_
THOUGH IN THE MIDST OF PAIN, HE DEEMS HIMSELF THE HAPPIEST OF MEN.
THOUGH IN THE MIDST OF PAIN, HE DEEMS HIMSELF THE HAPPIEST OF MEN.
Petrarch
Passion impels me, Love escorts and leads,
Pleasure attracts me, habits old enchain,
Hope with its flatteries comforts me again,
And, at my harass'd heart, with fond touch pleads.
Poor wretch! it trusts her still, and little heeds
The blind and faithless leader of our train;
Reason is dead, the senses only reign:
One fond desire another still succeeds.
Virtue and honour, beauty, courtesy,
With winning words and many a graceful way,
My heart entangled in that laurel sweet.
In thirteen hundred seven and twenty, I
--'Twas April, the first hour, on its sixth day--
Enter'd Love's labyrinth, whence is no retreat.
MACGREGOR.
By will impell'd, Love o'er my path presides;
By Pleasure led, o'ercome by Habit's reign,
Sweet Hope deludes, and comforts me again;
At her bright touch, my heart's despair subsides.
It takes her proffer'd hand, and there confides.
To doubt its blind disloyal guide were vain;
Each sense usurps poor Reason's broken rein;
On each desire, another wilder rides!
Grace, virtue, honour, beauty, words so dear,
Have twined me with that laurell'd bough, whose power
My heart hath tangled in its lab'rinth sweet:
The thirteen hundred twenty-seventh year,
The sixth of April's suns--in that first hour,
My entrance mark'd, whence I see no retreat.
WOLLASTON.
SONNET CLXXVII.
_Beato in sogno, e di languir contento. _
THOUGH SO LONG LOVE'S FAITHFUL SERVANT, HIS ONLY REWARD HAS BEEN TEARS.
Happy in visions, and content to pine,
Shadows to clasp, to chase the summer gale,
On shoreless and unfathom'd sea to sail,
To build on sand, and in the air design,
The sun to gaze on till these eyes of mine
Abash'd before his noonday splendour fail,
To chase adown some soft and sloping vale,
The winged stag with maim'd and heavy kine;
Weary and blind, save my own harm to all,
Which day and night I seek with throbbing heart,
On Love, on Laura, and on Death I call.
Thus twenty years of long and cruel smart,
In tears and sighs I've pass'd, because I took
Under ill stars, alas! both bait and hook.
MACGREGOR.
SONNET CLXXVIII.
_Grazie ch' a pochi 'l ciel largo destina. _
THE ENCHANTMENTS THAT ENTHRALL HIM
Graces, that liberal Heaven on few bestows;
Rare excellence, scarce known to human kind;
With youth's bright locks age's ripe judgment join'd;
Celestial charms, which a meek mortal shows;
An elegance unmatch'd; and lips, whence flows
Music that can the sense in fetters bind;
A goddess step; a lovely ardent mind,
That breaks the stubborn, and the haughty bows;
Eyes, whose refulgence petrifies the heart,
To glooms, to shades that can a light impart,
Lift high the lover's soul, or plunge it low;
Speech link'd by tenderness and dignity;
With many a sweetly-interrupted sigh;
Such are the witcheries that transform me so.
NOTT.
Graces which liberal Heaven grants few to share:
Rare virtue seldom witness'd by mankind;
Experienced judgment with fair hair combined;
High heavenly beauty in a humble fair;
A gracefulness most excellent and rare;
A voice whose music sinks into the mind;
An angel gait; wit glowing and refined,
The hard to break, the high and haughty tear,
And brilliant eyes which turn the heart to stone,
Strong to enlighten hell and night, and take
Souls from our bodies and their own to make;
A speech where genius high yet gentle shone,
Evermore broken by the balmiest sighs
--Such magic spells transform'd me in this wise.
MACGREGOR.
SESTINA VI.
_Anzi tre di creata era alma in parte. _
THE HISTORY OF HIS LOVE; AND PRAYER FOR HELP.
Life's three first stages train'd my soul in part
To place its care on objects high and new,
And to disparage what men often prize,
But, left alone, and of her fatal course
As yet uncertain, frolicsome, and free,
She enter'd at spring-time a lovely wood.
A tender flower there was, born in that wood
The day before, whose root was in a part
High and impervious e'en to spirit free;
For many snares were there of forms so new,
And such desire impell'd my sanguine course,
That to lose freedom were to gain a prize.
Dear, sweet, yet perilous and painful prize!
Which quickly drew me to that verdant wood,
Doom'd to mislead me midway in life's course;
The world I since have ransack'd part by part,
For rhymes, or stones, or sap of simples new,
Which yet might give me back the spirit, free.
But ah! I feel my body must be free
From that hard knot which is its richest prize,
Ere medicine old or incantations new
Can heal the wounds which pierced me in that wood,
Thorny and troublous, where I play'd such part,
Leaving it halt who enter'd with hot course.
Yes! full of snares and sticks, a difficult course
Have I to run, where easy foot and sure
Were rather needed, healthy in each part;
Thou, Lord, who still of pity hast the prize,
Stretch to me thy right hand in this wild wood,
And let thy sun dispel my darkness new.
Look on my state, amid temptations new,
Which, interrupting my life's tranquil course,
Have made me denizen of darkling wood;
If good, restore me, fetterless and free,
My wand'ring consort, and be thine the prize
If yet with thee I find her in blest part.
Lo! thus in part I put my questions new,
If mine be any prize, or run its course,
Be my soul free, or captived in close wood.
MACGREGOR.
SONNET CLXXIX.
_In nobil sangue vita umile e queta. _
SHE UNITES IN HERSELF THE HIGHEST EXCELLENCES OF VIRTUE AND BEAUTY.
High birth in humble life, reserved yet kind,
On youth's gay flower ripe fruits of age and rare,
A virtuous heart, therewith a lofty mind,
A happy spirit in a pensive air;
Her planet, nay, heaven's king, has fitly shrined
All gifts and graces in this lady fair,
True honour, purest praises, worth refined,
Above what rapt dreams of best poets are.
Virtue and Love so rich in her unite,
With natural beauty dignified address,
Gestures that still a silent grace express,
And in her eyes I know not what strange light,
That makes the noonday dark, the dusk night clear,
Bitter the sweet, and e'en sad absence dear.
MACGREGOR.
Though nobly born, so humbly calm she dwells,
So bright her intellect--so pure her mind--
The blossom and its bloom in her we find;
With pensive look, her heart with mirth rebels:
Thus by her planets' union she excels,
(Nay--His, the stars' proud sov'reign, who enshrined
There honour, worth, and fortitude combined! )
Which to the bard inspired, his hope dispels.
Love blooms in her, but 'tis his home most pure;
Her daily virtues blend with native grace;
Her noiseless movements speak, though she is mute:
Such power her eyes, they can the day obscure,
Illume the night,--the honey's sweetness chase,
And wake its stream, where gall doth oft pollute.
WOLLASTON.
SONNET CLXXX.
_Tutto 'l di piango; e poi la notte, quando. _
HER CRUELTY RENDERS LIFE WORSE THAN DEATH TO HIM.
Through the long lingering day, estranged from rest,
My sorrows flow unceasing; doubly flow,
Painful prerogative of lover's woe!
In that still hour, when slumber soothes th' unblest.
With such deep anguish is my heart opprest,
So stream mine eyes with tears! Of things below
Most miserable I; for Cupid's bow
Has banish'd quiet from this heaving breast.
Ah me! while thus in suffering, morn to morn
And eve to eve succeeds, of death I view
(So should this life be named) one-half gone by--
Yet this I weep not, but another's scorn;
That she, my friend, so tender and so true,
Should see me hopeless burn, and yet her aid deny.
WRANGHAM.
SONNET CLXXXI.
_Gia desiai con si giusta querela. _
HE LIVES DESTITUTE OF ALL HOPE SAVE THAT OF RENDERING HER IMMORTAL.
Erewhile I labour'd with complaint so true,
And in such fervid rhymes to make me heard,
Seem'd as at last some spark of pity stirr'd
In the hard heart which frost in summer knew.
Th' unfriendly cloud, whose cold veil o'er it grew,
Broke at the first breath of mine ardent word
Or low'ring still she others' blame incurr'd
Her bright and killing eyes who thus withdrew
No ruth for self I crave, for her no hate;
I wish not this--_that_ passes power of mine:
Such was mine evil star and cruel fate.
But I shall ever sing her charms divine,
That, when I have resign'd this mortal breath,
The world may know how sweet to me was death.
MACGREGOR.
SONNET CLXXXII.
_Tra quantunque leggiadre donne e belle. _
ALL NATURE WOULD BE IN DARKNESS WERE SHE, ITS SUN, TO PERISH.
Where'er she moves, whatever dames among,
Beauteous or graceful, matchless she below.
With her fair face she makes all others show
Dim, as the day's bright orb night's starry throng.
And Love still whispers, with prophetic tongue,--
"Long as on earth is seen that glittering brow,
Shall life have charms: but she shall cease to glow
And with her all my power shall fleet along,
Should Nature from the skies their twin-lights wrest;
Hush every breeze, each herb and flower destroy;
Strip man of reason--speech; from Ocean's breast
His tides, his tenants chase--such, earth's annoy;
Yea, still more darken'd were it and unblest,
Had she, thy Laura, closed her eyes to love and joy. "
WRANGHAM.
Whene'er amidst the damsels, blooming bright,
She shows herself, whose like was never made,
At her approach all other beauties fade,
As at morn's orient glow the gems of night.
Love seems to whisper,--"While to mortal sight
Her graces shall on earth be yet display'd,
Life shall be blest; 'till soon with her decay'd,
The virtues, and my reign shall sink outright. "
Of moon and sun, should nature rob the sky,
The air of winds, the earth of herbs and leaves,
Mankind of speech and intellectual eye,
The ocean's bed of fish, and dancing waves;
Even so shall all things dark and lonely lye,
When of her beauty Death the world bereaves!
CHARLEMONT.
SONNET CLXXXIII.
_Il cantar novo e 'l pianger degli augelli. _
MORNING.
The birds' sweet wail, their renovated song,
At break of morn, make all the vales resound;
With lapse of crystal waters pouring round,
In clear, swift runnels, the fresh shores among.
She, whose pure passion knows nor guile nor wrong,
With front of snow, with golden tresses crown'd,
Combing her aged husband's hoar locks found,
Wakes me when sportful wakes the warbling throng.
Thus, roused from sleep, I greet the dawning day,
And its succeeding sun, with one more bright,
Still dazzling, as in early youth, my sight:
Both suns I've seen at once uplift their ray;
This drives the radiance of the stars away,
But that which gilds my life eclipses e'en his light.
NOTT.
Soon as gay morn ascends her purple car,
The plaintive warblings of the new-waked grove,
The murmuring streams, through flowery meads that rove,
Fill with sweet melody the valleys fair.
Aurora, famed for constancy in love,
Whose face with snow, whose locks with gold compare.
Smoothing her aged husband's silvery hair,
Bids me the joys of rural music prove.
Then, waking, I salute the sun of day;
But chief that beauteous sun, whose cheering ray
Once gilt, nay gilds e'en now, life's scene so bright.
Dear suns! which oft I've seen together rise;
This dims each meaner lustre of the skies,
And that sweet sun I love dims every light.
ANON. 1777.
SONNET CLXXXIV.
_Onde tolse Amor l' oro e di qual vena. _
THE CHARMS OF HER COUNTENANCE AND VOICE.
Whence could Love take the gold, and from what vein,
To form those bright twin locks? What thorn could grow
Those roses? And what mead that white bestow
Of the fresh dews, which pulse and breath obtain?
Whence came those pearls that modestly restrain
Accents which courteous, sweet, and rare can flow?
And whence those charms that so divinely show,
Spread o'er a face serene as heaven's blue plain?
Taught by what angel, or what tuneful sphere,
Was that celestial song, which doth dispense
Such potent magic to the ravish'd ear?
What sun illumed those bright commanding eyes,
Which now look peaceful, now in hostile guise;
Now torture me with hope, and now with fear?
NOTT.
Say, from what vein did Love procure the gold
To make those sunny tresses? From what thorn
Stole he the rose, and whence the dew of morn,
Bidding them breathe and live in Beauty's mould?
What depth of ocean gave the pearls that told
Those gentle accents sweet, though rarely born?
Whence came so many graces to adorn
That brow more fair than summer skies unfold?
Oh! say what angels lead, what spheres control
The song divine which wastes my life away?
(Who can with trifles now my senses move? )
What sun gave birth unto the lofty soul
Of those enchanting eyes, whose glances stray
To burn and freeze my heart--the sport of Love?
WROTTESLEY.
SONNET CLXXXV.
_Qual mio destin, qual forza o qual inganno. _
THOUGH HER EYES DESTROY HIM, HE CANNOT TEAR HIMSELF AWAY.
What destiny of mine, what fraud or force,
Unarm'd again conducts me to the field,
Where never came I but with shame to yield
'Scape I or fall, which better is or worse?
--Not worse, but better; from so sweet a source
Shine in my heart those lights, so bright reveal'd
The fatal fire, e'en now as then, which seal'd
My doom, though twenty years have roll'd their course
I feel death's messengers when those dear eyes,
Dazzling me from afar, I see appear,
And if on me they turn as she draw near,
Love with such sweetness tempts me then and tries,
Tell it I cannot, nor recall in sooth,
For wit and language fail to reach the truth!
MACGREGOR.
SONNET CLXXXVI.
_Liete e pensose, accompagnate e sole. _
NOT FINDING HER WITH HER FRIENDS, HE ASKS THEM WHY SHE IS ABSENT.
_P. _ Pensive and glad, accompanied, alone,
Ladies who cheat the time with converse gay,
Where does my life, where does my death delay?
Why not with you her form, as usual, shown?
_L. _ Glad are we her rare lustre to have known,
And sad from her dear company to stay,
Which jealousy and envy keep away
O'er other's bliss, as their own ill who moan.
_P. _ Who lovers can restrain, or give them law?
_L. _ No one the soul, harshness and rage the frame;
As erst in us, this now in her appears.
As oft the face, betrays the heart, we saw
Clouds that, obscuring her high beauty, came,
And in her eyes the dewy trace of tears.
MACGREGOR.
SONNET CLXXXVII.
_Quando 'l sol bagna in mur l' aurato carro. _
HIS NIGHTS ARE, LIKE HIS DAYS, PASSED IN TORMENT.
When in the sea sinks the sun's golden light,
And on my mind and nature darkness lies,
With the pale moon, faint stars and clouded skies
I pass a weary and a painful night:
To her who hears me not I then rehearse
My sad life's fruitless toils, early and late;
And with the world and with my gloomy fate,
With Love, with Laura and myself, converse.
Sleep is forbid me: I have no repose,
But sighs and groans instead, till morn returns,
And tears, with which mine eyes a sad heart feeds;
Then comes the dawn, the thick air clearer grows,
But not my soul; the sun which in it burns
Alone can cure the grief his fierce warmth breeds.
NOTT.
When Phoebus lashes to the western main
His fiery steeds, and shades the lurid air;
Grief shades my soul, my night is spent in care;
Yon moon, yon stars, yon heaven begin my pain.
Wretch that I am! full oft I urge in vain
To heedless beings all those pangs I bear;
Of the false world, of an unpitying fair,
Of Love, and fickle fortune I complain!
From eve's last glance, till morning's earliest ray,
Sleep shuns my couch; rest quits my tearful eye;
And my rack'd breast heaves many a plaintive sigh.
Then bright Aurora cheers the rising day,
But cheers not me--for to my sorrowing heart
One sun alone can cheering light impart!
ANON. 1777.
SONNET CLXXVIII.
_S' una fede amorosa, un cor non finto. _
THE MISERY OF HIS LOVE.
If faith most true, a heart that cannot feign,
If Love's sweet languishment and chasten'd thought,
And wishes pure by nobler feelings taught,
If in a labyrinth wanderings long and vain,
If on the brow each pang pourtray'd to bear,
Or from the heart low broken sounds to draw,
Withheld by shame, or check'd by pious awe,
If on the faded cheek Love's hue to wear,
If than myself to hold one far more dear,
If sighs that cease not, tears that ever flow,
Wrung from the heart by all Love's various woe,
In absence if consumed, and chill'd when near,--
If these be ills in which I waste my prime,
Though I the sufferer be, yours, lady, is the crime.
DACRE.
If fondest faith, a heart to guile unknown,
By melting languors the soft wish betray'd;
If chaste desires, with temper'd warmth display'd;
If weary wanderings, comfortless and lone;
If every thought in every feature shown,
Or in faint tones and broken sounds convey'd,
As fear or shame my pallid cheek array'd
In violet hues, with Love's thick blushes strown;
If more than self another to hold dear;
If still to weep and heave incessant sighs,
To feed on passion, or in grief to pine,
To glow when distant, and to freeze when near,--
If hence my bosom's anguish takes its rise,
Thine, lady, is the crime, the punishment is mine.
WRANGHAM.
SONNET CLXXXIX.
_Dodici donne onestamente lasse. _
HAPPY WHO STEERED THE BOAT, OR DROVE THE CAR, WHEREIN SHE SAT AND SANG.
Twelve ladies, their rare toil who lightly bore,
Rather twelve stars encircling a bright sun,
I saw, gay-seated a small bark upon,
Whose like the waters never cleaved before:
Not such took Jason to the fleece of yore,
Whose fatal gold has ev'ry heart now won,
Nor such the shepherd boy's, by whom undone
Troy mourns, whose fame has pass'd the wide world o'er.
I saw them next on a triumphal car,
Where, known by her chaste cherub ways, aside
My Laura sate and to them sweetly sung.
Things not of earth to man such visions are!
Blest Tiphys! blest Automedon! to guide
The bark, or car of band so bright and young.
MACGREGOR.
SONNET CXC
_Passer mai solitario in alcun tetto. _
FAR FROM HIS BELOVED, LIFE IS MISERABLE BY NIGHT AS BY DAY.
Never was bird, spoil'd of its young, more sad,
Or wild beast in his lair more lone than me,
Now that no more that lovely face I see,
The only sun my fond eyes ever had.
In ceaseless sorrow is my chief delight:
My food to poison turns, to grief my joy;
The night is torture, dark the clearest sky,
And my lone pillow a hard field of fight.
Sleep is indeed, as has been well express'd.
Akin to death, for it the heart removes
From the dear thought in which alone I live.
Land above all with plenty, beauty bless'd!
Ye flowery plains, green banks and shady groves!
Ye hold the treasure for whose loss I grieve!
MACGREGOR.
SONNET CXCI.
_Aura, che quelle chiome bionde e crespe. _
HE ENVIES THE BREEZE WHICH SPORTS WITH HER, THE STREAM THAT FLOWS
TOWARDS HER.
Ye laughing gales, that sporting with my fair,
The silky tangles of her locks unbraid;
And down her breast their golden treasures spread;
Then in fresh mazes weave her curling hair,
You kiss those bright destructive eyes, that bear
The flaming darts by which my heart has bled;
My trembling heart! that oft has fondly stray'd
To seek the nymph, whose eyes such terrors wear.
Methinks she's found--but oh! 'tis fancy's cheat!
Methinks she's seen--but oh! 'tis love's deceit!
Methinks she's near--but truth cries "'tis not so! "
Go happy gale, and with my Laura dwell!
Go happy stream, and to my Laura tell
What envied joys in thy clear crystal flow!
ANON. 1777.
Thou gale, that movest, and disportest round
Those bright crisp'd locks, by them moved sweetly too,
That all their fine gold scatter'st to the view,
Then coil'st them up in beauteous braids fresh wound;
About those eyes thou playest, where abound
The am'rous swarms, whose stings my tears renew!
And I my treasure tremblingly pursue,
Like some scared thing that stumbles o'er the ground.
Methinks I find her now, and now perceive
She's distant; now I soar, and now descend;
Now what I wish, now what is true believe.
Stay and enjoy, blest air, the living beam;
And thou, O rapid, and translucent stream,
Why can't I change my course, and thine attend?
NOTT.
SONNET CXCII.
_Amor con la man destra il lato manco. _
UNDER THE FIGURE OF A LAUREL, HE RELATES THE GROWTH OF HIS LOVE.
My poor heart op'ning with his puissant hand,
Love planted there, as in its home, to dwell
A Laurel, green and bright, whose hues might well
In rivalry with proudest emeralds stand:
Plough'd by my pen and by my heart-sighs fann'd,
Cool'd by the soft rain from mine eyes that fell,
It grew in grace, upbreathing a sweet smell,
Unparallel'd in any age or land.
Fair fame, bright honour, virtue firm, rare grace,
The chastest beauty in celestial frame,--
These be the roots whence birth so noble came.
Such ever in my mind her form I trace,
A happy burden and a holy thing,
To which on rev'rent knee with loving prayer I cling.
MACGREGOR.
SONNET CXCIII.
_Cantai, or piango; e non men di dolcezza.
_
THOUGH IN THE MIDST OF PAIN, HE DEEMS HIMSELF THE HAPPIEST OF MEN.
I sang, who now lament; nor less delight
Than in my song I found, in tears I find;
For on the cause and not effect inclined,
My senses still desire to scale that height:
Whence, mildly if she smile or hardly smite,
Cruel and cold her acts, or meek and kind,
All I endure, nor care what weights they bind,
E'en though her rage would break my armour quite.
Let Love and Laura, world and fortune join,
And still pursue their usual course for me,
I care not, if unblest, in life to be.
Let me or burn to death or living pine,
No gentler state than mine beneath the sun,
Since from a source so sweet my bitters run.
MACGREGOR.
SONNET CXCIV.
_I' piansi, or canto; che 'l celeste lume. _
AT HER RETURN, HIS SORROWS VANISH.
I wept, but now I sing; its heavenly light
That living sun conceals not from my view,
But virtuous love therein revealeth true
His holy purposes and precious might;
Whence, as his wont, such flood of sorrow springs
To shorten of my life the friendless course,
Nor bridge, nor ford, nor oar, nor sails have force
To forward mine escape, nor even wings.
But so profound and of so full a vein
My suff'ring is, so far its shore appears,
Scarcely to reach it can e'en thought contrive:
Nor palm, nor laurel pity prompts to gain,
But tranquil olive, and the dark sky clears,
And checks my grief and wills me to survive.
MACGREGOR.
SONNET CXCV.
_I' mi vivea di mia sorte contento. _
HE FEARS THAT AN ILLNESS WHICH HAS ATTACKED THE EYES OF LAURA MAY
DEPRIVE HIM OF THEIR SIGHT.
I lived so tranquil, with my lot content,
No sorrow visited, nor envy pined,
To other loves if fortune were more kind
One pang of mine their thousand joys outwent;
But those bright eyes, whence never I repent
The pains I feel, nor wish them less to find,
So dark a cloud and heavy now does blind,
Seems as my sun of life in them were spent.
O Nature! mother pitiful yet stern,
Whence is the power which prompts thy wayward deeds,
Such lovely things to make and mar in turn?
True, from one living fount all power proceeds:
But how couldst Thou consent, great God of Heaven,
That aught should rob the world of what thy love had given?
MACGREGOR.
SONNET CXCVI.
_Vincitore Alessandro l' ira vinse. _
THE EVIL RESULTS OF UNRESTRAINED ANGER.
What though the ablest artists of old time
Left us the sculptured bust, the imaged form
Of conq'ring Alexander, wrath o'ercame
And made him for the while than Philip less?
Wrath to such fury valiant Tydeus drove
That dying he devour'd his slaughter'd foe;
Wrath made not Sylla merely blear of eye,
But blind to all, and kill'd him in the end.
Well Valentinian knew that to such pain
Wrath leads, and Ajax, he whose death it wrought.
Strong against many, 'gainst himself at last.
Wrath is brief madness, and, when unrestrain'd,
Long madness, which its master often leads
To shame and crime, and haply e'en to death.
ANON.
SONNET CXCVII.
_Qual ventura mi fu, quando dall' uno. _
HE REJOICES AT PARTICIPATING IN HER SUFFERINGS.
Strange, passing strange adventure! when from one
Of the two brightest eyes which ever were,
Beholding it with pain dis urb'd and dim,
Moved influence which my own made dull and weak.
I had return'd, to break the weary fast
Of seeing her, my sole care in this world,
Kinder to me were Heaven and Love than e'en
If all their other gifts together join'd,
When from the right eye--rather the right sun--
Of my dear Lady to my right eye came
The ill which less my pain than pleasure makes;
As if it intellect possess'd and wings
It pass'd, as stars that shoot along the sky:
Nature and pity then pursued their course.
ANON.
SONNET CXCVIII.
_O cameretta che gia fosti un porto. _
HE NO LONGER FINDS RELIEF IN SOLITUDE.
Thou little chamber'd haven to the woes
Whose daily tempest overwhelms my soul!
From shame, I in Heaven's light my grief control;
Thou art its fountain, which each night o'erflows.
My couch! that oft hath woo'd me to repose,
'Mid sorrows vast--Love's iv'ried hand hath stole
Griefs turgid stream, which o'er thee it doth roll,
That hand which good on all but me bestows.
Not only quiet and sweet rest I fly,
But from myself and thought, whose vain pursuit
On pinion'd fancy doth my soul transport:
The multitude I did so long defy,
Now as my hope and refuge I salute,
So much I tremble solitude to court.
WOLLASTON.
Room! which to me hast been a port and shield
From life's rude daily tempests for long years,
Now the full fountain of my nightly tears
Which in the day I bear for shame conceal'd:
Bed! which, in woes so great, wert wont to yield
Comfort and rest, an urn of doubts and fears
Love o'er thee now from those fair hands uprears,
Cruel and cold to me alone reveal'd.
But e'en than solitude and rest, I flee
More from myself and melancholy thought,
In whose vain quest my soul has heavenward flown.
The crowd long hateful, hostile e'en to me,
Strange though it sound, for refuge have I sought,
Such fear have I to find myself alone!
MACGREGOR.
SONNET CXCIX.
_Lasso! Amor mi trasporta ov' io non voglio. _
HE EXCUSES HIMSELF FOR VISITING LAURA TOO OFTEN, AND LOVING HER TOO
MUCH.
Alas! Love bears me where I would not go,
And well I see how duty is transgress'd,
And how to her who, queen-like, rules my breast,
More than my wont importunate I grow.
Never from rocks wise sailor guarded so
His ship of richest merchandise possess'd,
As evermore I shield my bark distress'd
From shocks of her hard pride that would o'erthrow
Torrents of tears, fierce winds of infinite sighs
--For, in my sea, nights horrible and dark
And pitiless winter reign--have driven my bark,
Sail-less and helm-less where it shatter'd lies,
Or, drifting at the mercy of the main,
Trouble to others bears, distress to me and pain.
MACGREGOR.
SONNET CC.
_Amor, io fallo e veggio il mio fallire. _
HE PRAYS LOVE, WHO IS THE CAUSE OF HIS OFFENCES, TO OBTAIN PARDON FOR
HIM.
O Love, I err, and I mine error own,
As one who burns, whose fire within him lies
And aggravates his grief, while reason dies,
With its own martyrdom almost o'erthrown.
I strove mine ardent longing to restrain,
Her fair calm face that I might ne'er disturb:
I can no more; falls from my hand the curb,
And my despairing soul is bold again;
Wherefore if higher than her wont she aim,
The act is thine, who firest and spur'st her so,
No way too rough or steep for her to go:
But the rare heavenly gifts are most to blame
Shrined in herself: let her at least feel this,
Lest of my faults her pardon I should miss.
MACGREGOR.
SESTINA VII.
_Non ha tanti animali il mar fra l' onde. _
HE DESPAIRS OF ESCAPE FROM THE TORMENTS BY WHICH HE IS SURROUNDED.
Nor Ocean holds such swarms amid his waves,
Not overhead, where circles the pale moon,
Were stars so numerous ever seen by night,
Nor dwell so many birds among the woods,
Nor plants so many clothe the field or hill,
As holds my tost heart busy thoughts each eve.
Each day I hope that this my latest eve
Shall part from my quick clay the sad salt waves,
And leave me in last sleep on some cold hill;
So many torments man beneath the moon
Ne'er bore as I have borne; this know the woods
Through which I wander lonely day and night.
For never have I had a tranquil night,
But ceaseless sighs instead from morn till eve,
Since love first made me tenant of the woods:
The sea, ere I can rest, shall lose his waves,
The sun his light shall borrow from the moon,
And April flowers be blasted o'er each hill.
Thus, to myself a prey, from hill to hill,
Pensive by day I roam, and weep at night,
No one state mine, but changeful as the moon;
And when I see approaching the brown eve,
Sighs from my bosom, from my eyes fall waves,
The herbs to moisten and to move the woods.
Hostile the cities, friendly are the woods
To thoughts like mine, which, on this lofty hill,
Mingle their murmur with the moaning waves,
Through the sweet silence of the spangled night,
So that the livelong day I wait the eve,
When the sun sets and rises the fair moon.
Would, like Endymion, 'neath the enamour'd moon,
That slumbering I were laid in leafy woods,
And that ere vesper she who makes my eve,
With Love and Luna on that favour'd hill,
Alone, would come, and stay but one sweet night,
While stood the sun nor sought his western waves.
Upon the hard waves, 'neath the beaming moon,
Song, that art born of night amid the woods,
Thou shalt a rich hill see to-morrow eve!
MACGREGOR.
Count the ocean's finny droves;
Count the twinkling host of stars.
Round the night's pale orb that moves;
Count the groves' wing'd choristers;
Count each verdant blade that grows;
Counted then will be my woes.
When shall these eyes cease to weep;
When shall this world-wearied frame,
Cover'd by the cold sod, sleep? --
Sure, beneath yon planet's beam,
None like me have made such moan;
This to every bower is known.
Sad my nights; from morn till eve,
Tenanting the woods, I sigh:
But, ere I shall cease to grieve,
Ocean's vast bed shall be dry,
Suns their light from moons shall gain.
And spring wither on each plain.
Pensive, weeping, night and day,
From this shore to that I fly,
Changeful as the lunar ray;
And, when evening veils the sky,
Then my tears might swell the floods,
Then my sighs might bow the woods!
Towns I hate, the shades I love;
For relief to yon green height,
Where the rill resounds, I rove
At the grateful calm of night;
There I wait the day's decline,
For the welcome moon to shine.
Oh, that in some lone retreat,
Like Endymion I were lain;
And that she, who rules my fate,
There one night to stay would deign;
Never from his billowy bed
More might Phoebus lift his head!
Song, that on the wood-hung stream
In the silent hour wert born,
Witness'd but by Cynthia's beam.
Soon as breaks to-morrow's morn,
Thou shalt seek a glorious plain,
There with Laura to remain!
DACRE.
SESTINA VIII.
_La ver l' aurora, che si dolce l' aura. _
SHE IS MOVED NEITHER BY HIS VERSES NOR HIS TEARS.
When music warbles from each thorn,
And Zephyr's dewy wings
Sweep the young flowers; what time the morn
Her crimson radiance flings:
Then, as the smiling year renews,
I feel renew'd Love's tender pain;
Renew'd is Laura's cold disdain;
And I for comfort court the weeping muse.
Oh! could my sighs in accents flow
So musically lorn,
That thou might'st catch my am'rous woe,
And cease, proud Maid! thy scorn:
Yet, ere within thy icy breast
The smallest spark of passion's found,
Winter's cold temples shall be bound
With all the blooms that paint spring's glowing vest.
The drops that bathe the grief-dew'd eye,
The love-impassion'd strain
To move thy flinty bosom try
Full oft;--but, ah! in vain
Would tears, and melting song avail;
As vainly might the silken breeze,
That bends the flowers, that fans the trees,
Some rugged rock's tremendous brow assail.
Both gods and men alike are sway'd
By Love, as poets tell;--
And I, when flowers in every shade
Their bursting gems reveal,
First felt his all-subduing power:
While Laura knows not yet the smart;
Nor heeds the tortures of my heart,
My prayers, my plaints, and sorrow's pearly shower!
Thy wrongs, my soul! with patience bear,
While life shall warm this clay;
And soothing sounds to Laura's ear
My numbers shall convey;
Numbers with forceful magic charm
All nature o'er the frost-bound earth,
Wake summer's fragrant buds to birth,
And the fierce serpent of its rage disarm.
The blossom'd shrubs in smiles are drest,
Now laughs his purple plain;
And shall the nymph a foe profest
To tenderness remain?
But oh! what solace shall I find,
If fortune dooms me yet to bear
The frowns of my relentless Fair,
Save with soft moan to vex the pitying wind?
In baffling nets the light-wing'd gale
I'd fetter as it blows,
The vernal rose that scents the vale
I'd cull on wintery snows;
Still I'd ne'er hope that mind to move
Which dares defy the wiles of verse, and Love.
ANON. 1777.
SONNET CCI.
_Real natura, angelico intelletto. _
ON THE KISS OF HONOUR GIVEN BY CHARLES OF LUXEMBURG TO LAURA AT A
BANQUET.
A kingly nature, an angelic mind,
A spotless soul, prompt aspect and keen eye,
Quick penetration, contemplation high
And truly worthy of the breast which shrined:
In bright assembly lovely ladies join'd
To grace that festival with gratulant joy,
Amid so many and fair faces nigh
Soon his good judgment did the fairest find.
Of riper age and higher rank the rest
Gently he beckon'd with his hand aside,
And lovingly drew near the perfect ONE:
So courteously her eyes and brow he press'd,
All at his choice in fond approval vied--
Envy through my sole veins at that sweet freedom run.
MACGREGOR.
A sovereign nature,--an exalted mind,--
A soul proud--sleepless--with a lynx's eye,--
An instant foresight,--thought as towering high,
E'en as the heart in which they are enshrined:
A bright assembly on that day combined
Each other in his honour to outvie,
When 'mid the fair his judgment did descry
That sweet perfection all to her resign'd.
Unmindful of her rival sisterhood,
He motion'd silently his preference,
And fondly welcomed her, that humblest one:
So pure a kiss he gave, that all who stood,
Though fair, rejoiced in beauty's recompense:
By that strange act nay heart was quite undone!
WOLLASTON.
SONNET CCII.
_I' ho pregato Amor, e nel riprego. _
HE PLEADS THE EXCESS OF HIS PASSION IN PALLIATION OF HIS FAULT.
Oft have I pray'd to Love, and still I pray,
My charming agony, my bitter joy!
That he would crave your grace, if consciously
From the right path my guilty footsteps stray.
That Reason, which o'er happier minds holds sway,
Is quell'd of Appetite, I not deny;
And hence, through tracks my better thoughts would fly,
The victor hurries me perforce away,
You, in whose bosom Genius, Virtue reign
With mingled blaze lit by auspicious skies--
Ne'er shower'd kind star its beams on aught so rare!
You, you should say with pity, not disdain;
"How could he 'scape, lost wretch! these lightning eyes--
So passionate he, and I so direly fair? "
WRANGHAM.
SONNET CCIII.
_L' alto signor, dinanzi a cui non vale. _
HIS SORROW FOR THE ILLNESS OF LAURA INCREASES, NOT LESSENS, HIS FLAME.
The sovereign Lord, 'gainst whom of no avail
Concealment, or resistance is, or flight,
My mind had kindled to a new delight
By his own amorous and ardent ail:
Though his first blow, transfixing my best mail
Were mortal sure, to push his triumph quite
He took a shaft of sorrow in his right,
So my soft heart on both sides to assail.
A burning wound the one shed fire and flame,
The other tears, which ever grief distils,
Through eyes for your weak health that are as rills.
But no relief from either fountain came
My bosom's conflagration to abate,
Nay, passion grew by very pity great.
MACGREGOR.
SONNET CCIV.
_Mira quel colle, o stanco mio cor vago. _
HE BIDS HIS HEART RETURN TO LAURA, NOT PERCEIVING THAT IT HAD NEVER LEFT
HER.
_P. _ Look on that hill, my fond but harass'd heart!
Yestreen we left her there, who 'gan to take
Some care of us and friendlier looks to dart;
Now from our eyes she draws a very lake:
Return alone--I love to be apart--
Try, if perchance the day will ever break
To mitigate our still increasing smart,
Partner and prophet of my lifelong ache.
_H. _ O wretch! in whom vain thoughts and idle swell,
Thou, who thyself hast tutor'd to forget,
Speak'st to thy heart as if 'twere with thee yet?
When to thy greatest bliss thou saidst farewell,
Thou didst depart alone: it stay'd with her,
Nor cares from those bright eyes, its home, to stir.
MACGREGOR.
SONNET CCV.
_Fresco ambroso fiorito e verde colle. _
HE CONGRATULATES HIS HEART ON ITS REMAINING WITH HER.
O hill with green o'erspread, with groves o'erhung!
Where musing now, now trilling her sweet lay,
Most like what bards of heavenly spirits say,
Sits she by fame through every region sung:
My heart, which wisely unto her has clung--
More wise, if there, in absence blest, it stay!
Notes now the turf o'er which her soft steps stray,
Now where her angel-eyes' mild beam is flung;
Then throbs and murmurs, as they onward rove,
"Ah! were he here, that man of wretched lot,
Doom'd but to taste the bitterness of love! "
She, conscious, smiles: our feelings tally not:
Heartless am I, mere stone; heaven is thy grove--
O dear delightful shade, O consecrated spot!
WRANGHAM.
Fresh, shaded hill! with flowers and verdure crown'd,
Where, in fond musings, or with music sweet,
To earth a heaven-sent spirit takes her seat!
She who from all the world has honour found.
Forsaking me, to her my fond heart bound
--Divorce for aye were welcome as discreet--
Notes where the turf is mark'd by her fair feet,
Or from these eyes for her in sorrow drown'd,
Then inly whispers as her steps advance,
"Would for awhile that wreteh were here alone
Who pines already o'er his bitter lot. "
She conscious smiles. Not equal is the chance;
An Eden thou, while I a heartless stone.
O holy, happy, and beloved spot!
MACGREGOR.
SONNET CCVI.
_Il mal mi preme, e mi spaventa il peggio. _
TO A FRIEND, IN LOVE LIKE HIMSELF, HE CAN GIVE NO ADVICE BUT TO RAISE
HIS SOUL TO GOD.
Evil oppresses me and worse dismay,
To which a plain and ample way I find;
Driven like thee by frantic passion, blind,
Urged by harsh thoughts I bend like thee my way.
Nor know I if for war or peace to pray:
To war is ruin, shame to peace, assign'd.
But wherefore languish thus? --Rather, resign'd,
Whate'er the Will Supreme ordains, obey.
However ill that honour me beseem
By thee conferr'd, whom that affection cheats
Which many a perfect eye to error sways,
To raise thy spirit to that realm supreme
My counsel is, and win those blissful seats:
For short the time, and few the allotted days.
CAPEL LOFFT.
The bad oppresses me, the worse dismays,
To which so broad and plain a path I see;
My spirit, to like frenzy led with thee,
Tried by the same hard thoughts, in dotage strays,
Nor knows if peace or war of God it prays,
Though great the loss and deep the shame to me.
But why pine longer? Best our lot will be,
What Heaven's high will ordains when man obeys.
Though I of that great honour worthless prove
Offer'd by thee--herein Love leads to err
Who often makes the sound eye to see wrong--
My counsel this, instant on Heaven above
Thy soul to elevate, thy heart to spur,
For though the time be short, the way is long.
MACGREGOR.
SONNET CCVII.
_Due rose fresche, e colte in paradiso. _
THE TWO ROSES.
Two brilliant roses, fresh from Paradise,
Which there, on May-day morn, in beauty sprung
Fair gift, and by a lover old and wise
Equally offer'd to two lovers young:
At speech so tender and such winning guise,
As transports from a savage might have wrung,
A living lustre lit their mutual eyes,
And instant on their cheeks a soft blush hung.
The sun ne'er look'd upon a lovelier pair,
With a sweet smile and gentle sigh he said,
Pressing the hands of both and turn'd away.
Of words and roses each alike had share.
E'en now my worn heart thrill with joy and dread,
O happy eloquence! O blessed day!
MACGREGOR.
SONNET CCVIII.
_L' aura che 'l verde Lauro e l' aureo crine. _
HE PRAYS THAT HE MAY DIE BEFORE LAURA.
The balmy gale, that, with its tender sigh,
Moves the green laurel and the golden hair,
Makes with its graceful visitings and rare
The gazer's spirit from his body fly.
A sweet and snow-white rose in hard thorns set!
Where in the world her fellow shall we find?
The glory of our age! Creator kind!
Grant that ere hers my death shall first be met.
So the great public loss I may not see,
The world without its sun, in darkness left,
And from my desolate eyes their sole light reft,
My mind with which no other thoughts agree,
Mine ears which by no other sound are stirr'd
Except her ever pure and gentle word.
MACGREGOR.
SONNET CCIX.
_Parra forse ad alcun, che 'n lodar quella. _
HE INVITES THOSE TO WHOM HIS PRAISES SEEM EXCESSIVE TO BEHOLD THE OBJECT
OF THEM.
Haply my style to some may seem too free
In praise of her who holds my being's chain,
Queen of her sex describing her to reign,
Wise, winning, good, fair, noble, chaste to be:
To me it seems not so; I fear that she
My lays as low and trifling may disdain,
Worthy a higher and a better strain;
--Who thinks not with me let him come and see.
Then will he say, She whom his wishes seek
Is one indeed whose grace and worth might tire
The muses of all lands and either lyre.
But mortal tongue for state divine is weak,
And may not soar; by flattery and force,
As Fate not choice ordains, Love rules its course.
MACGREGOR.
SONNET CCX.
_Chi vuol veder quantunque puo Natura.
