No More Learning

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

WOLLASTON.




SONNET XXIII.

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

MORN RENDERS HIS GRIEF MORE POIGNANT.


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

NOTT.


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

WOODHOUSELEE.




SONNET XXIV.

_Gli occhi di ch' io parlai si caldamente. _

HIS LYRE IS NOW ATTUNED ONLY TO WOE.


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

DACRE.


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

MOREHEAD.


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

WOODHOUSELEE.


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

CHARLEMONT.




SONNET XXV.

_S' io avessi pensato che si care. _

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


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

MACGREGOR.


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

WOLLASTON.




SONNET XXVI.

_Soleasi nel mio cor star bella e viva. _

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


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

MACGREGOR.


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

WOLLASTON.




SONNET XXVII.

_Soleano i miei pensier soavemente. _

HE COMFORTS HIMSELF WITH THE HOPE THAT SHE HEARS HIM.


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

MACGREGOR.


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

CAPEL LOFFT.




SONNET XXVIII.

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

HE GLORIES IN HIS LOVE.


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

MACGREGOR.




SONNET XXIX.

_Due gran nemiche insieme erano aggiunte. _

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


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

MACGREGOR.


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

WOLLASTON.




SONNET XXX.

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

THE REMEMBRANCE OF THE PAST ENHANCES HIS MISERY.


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

MACGREGOR.


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

WOLLASTON.




SONNET XXXI.

_Ov' e la fronte che con picciol cenno. _

HE ENUMERATES AND EULOGISES THE GRACES OF LAURA.


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

WRANGHAM.


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

LANGHORNE.




SONNET XXXII.

_Quanta invidia ti porto, avara terra. _

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


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

WOODHOUSELEE.


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

WROTTESLEY.




SONNET XXXIII.

_Valle che d' lamenti miei se' piena. _

ON HIS RETURN TO VAUCLUSE AFTER LAURA'S DEATH.


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

WRANGHAM.


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

ANON.




SONNET XXXIV.

_Levommi il mio pensier in parte ov' era. _

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


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

WRANGHAM.


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

CHARLEMONT.




SONNET XXXV.

_Amor che meco al buon tempo ti stavi. _

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


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

ANON. , OX. , 1795.
On these green banks in happier days I stray'd
With Love, who whisper'd many a tender tale;
And the glad waters, winding through the dale,
Heard the sweet eloquence fond Love display'd.
You, purpled plain, cool grot, and arching glade;
Ye hills, ye streams, where plays the silken gale;
Ye pathless wilds, you rock-encircled vale
Which oft have beard the tender plaints I made;
Ye blue-hair'd nymphs, who ceaseless revel keep,
In the cool bosom of the crystal deep;
Ye woodland maids who climb the mountain's brow;
Ye mark'd how joy once wing'd each hour so gay;
Ah, mark how sad each hour now wears away!
So fate with human bliss blends human woe!

ANON. 1777.




SONNET XXXVI.

_Mentre che 'l cor dagli amorosi vermi. _

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


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

ANON. , OX. , 1795.




SONNET XXXVII.

_Anima bella, da quel nodo sciolta. _

HE PRAYS LAURA TO LOOK DOWN UPON HIM FROM HEAVEN.


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

NOTT.


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

ANON. , OX. , 1795.




SONNET XXXVIII.

_Quel sol che mi mostrava il cammin destro. _

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


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

MACGREGOR.




SONNET XXXIX.

_Io pensava assai destro esser sull' ale. _

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


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

MACGREGOR.




SONNET XL.

_Quella per cui con Sorga ho cangiat' Arno. _

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


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

_Ne 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 e '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 discumbered,
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 armed 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 di miei piu 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!