

SONNET LXXXIII.

_Volo con l' ali de' pensieri al cielo._

HE SEEMS TO BE WITH HER IN HEAVEN.

So often on the wings of thought I fly Up to heaven's blissful seats, that I appear As one of those whose treasure is lodged there, The rent veil of mortality thrown by. A pleasing chillness thrills my heart, while I Listen to her voice, who bids me paleness wear-- "Ah! now, my friend, I love thee, now revere, For changed thy face, thy manners," doth she cry. She leads me to her Lord: and then I bow, Preferring humble prayer, He would allow That I his glorious face, and hers might see. Thus He replies: "Thy destiny's secure; To stay some twenty, or some ten years more, Is but a little space, though long it seems to thee."

NOTT.

SONNET LXXXIV.

_Morte ha spento quel Sol ch' abbagliar suolmi._

WEARY OF LIFE, NOW THAT SHE IS NO LONGER WITH HIM, HE DEVOTES HIMSELF TO GOD.

Death has the bright sun quench'd which wont to burn; Her pure and constant eyes his dark realms hold: She now is dust, who dealt me heat and cold; To common trees my chosen laurels turn; Hence I at once my bliss and bane discern. None now there is my feelings who can mould From fire to frost, from timorous to bold, In grief to languish or with hope to yearn. Out of his tyrant hands who harms and heals, Erewhile who made in it such havoc sore, My heart the bitter-sweet of freedom feels. And to the Lord whom, thankful, I adore, The heavens who ruleth merely with his brow, I turn life-weary, if not satiate, now.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET LXXXV.

_Tennemi Amor anni ventuno ardendo._

HE CONFESSES AND REGRETS HIS SINS, AND PRAYS GOD TO SAVE HIM FROM ETERNAL DEATH.

Love held me one and twenty years enchain'd, His flame was joy--for hope was in my grief! For ten more years I wept without relief, When Laura with my heart, to heaven attain'd. Now weary grown, my life I had arraign'd That in its error, check'd (to my belief) Blest virtue's seeds--now, in my yellow leaf, I grieve the misspent years, existence stain'd. Alas! it might have sought a brighter goal, In flying troublous thoughts, and winning peace; O Father! I repentant seek thy throne: Thou, in this temple hast enshrined my soul, Oh, bless me yet, and grant its safe release! Unjustified--my sin I humbly own.

WOLLASTON.

SONNET LXXXVI.

_I' vo piangendo i miei passati tempi._

HE HUMBLY CONFESSES THE ERRORS OF HIS PAST LIFE, AND PRAYS FOR DIVINE GRACE.

Weeping, I still revolve the seasons flown In vain idolatry of mortal things; Not soaring heavenward; though my soul had wings Which might, perchance, a glorious flight have shown. O Thou, discerner of the guilt I own, Giver of life immortal, King of Kings, Heal Thou the wounded heart which conscience stings: It looks for refuge only to thy throne. Thus, although life was warfare and unrest, Be death the haven of peace; and if my day Was vain--yet make the parting moment blest! Through this brief remnant of my earthly way, And in death's billows, be thy hand confess'd; Full well Thou know'st, this hope is all my stay!

SHEPPARD.

Still do I mourn the years for aye gone by, Which on a mortal love I lavishèd, Nor e'er to soar my pinions balancèd, Though wing'd perchance no humble height to fly. Thou, Dread Invisible, who from on high Look'st down upon this suffering erring head, Oh, be thy succour to my frailty sped, And with thy grace my indigence supply! My life in storms and warfare doom'd to spend, Harbour'd in peace that life may I resign: It's course though idle, pious be its end! Oh, for the few brief days, which yet are mine, And for their close, thy guiding hand extend! Thou know'st on Thee alone my heart's firm hopes recline.

WRANGHAM.

SONNET LXXXVII.

_Dolci durezze e placide repulse._

HE OWES HIS OWN SALVATION TO THE VIRTUOUS CONDUCT OF LAURA.

O sweet severity, repulses mild, With chasten'd love, and tender pity fraught; Graceful rebukes, that to mad passion taught Becoming mastery o'er its wishes wild; Speech dignified, in which, united, smiled All courtesy, with purity of thought; Virtue and beauty, that uprooted aught Of baser temper had my heart defiled: Eyes, in whose glance man is beatified-- Awful, in pride of virtue, to restrain Aspiring hopes that justly are denied, Then prompt the drooping spirit to sustain! These, beautiful in every change, supplied Health to my soul, that else were sought in vain.

DACRE.

SONNET LXXXVIII.

_Spirto felice, che sì dolcemente._

BEHOLDING IN FANCY THE SHADE OF LAURA, HE TELLS HER THE LOSS THAT THE WORLD SUSTAINED IN HER DEPARTURE.

Blest spirit, that with beams so sweetly clear Those eyes didst bend on me, than stars more bright, And sighs didst breathe, and words which could delight Despair; and which in fancy still I hear;-- I see thee now, radiant from thy pure sphere O'er the soft grass, and violet's purple light, Move, as an angel to my wondering sight; More present than earth gave thee to appear. Yet to the Cause Supreme thou art return'd: And left, here to dissolve, that beauteous veil In which indulgent Heaven invested thee. Th' impoverish'd world at thy departure mourn'd: For love departed, and the sun grew pale, And death then seem'd our sole felicity.

CAPEL LOFFT.

O blessed Spirit! who those sun-like eyes So sweetly didst inform and brightly fill, Who the apt words didst frame and tender sighs Which in my fond heart have their echo still. Erewhile I saw thee, glowing with chaste flame, Thy feet 'mid violets and verdure set, Moving in angel not in mortal frame, Life-like and light, before me present yet! Her, when returning with thy God to dwell, Thou didst relinquish and that fair veil given For purpose high by fortune's grace to thee: Love at thy parting bade the world farewell; Courtesy died; the sun abandon'd heaven, And Death himself our best friend 'gan to be.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET LXXXIX.

_Deh porgi mano all' affannato ingegno._

HE BEGS LOVE TO ASSIST HIM, THAT HE MAY WORTHILY CELEBRATE HER.

Ah, Love! some succour to my weak mind deign, Lend to my frail and weary style thine aid, To sing of her who is immortal made, A citizen of the celestial reign. And grant, Lord, that my verse the height may gain Of her great praises, else in vain essay'd, Whose peer in worth or beauty never stay'd In this our world, unworthy to retain. Love answers: "In myself and Heaven what lay, By conversation pure and counsel wise, All was in her whom death has snatch'd away. Since the first morn when Adam oped his eyes, Like form was ne'er--suffice it this to say, Write down with tears what scarce I tell for sighs."

MACGREGOR.

SONNET XC.

_Vago augelletto che cantando vai._

THE PLAINTIVE SONG OF A BIRD RECALLS TO HIM HIS OWN KEENER SORROW.

Poor solitary bird, that pour'st thy lay; Or haply mournest the sweet season gone: As chilly night and winter hurry on, And day-light fades and summer flies away; If as the cares that swell thy little throat Thou knew'st alike the woes that wound my rest. Ah, thou wouldst house thee in this kindred breast, And mix with mine thy melancholy note. Yet little know I ours are kindred ills: She still may live the object of thy song: Not so for me stern death or Heaven wills! But the sad season, and less grateful hour, And of past joy and sorrow thoughts that throng Prompt my full heart this idle lay to pour.

DACRE.

Sweet bird, that singest on thy airy way, Or else bewailest pleasures that are past; What time the night draws nigh, and wintry blast; Leaving behind each merry month, and day; Oh, couldst thou, as thine own, my state survey, With the same gloom of misery o'ercast; Unto my bosom thou mightst surely haste And, by partaking, my sad griefs allay. Yet would thy share of woe not equal mine, Since the loved mate thou weep'st doth haply live, While death, and heaven, me of my fair deprive: But hours less gay, the season's drear decline; With thoughts on many a sad, and pleasant year, Tempt me to ask thy piteous presence here.

NOTT.

CANZONE VIII.

_Vergine bella che di sol vestita._

TO THE VIRGIN MARY.

Beautiful Virgin! clothed with the sun, Crown'd with the stars, who so the Eternal Sun Well pleasedst that in thine his light he hid; Love pricks me on to utter speech of thee, And--feeble to commence without thy aid-- Of Him who on thy bosom rests in love. Her I invoke who gracious still replies To all who ask in faith, Virgin! if ever yet The misery of man and mortal things To mercy moved thee, to my prayer incline; Help me in this my strife, Though I am but of dust, and thou heaven's radiant Queen!

Wise Virgin! of that lovely number one Of Virgins blest and wise, Even the first and with the brightest lamp: O solid buckler of afflicted hearts! 'Neath which against the blows of Fate and Death, Not mere deliverance but great victory is; Relief from the blind ardour which consumes Vain mortals here below! Virgin! those lustrous eyes, Which tearfully beheld the cruel prints In the fair limbs of thy beloved Son, Ah! turn on my sad doubt, Who friendless, helpless thus, for counsel come to thee!

O Virgin! pure and perfect in each part, Maiden or Mother, from thy honour'd birth, This life to lighten and the next adorn; O bright and lofty gate of open'd heaven! By thee, thy Son and His, the Almighty Sire, In our worst need to save us came below: And, from amid all other earthly seats, Thou only wert elect, Virgin supremely blest! The tears of Eve who turnedst into joy; Make me, thou canst, yet worthy of his grace, O happy without end, Who art in highest heaven a saint immortal shrined.

O holy Virgin! full of every good, Who, in humility most deep and true, To heaven art mounted, thence my prayers to hear, That fountain thou of pity didst produce, That sun of justice light, which calms and clears Our age, else clogg'd with errors dark and foul. Three sweet and precious names in thee combine, Of mother, daughter, wife, Virgin! with glory crown'd, Queen of that King who has unloosed our bonds, And free and happy made the world again, By whose most sacred wounds, I pray my heart to fix where true joys only are!

Virgin! of all unparallel'd, alone, Who with thy beauties hast enamour'd Heaven, Whose like has never been, nor e'er shall be; For holy thoughts with chaste and pious acts To the true God a sacred living shrine In thy fecund virginity have made: By thee, dear Mary, yet my life may be Happy, if to thy prayers, O Virgin meek and mild! Where sin abounded grace shall more abound! With bended knee and broken heart I pray That thou my guide wouldst be, And to such prosperous end direct my faltering way.

Bright Virgin! and immutable as bright, O'er life's tempestuous ocean the sure star Each trusting mariner that truly guides, Look down, and see amid this dreadful storm How I am tost at random and alone, And how already my last shriek is near, Yet still in thee, sinful although and vile, My soul keeps all her trust; Virgin! I thee implore Let not thy foe have triumph in my fall; Remember that our sin made God himself, To free us from its chain, Within thy virgin womb our image on Him take!

Virgin! what tears already have I shed, Cherish'd what dreams and breathed what prayers in vain But for my own worse penance and sure loss; Since first on Arno's shore I saw the light Till now, whate'er I sought, wherever turn'd, My life has pass'd in torment and in tears, For mortal loveliness in air, act, speech, Has seized and soil'd my soul: O Virgin! pure and good, Delay not till I reach my life's last year; Swifter than shaft and shuttle are, my days 'Mid misery and sin Have vanish'd all, and now Death only is behind!

Virgin! She now is dust, who, living, held My heart in grief, and plunged it since in gloom; She knew not of my many ills this one, And had she known, what since befell me still Had been the same, for every other wish Was death to me and ill renown for her; But, Queen of Heaven, our Goddess--if to thee Such homage be not sin-- Virgin! of matchless mind, Thou knowest now the whole; and that, which else No other can, is nought to thy great power: Deign then my grief to end, Thus honour shall be thine, and safe my peace at last!

Virgin! in whom I fix my every hope, Who canst and will'st assist me in great need, Forsake me not in this my worst extreme, Regard not me but Him who made me thus; Let his high image stamp'd on my poor worth Towards one so low and lost thy pity move: Medusa spells have made me as a rock Distilling a vain flood; Virgin! my harass'd heart With pure and pious tears do thou fulfil, That its last sigh at least may be devout, And free from earthly taint, As was my earliest vow ere madness fill'd my veins!

Virgin! benevolent, and foe of pride, Ah! let the love of our one Author win, Some mercy for a contrite humble heart: For, if her poor frail mortal dust I loved With loyalty so wonderful and long, Much more my faith and gratitude for thee. From this my present sad and sunken state If by thy help I rise, Virgin! to thy dear name I consecrate and cleanse my thoughts, speech, pen, My mind, and heart with all its tears and sighs; Point then that better path, And with complacence view my changed desires at last.

The day must come, nor distant far its date, Time flies so swift and sure, O peerless and alone! When death my heart, now conscience struck, shall seize: Commend me, Virgin! then to thy dear Son, True God and Very Man, That my last sigh in peace may, in his arms, be breathed!

MACGREGOR.

[Illustration: PETRARCH'S HOUSE AT ARQUA.]

PETRARCH'S TRIUMPHS.

THE TRIUMPH OF LOVE.

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