It would be rather tedious to pull out, one by one, all the sheep and lambs of our poet's flock of sonnets, and to enumerate the varieties of their bleat; and though, by studying the subject half his lifetime, a man might classify them by their main characteristics, he would find they defy a perfect classification, as they often blend different qualities.

Some of them have a uniform expression of calm and beautiful feeling.

Others breathe ardent and almost hopeful passion.

Others again show him jealous, despondent, despairing; sometimes gloomily, and sometimes with touching resignation.

But a great many of them have a mixed character, where, in the space of a line, he passes from one mood of mind to another.
As an example of pleasing and calm reflection, I would cite the first of his sonnets, according to the order in which they are usually printed.
It is singular to find it confessing the poet's shame at the retrospect of so many years spent.
_Voi ch' ascoltate in rime sparse il suono._ Ye who shall hear amidst my scatter'd lays The sighs with which I fann'd and fed my heart.
When, young and glowing, I was but in part The man I am become in later days; Ye who have mark'd the changes of my style From vain despondency to hope as vain, From him among you, who has felt love's pain, I hope for pardon, ay, and pity's smile, Though conscious, now, my passion was a theme, Long, idly dwelt on by the public tongue, I blush for all the vanities I've sung, And find the world's applause a fleeting dream.
The following sonnet (cxxvi.) is such a gem of Petrarchan and Platonic homage to beauty that I subjoin my translation of it with the most sincere avowal of my conscious inability to do it justice.
In what ideal world or part of heaven Did Nature find the model of that face And form, so fraught with loveliness and grace, In which, to our creation, she has given Her prime proof of creative power above?
What fountain nymph or goddess ever let Such lovely tresses float of gold refined Upon the breeze, or in a single mind, Where have so many virtues ever met, E'en though those charms have slain my bosom's weal?
He knows not love who has not seen her eyes Turn when she sweetly speaks, or smiles, or sighs, Or how the power of love can hurt or heal.
Sonnet lxix.