No More Learning

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 puo 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 gia 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' e 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 banished.
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 pieta, qual angel fu si 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.
Blessed 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 blessed 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' piu begli occhi e dal piu 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 piu 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 puo 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 cursed 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.