1777.
Most fortunate and fair of spots terrene! Where Love I saw her forward footstep stay, And turn on me her bright eyes' heavenly ray, Which round them make the atmosphere serene.
A solid form of adamant, I ween, Would sooner shrink in lapse of time away, Than from my mind that sweet salute decay, Dear to my heart, in memory ever green.
And oft as I return to view this spot, In its fair scenes I'll fondly stoop to seek Where yet the traces of her light foot lie.
But if in valorous heart Love sleepeth not, Whene'er you meet her, friend, for me bespeak Some passing tears, perchance one pitying sigh.
MACGREGOR.
SONNET LXXXVI.
_Lasso! quante fiate Amor m' assale._ WHEN LOVE DISTURBS HIM, HE CALMS HIMSELF BY THINKING OF THE EYES AND WORDS OF LAURA.
Alas! how ceaselessly is urged Love's claim, By day, by night, a thousand times I turn Where best I may behold the dear lights burn Which have immortalized my bosom's flame.
Thus grow I calm, and to such state am brought, At noon, at break of day, at vesper-bell, I find them in my mind so tranquil dwell, I neither think nor care beside for aught.
The balmy air, which, from her angel mien, Moves ever with her winning words and wise, Makes wheresoe'er she breathes a sweet serene As 'twere a gentle spirit from the skies, Still in these scenes some comfort brings to me, Nor elsewhere breathes my harass'd heart so free.
MACGREGOR.
SONNET LXXXVII.
_Perseguendomi Amor al luogo usato._ HE IS BEWILDERED AT THE UNEXPECTED ARRIVAL OF LAURA.
As Love his arts in haunts familiar tried, Watchful as one expecting war is found, Who all foresees and guards the passes round, I in the armour of old thoughts relied: Turning, I saw a shadow at my side Cast by the sun, whose outline on the ground I knew for hers, who--be my judgment sound-- Deserves in bliss immortal to abide.
I whisper'd to my heart, Nay, wherefore fear?
But scarcely did the thought arise within Than the bright rays in which I burn were here.
As thunders with the lightning-flash begin, So was I struck at once both blind and mute, By her dear dazzling eyes and sweet salute.
MACGREGOR.
SONNET LXXXVIII.
_La donna che 'l mio cor nel viso porta._ HER KIND AND GENTLE SALUTATION THRILLS HIS HEART WITH PLEASURE.
She, in her face who doth my gone heart wear, As lone I sate 'mid love-thoughts dear and true, Appear'd before me: to show honour due, I rose, with pallid brow and reverent air.
Soon as of such my state she was aware, She turn'd on me with look so soft and new As, in Jove's greatest fury, might subdue His rage, and from his hand the thunders tear.
I started: on her further way she pass'd Graceful, and speaking words I could not brook, Nor of her lustrous eyes the loving look.
When on that dear salute my thoughts are cast, So rich and varied do my pleasures flow, No pain I feel, nor evil fear below.
MACGREGOR.
[Illustration: SOLITUDES OF VAUCLUSE.] SONNET LXXXIX.
_Sennuccio, i' vo' che sappi in qual maniera._ HE RELATES TO HIS FRIEND SENNUCCIO HIS UNHAPPINESS, AND THE VARIED MOOD OF LAURA.
To thee, Sennuccio, fain would I declare, To sadden life, what wrongs, what woes I find: Still glow my wonted flames; and, though resign'd To Laura's fickle will, no change I bear.
All humble now, then haughty is my fair; Now meek, then proud; now pitying, then unkind: Softness and tenderness now sway her mind; Then do her looks disdain and anger wear.
Here would she sweetly sing, there sit awhile, Here bend her step, and there her step retard; Here her bright eyes my easy heart ensnared; There would she speak fond words, here lovely smile; There frown contempt;--such wayward cares I prove By night, by day; so wills our tyrant Love! ANON.

1777.
Alas, Sennuccio! would thy mind could frame What now I suffer! what my life's drear reign; Consumed beneath my heart's continued pain, At will she guides me--yet am I the same.
Now humble--then doth pride her soul inflame; Now harsh--then gentle; cruel--kind again; Now all reserve--then borne on frolic's vein; Disdain alternates with a milder claim.
Here once she sat, and there so sweetly sang; Here turn'd to look on me, and lingering stood; There first her beauteous eyes my spirit stole: And here she smiled, and there her accents rang, Her speaking face here told another mood.
Thus Love, our sovereign, holds me in control.
WOLLASTON.
SONNET XC.
_Qui dove mezzo son, Sennuccio mio._ THE MERE SIGHT OF VAUCLUSE MAKES HIM FORGET ALL THE PERILS OF HIS JOURNEY.
Friend, on this spot, I life but half endure (Would I were wholly here and you content), Where from the storm and wind my course I bent, Which suddenly had left the skies obscure.
Fain would I tell--for here I feel me sure-- Why lightnings now no fear to me present; And why unmitigated, much less spent, E'en as before my fierce desires allure.
Soon as I reach'd these realms of love, and saw Where, sweet and pure, to life my Laura came, Who calms the air, at rest the thunder lays; Love in my soul, where she alone gives law, Quench'd the cold fear and kindled the fast flame; What were it then on her bright eyes to gaze! MACGREGOR.
SONNET XCI.
_Dell' empia Babilonia, ond' e fuggita._ LEAVING ROME, HE DESIRES ONLY PEACE WITH LAURA AND PROSPERITY TO COLONNA.
Yes, out of impious Babylon I'm flown, Whence flown all shame, whence banish'd is all good, That nurse of error, and of guilt th' abode, To lengthen out a life which else were gone: There as Love prompts, while wandering alone, I now a garland weave, and now an ode; With him I commune, and in pensive mood Hope better times; this only checks my moan.
Nor for the throng, nor fortune do I care, Nor for myself, nor sublunary things, No ardour outwardly, or inly springs: I ask two persons only: let my fair For me a kind and tender heart maintain; And be my friend secure in his high post again.
NOTT.
From impious Babylon, where all shame is dead, And every good is banish'd to far climes, Nurse of rank errors, centre of worst crimes, Haply to lengthen life, I too am fled: Alone, at last alone, and here, as led At Love's sweet will, I posies weave or rhymes, Self-parleying, and still on better times Wrapt in fond thoughts whence only hope is fed.
Cares for the world or fortune I have none, Nor much for self, nor any common theme: Nor feel I in me, nor without, great heat.
Two friends alone I ask, and that the one More merciful and meek to me may seem, The other well as erst, and firm of feet.
MACGREGOR.
SONNET XCII.
_In mezzo di duo amanti onesta altera._ LAURA TURNING TO SALUTE HIM, THE SUN, THROUGH JEALOUSY, WITHDREW BEHIND A CLOUD.
'Tween two fond lovers I a lady spied, Virtuous but haughty, and with her that lord, By gods above and men below adored-- The sun on this, myself upon that side-- Soon as she found herself the sphere denied Of her bright friend, on my fond eyes she pour'd A flood of life and joy, which hope restored Less cold to me will be her future pride.
Suddenly changed itself to cordial mirth The jealous fear to which at his first sight So high a rival in my heart gave birth; As suddenly his sad and rueful plight From further scrutiny a small cloud veil'd, So much it ruffled him that then he fail'd.
MACGREGOR.
SONNET XCIII.
_Pien di quella ineffabile dolcezza._ WHEREVER HE IS, HE SEES ONLY LAURA.
O'erflowing with the sweets ineffable, Which from that lovely face my fond eyes drew, What time they seal'd, for very rapture, grew.
On meaner beauty never more to dwell, Whom most I love I left: my mind so well Its part, to muse on her, is train'd to do, None else it sees; what is not hers to view, As of old wont, with loathing I repel.
In a low valley shut from all around, Sole consolation of my heart-deep sighs, Pensive and slow, with Love I walk alone: Not ladies here, but rocks and founts are found, And of that day blest images arise, Which my thought shapes where'er I turn mine eyes.
MACGREGOR.
SONNET XCIV.
_Se 'l sasso ond' e piu chiusa questa valle._ COULD HE BUT SEE THE HOUSE OF LAURA, HIS SIGHS MIGHT REACH HER MORE QUICKLY.
If, which our valley bars, this wall of stone, From which its present name we closely trace, Were by disdainful nature rased, and thrown Its back to Babel and to Rome its face; Then had my sighs a better pathway known To where their hope is yet in life and grace: They now go singly, yet my voice all own; And, where I send, not one but finds its place.
There too, as I perceive, such welcome sweet They ever find, that none returns again, But still delightedly with her remain.
My grief is from the eyes, each morn to meet-- Not the fair scenes my soul so long'd to see-- Toil for my weary limbs and tears for me.
MACGREGOR.
SONNET XCV.
_Rimansi addietro il sestodecim' anno._ THOUGH HE IS UNHAPPY, HIS LOVE REMAINS EVER UNCHANGED.
My sixteenth year of sighs its course has run, I stand alone, already on the brow Where Age descends: and yet it seems as now My time of trial only were begun.
'Tis sweet to love, and good to be undone; Though life be hard, more days may Heaven allow Misfortune to outlive: else Death may bow The bright head low my loving praise that won.
Here am I now who fain would be elsewhere; More would I wish and yet no more I would; I could no more and yet did all I could: And new tears born of old desires declare That still I am as I was wont to be, And that a thousand changes change not me.
MACGREGOR.
CANZONE XII.
_Una donna piu bella assai che 'l sole._ GLORY AND VIRTUE.
A lady, lovelier, brighter than the sun, Like him superior o'er all time and space, Of rare resistless grace, Me to her train in early life had won: She, from that hour, in act, and word and thought, -- For still the world thus covets what is rare-- In many ways though brought Before my search, was still the same coy fair: For her alone my plans, from what they were, Grew changed, since nearer subject to her eyes; Her love alone could spur My young ambition to each hard emprize: So, if in long-wish'd port I e'er arrive, I hope, for aye through her, When others deem me dead, in honour to survive.
Full of first hope, burning with youthful love, She, at her will, as plainly now appears, Has led me many years, But for one end, my nature best to prove: Oft showing me her shadow, veil, and dress, But never her sweet face, till I, who right Knew not her power to bless, All my green youth for these, contented quite, So spent, that still the memory is delight: Since onward yet some glimpse of her is seen, I now may own, of late, Such as till then she ne'er for me had been, She shows herself, shooting through all my heart An icy cold so great That save in her dear arms it ne'er can thence depart.
Not that in this cold fear I all did shrink, For still my heart was to such boldness strung That to her feet I clung, As if more rapture from her eyes to drink: And she--for now the veil was ta'en away Which barr'd my sight--thus spoke me, "Friend, you see How fair I am, and may Ask, for your years, whatever fittest be." "Lady," I said, "so long my love on thee Has fix'd, that now I feel myself on fire, What, in this state, to shun, and what desire." She, thereon, with a voice so wond'rous sweet And earnest look replied, By turns with hope and fear it made my quick heart beat:-- "Rarely has man, in this full crowd below, E'en partial knowledge of my worth possess'd Who felt not in his breast At least awhile some spark of spirit glow: But soon my foe, each germ of good abhorr'd, Quenches that light, and every virtue dies, While reigns some other lord Who promises a calmer life shall rise: Love, of your mind, to him that naked lies, So shows the great desire with which you burn, That safely I divine It yet shall win for you an honour'd urn; Already one of my few friends you are, And now shall see in sign A lady who shall make your fond eyes happier far." "It may not, cannot be," I thus began; -- When she, "Turn hither, and in yon calm nook Upon the lady look So seldom seen, so little sought of man!" I turn'd, and o'er my brow the mantling shame, Within me as I felt that new fire swell, Of conscious treason came.
She softly smiled, "I understand you well; E'en as the sun's more powerful rays dispel And drive the meaner stars of heaven from sight, So I less fair appear, Dwindling and darken'd now in her more light; But not for this I bar you from my train, As one in jealous fear-- One birth, the elder she, produced us, sisters twain." Meanwhile the cold and heavy chain was burst Of silence, which a sense of shame had flung Around my powerless tongue, When I was conscious of her notice first: And thus I spoke, "If what I hear be true, Bless'd be the sire, and bless'd the natal day Which graced our world with you! Blest the long years pass'd in your search away! From the right path if e'er I went astray, It grieves me more than, haply, I can show: But of your state, if I Deserve more knowledge, more I long to know." She paused, then, answering pensively, so bent On me her eloquent eye, That to my inmost heart her looks and language went:-- "As seem'd to our Eternal Father best, We two were made immortal at our birth: To man so small our worth Better on us that death, like yours, should rest.
Though once beloved and lovely, young and bright, So slighted are we now, my sister sweet Already plumes for flight Her wings to bear her to her own old seat; Myself am but a shadow thin and fleet; Thus have I told you, in brief words, whate'er You sought of us to find: And now farewell! before I mount in air This favour take, nor fear that I forget." Whereat she took and twined A wreath of laurel green, and round my temples set.
My song! should any deem thy strain obscure, Say, that I care not, and, ere long to hear, In certain words and clear, Truth's welcome message, that my hope is sure; For this alone, unless I widely err Of him who set me on the task, I came, That others I might stir To honourable acts of high and holy aim.
MACGREGOR.
MADRIGALE IV.
_Or vedi, Amor, che giovinetta donna._ A PRAYER TO LOVE THAT HE WILL TAKE VENGEANCE ON THE SCORNFUL PRIDE OF LAURA.
Now, Love, at length behold a youthful fair, Who spurns thy rule, and, mocking all my care, 'Mid two such foes, is safe and fancy free.
Thou art well arm'd, 'mid flowers and verdure she, In simplest robe and natural tresses found, Against thee haughty still and harsh to me; I am thy thrall: but, if thy bow be sound, If yet one shaft be thine, in pity, take Vengeance upon her for our common sake.
MACGREGOR.
SONNET XCVI.
_Quelle pietose rime, in ch' io m' accorsi._ TO ANTONIO OF FERRARA, WHO, IN A POEM, HAD LAMENTED PETRARCH'S SUPPOSED DEATH.
Those pious lines wherein are finely met Proofs of high genius and a spirit kind, Had so much influence on my grateful mind That instantly in hand my pen I set To tell you that death's final blow--which yet Shall me and every mortal surely find-- I have not felt, though I, too, nearly join'd The confines of his realm without regret; But I turn'd back again because I read Writ o'er the threshold that the time to me Of life predestinate not all was fled, Though its last day and hour I could not see.
Then once more let your sad heart comfort know, And love the living worth which dead it honour'd so.
MACGREGOR.
SONNET XCVII.
_Dicesett' anni ha gia rivolto il cielo._ E'EN IN OUR ASHES LIVE OUR WONTED FIRES.
The seventeenth summer now, alas! is gone, And still with ardour unconsumed I glow; Yet find, whene'er myself I seek to know, Amidst the fire a frosty chill come on.
Truly 'tis said, 'Ere Habit quits her throne, Years bleach the hair.' The senses feel life's snow, But not less hot the tides of passion flow: Such is our earthly nature's malison! Oh! come the happy day, when doom'd to smart No more, from flames and lingering sorrows free, Calm I may note how fast youth's minutes flew! Ah! will it e'er be mine the hour to see, When with delight, nor duty nor my heart Can blame, these eyes once more that angel face may view?
WRANGHAM.
For seventeen summers heaven has o'er me roll'd Since first I burn'd, nor e'er found respite thence, But when to weigh our state my thoughts commence I feel amidst the flames a frosty cold.
We change the form, not nature, is an old And truthful proverb: thus, to dull the sense Makes not the human feelings less intense; The dark shades of our painful veil still hold.
Alas! alas! will e'er that day appear When, my life's flight beholding, I may find Issue from endless fire and lingering pain,-- The day which, crowning all my wishes here, Of that fair face the angel air and kind Shall to my longing eyes restore again?
MACGREGOR.
SONNET XCVIII.
_Quel vago impallidir che 'l dolce riso._ LEAVE-TAKING.
That witching paleness, which with cloud of love Veil'd her sweet smile, majestically bright, So thrill'd my heart, that from the bosom's night Midway to meet it on her face it strove.
Then learnt I how, 'mid realms of joy above, The blest behold the blest: in such pure light I scann'd her tender thought, to others' sight Viewless!--but my fond glances would not rove.
Each angel grace, each lowly courtesy, E'er traced in dame by Love's soft power inspired, Would seem but foils to those which prompt my lay: Upon the ground was cast her gentle eye, And still methought, though silent, she inquired, "What bears my faithful friend so soon, so far away ?" WRANGHAM.
There was a touching paleness on her face, Which chased her smiles, but such sweet union made Of pensive majesty and heavenly grace, As if a passing cloud had veil'd her with its shade; Then knew I how the blessed ones above Gaze on each other in their perfect bliss, For never yet was look of mortal love So pure, so tender, so serene as this.
The softest glance fond woman ever sent To him she loved, would cold and rayless be Compared to this, which she divinely bent Earthward, with angel sympathy, on me, That seem'd with speechless tenderness to say, "Who takes from me my faithful friend away ?" E.( _New Monthly Magazine_.) SONNET XCIX.
_Amor, Fortuna, e la mia mente schiva._ THE CAUSES OF HIS WOE.
Love, Fortune, and my melancholy mind, Sick of the present, lingering on the past, Afflict me so, that envious thoughts I cast On those who life's dark shore have left behind.
Love racks my bosom: Fortune's wintry wind Kills every comfort: my weak mind at last Is chafed and pines, so many ills and vast Expose its peace to constant strifes unkind.
Nor hope I better days shall turn again; But what is left from bad to worse may pass: For ah! already life is on the wane.
Not now of adamant, but frail as glass, I see my best hopes fall from me or fade, And low in dust my fond thoughts broken laid.
MACGREGOR.
Love, Fortune, and my ever-faithful mind, Which loathes the present in its memoried past, So wound my spirit, that on all I cast An envied thought who rest in darkness find.
My heart Love prostrates, Fortune more unkind No comfort grants, until its sorrow vast Impotent frets, then melts to tears at last: Thus I to painful warfare am consign'd.
My halcyon days I hope not to return, But paint my future by a darker tint; My spring is gone--my summer well-nigh fled: Ah! wretched me! too well do I discern Each hope is now (unlike the diamond flint) A fragile mirror, with its fragments shed.
WOLLASTON.
CANZONE XIII.
_Se 'l pensier che mi strugge._ HE SEEKS IN VAIN TO MITIGATE HIS WOE.
Oh! that my cheeks were taught By the fond, wasting thought To wear such hues as could its influence speak; Then the dear, scornful fair Might all my ardour share; And where Love slumbers now he might awake! Less oft the hill and mead My wearied feet should tread; Less oft, perhaps, these eyes with tears should stream; If she, who cold as snow, With equal fire would glow-- She who dissolves me, and converts to flame.
Since Love exerts his sway, And bears my sense away, I chant uncouth and inharmonious songs: Nor leaves, nor blossoms show, Nor rind, upon the bough, What is the nature that thereto belongs.
Love, and those beauteous eyes, Beneath whose shade he lies, Discover all the heart can comprehend: When vented are my cares In loud complaints, and tears; These harm myself, and others those offend.
Sweet lays of sportive vein, Which help'd me to sustain Love's first assault, the only arms I bore; This flinty breast say who Shall once again subdue, That I with song may soothe me as before?
Some power appears to trace Within me Laura's face, Whispers her name; and straight in verse I strive To picture her again, But the fond effort's vain: Me of my solace thus doth Fate deprive.
E'en as some babe unties Its tongue in stammering guise, Who cannot speak, yet will not silence keep: So fond words I essay; And listen'd be the lay By my fair foe, ere in the tomb I sleep! But if, of beauty vain, She treats me with disdain; Do thou, O verdant shore, attend my sighs: Let them so freely flow, That all the world may know, My sorrow thou at least didst not despise! And well art thou aware, That never foot so fair The soil e'er press'd as that which trod thee late; My sunk soul and worn heart Now seek thee, to impart The secret griefs that on my passion wait.
If on thy margent green, Or 'midst thy flowers, were seen Some traces of her footsteps lingering there.
My wearied life 'twould cheer, Bitter'd with many a tear: Ah! now what means are left to soothe my care?
Where'er I bend mine eye, What sweet serenity I feel, to think here Laura shone of yore.
Each plant and scented bloom I gather, seems to come From where she wander'd on the custom'd shore: Ofttimes in this retreat A fresh and fragrant seat She found; at least so fancy's vision shows: And never let truth seek Th' illusion dear to break-- O spirit blest, from whom such magic flows! To thee, my simple song, No polish doth belong; Thyself art conscious of thy little worth! Solicit not renown Throughout the busy town, But dwell within the shade that gave thee birth.
NOTT.
CANZONE XIV.
_Chiare, fresche e dolci acque._ TO THE FOUNTAIN OF VAUOLUSE--CONTEMPLATIONS OF DEATH.
Ye limpid brooks, by whose clear streams My goddess laid her tender limbs! Ye gentle boughs, whose friendly shade Gave shelter to the lovely maid! Ye herbs and flowers, so sweetly press'd By her soft rising snowy breast! Ye Zephyrs mild, that breathed around The place where Love my heart did wound! Now at my summons all appear, And to my dying words give ear.
If then my destiny requires, And Heaven with my fate conspires, That Love these eyes should weeping close, Here let me find a soft repose.
So Death will less my soul affright, And, free from dread, my weary spright Naked alone will dare t' essay The still unknown, though beaten way; Pleased that her mortal part will have So safe a port, so sweet a grave.
The cruel fair, for whom I burn, May one day to these shades return, And smiling with superior grace, Her lover seek around this place, And when instead of me she finds Some crumbling dust toss'd by the winds, She may feel pity in her breast, And, sighing, wish me happy rest, Drying her eyes with her soft veil, Such tears must sure with Heaven prevail.
Well I remember how the flowers Descended from these boughs in showers, Encircled in the fragrant cloud She set, nor midst such glory proud.
These blossoms to her lap repair, These fall upon her flowing hair, (Like pearls enchased in gold they seem,) These on the ground, these on the stream; In giddy rounds these dancing say, Here Love and Laura only sway.
In rapturous wonder oft I said, Sure she in Paradise was made, Thence sprang that bright angelic state, Those looks, those words, that heavenly gait, That beauteous smile, that voice divine, Those graces that around her shine: Transported I beheld the fair, And sighing cried, How came I here?
In heaven, amongst th' immortal blest, Here let me fix and ever rest.
MOLESWORTH.
Ye waters clear and fresh, to whose blight wave She all her beauties gave,-- Sole of her sex in my impassion'd mind! Thou sacred branch so graced, (With sighs e'en now retraced!) On whose smooth shaft her heavenly form reclined! Herbage and flowers that bent the robe beneath, Whose graceful folds compress'd Her pure angelic breast! Ye airs serene, that breathe Where Love first taught me in her eyes his lore! Yet once more all attest, The last sad plaintive lay my woe-worn heart may pour! If so I must my destiny fulfil, And Love to close these weeping eyes be doom'd By Heaven's mysterious will, Oh! grant that in this loved retreat, entomb'd, My poor remains may lie, And my freed soul regain its native sky! Less rude shall Death appear, If yet a hope so dear Smooth the dread passage to eternity! No shade so calm--serene, My weary spirit finds on earth below; No grave so still--so green, In which my o'ertoil'd frame may rest from mortal woe! Yet one day, haply, she--so heavenly fair! So kind in cruelty!-- With careless steps may to these haunts repair, And where her beaming eye Met mine in days so blest, A wistful glance may yet unconscious rest, And seeking me around, May mark among the stones a lowly mound, That speaks of pity to the shuddering sense! Then may she breathe a sigh, Of power to win me mercy from above! Doing Heaven violence, All-beautiful in tears of late relenting love! Still dear to memory! when, in odorous showers, Scattering their balmy flowers, To summer airs th' o'ershadowing branches bow'd, The while, with humble state, In all the pomp of tribute sweets she sate, Wrapt in the roseate cloud! Now clustering blossoms deck her vesture's hem, Now her bright tresses gem,-- (In that all-blissful day, Like burnish'd gold with orient pearls inwrought,) Some strew the turf--some on the waters float! Some, fluttering, seem to say In wanton circlets toss'd, "Here Love holds sovereign sway!" Oft I exclaim'd, in awful tremor rapt, "Surely of heavenly birth This gracious form that visits the low earth!" So in oblivion lapp'd Was reason's power, by the celestial mien, The brow,--the accents mild-- The angelic smile serene! That now all sense of sad reality O'erborne by transport wild,-- "Alas! how came I here, and when ?" I cry,-- Deeming my spirit pass'd into the sky! E'en though the illusion cease, In these dear haunts alone my tortured heart finds peace.
If thou wert graced with numbers sweet, my song! To match thy wish to please; Leaving these rocks and trees, Thou boldly might'st go forth, and dare th' assembled throng.
DACRE.
Clear, fresh, and dulcet streams, Which the fair shape, who seems To me sole woman, haunted at noon-tide; Fair bough, so gently fit, (I sigh to think of it,) Which lent a pillar to her lovely side; And turf, and flowers bright-eyed, O'er which her folded gown Flow'd like an angel's down; And you, O holy air and hush'd, Where first my heart at her sweet glances gush'd; Give ear, give ear, with one consenting, To my last words, my last and my lamenting.
If 'tis my fate below, And Heaven will have it so, That Love must close these dying eyes in tears, May my poor dust be laid In middle of your shade, While my soul, naked, mounts to its own spheres.
The thought would calm my fears, When taking, out of breath, The doubtful step of death; For never could my spirit find A stiller port after the stormy wind; Nor in more calm, abstracted bourne, Slip from my travail'd flesh, and from my bones outworn.
Perhaps, some future hour, To her accustom'd bower Might come the untamed, and yet the gentle she; And where she saw me first, Might turn with eyes athirst And kinder joy to look again for me; Then, oh! the charity! Seeing amidst the stones The earth that held my bones, A sigh for very love at last Might ask of Heaven to pardon me the past: And Heaven itself could not say nay, As with her gentle veil she wiped the tears away.
How well I call to mind, When from those boughs the wind Shook down upon her bosom flower on flower; And there she sat, meek-eyed, In midst of all that pride, Sprinkled and blushing through an amorous shower Some to her hair paid dower, And seem'd to dress the curls, Queenlike, with gold and pearls; Some, snowing, on her drapery stopp'd, Some on the earth, some on the water dropp'd; While others, fluttering from above, Seem'd wheeling round in pomp, and saying, "Here reigns Love." How often then I said, Inward, and fill'd with dread, "Doubtless this creature came from Paradise!" For at her look the while, Her voice, and her sweet smile, And heavenly air, truth parted from mine eyes; So that, with long-drawn sighs, I said, as far from men, "How came I here, and when ?" I had forgotten; and alas! Fancied myself in heaven, not where I was; And from that time till this, I bear Such love for the green bower, I cannot rest elsewhere.
LEIGH HUNT.
CANZONE XV.
_In quella parte dov' Amor mi sprona._ HE FINDS HER IMAGE EVERYWHERE.
When Love, fond Love, commands the strain, The coyest muse must sure obey; Love bids my wounded breast complain, And whispers the melodious lay: Yet when such griefs restrain the muse's wing, How shall she dare to soar, or how attempt to sing?
Oh! could my heart express its woe, How poor, how wretched should I seem! But as the plaintive accents flow, Soft comfort spreads her golden gleam; And each gay scene, that Nature holds to view, Bids Laura's absent charms to memory bloom anew.
Though Fate's severe decrees remove Her gladsome beauties from my sight, Yet, urged by pity, friendly Love Bids fond reflection yield delight; If lavish spring with flowerets strews the mead, Her lavish beauties all to fancy are displayed! When to this globe the solar beams Their full meridian blaze impart, It pictures Laura, that inflames With passion's fires each human heart: And when the sun completes his daily race, I see her riper age complete each growing grace.
When milder planets, warmer skies O'er winter's frozen reign prevail; When groves are tinged with vernal dyes, And violets scent the wanton gale; Those flowers, the verdure, then recall that day, In which my Laura stole this heedless heart away.
The blush of health, that crimson'd o'er Her youthful cheek; her modest mien; The gay-green garment that she wore, Have ever dear to memory been; More dear they grow as time the more inflames This tender breast o'ercome by passion's wild extremes! The sun, whose cheering lustre warms The bosom of yon snow-clad hill, Seems a just emblem of the charms, Whose power controls my vanquish'd will; When near, they gild with joy this frozen heart, Where ceaseless winter reigns, whene'er those charms depart.
Yon sun, too, paints the locks of gold, That play around her face so fair-- Her face which, oft as I behold, Prompts the soft sigh of amorous care! While Laura smiles, all-conscious of that love Which from this faithful breast no time can e'er remove.
If to the transient storm of night Succeeds a star-bespangled sky, And the clear rain-drops catch the light, Glittering on all the foliage nigh; Methinks her eyes I view, as on that day When through the envious veil they shot their magic ray.
With brightness making heaven more bright, As then they did, I see them now; I see them, when the morning light Purples the misty mountain's brow: When day declines, and darkness spreads the pole; Methinks 'tis Laura flies, and sadness wraps my soul.
In stately jars of burnish'd gold Should lilies spread their silvery pride, With fresh-blown roses that unfold Their leaves, in heaven's own crimson dyed; Then Laura's bloom I see, and sunny hair Flowing adown her neck than ivory whiter far.
The flowerets brush'd by zephyr's wing, Waving their heads in frolic play, Oft to my fond remembrance bring The happy spot, the happier day, In which, disporting with the gale, I view'd Those sweet unbraided locks, that all my heart subdued.
Oh! could I count those orbs that shine Nightly o'er yon ethereal plain, Or in some scanty vase confine Each drop that ocean's bounds contain, Then might I hope to fly from beauty's rays, Laura o'er flaming worlds can spread bright beauty's blaze.
Should I all heaven, all earth explore, I still should lovely Laura find; Laura, whose beauties I adore, Is ever present to my mind: She's seen in all that strikes these partial eyes, And her dear name still dwells in all my tender sighs.
But soft, my song,--not thine the power To paint that never-dying flame, Which gilds through life the gloomy hour, Which nurtures this love-wasted frame; For since with Laura dwells my wander'd heart, Cheer'd by that fostering flame, I brave Death's ebon dart.
ANON 1777.
[Illustration: GENOA.] CANZONE XVI.
_Italia mia, benche 'l parlar sia indarno._ TO THE PRINCES OF ITALY, EXHORTING THEM TO SET HER FREE.
O my own Italy! though words are vain The mortal wounds to close, Unnumber'd, that thy beauteous bosom stain, Yet may it soothe my pain To sigh forth Tyber's woes, And Arno's wrongs, as on Po's sadden'd shore Sorrowing I wander, and my numbers pour.
Ruler of heaven! By the all-pitying love That could thy Godhead move To dwell a lowly sojourner on earth, Turn, Lord! on this thy chosen land thine eye: See, God of Charity! From what light cause this cruel war has birth; And the hard hearts by savage discord steel'd, Thou, Father! from on high, Touch by my humble voice, that stubborn wrath may yield! Ye, to whose sovereign hands the fates confide Of this fair land the reins,-- (This land for which no pity wrings your breast)-- Why does the stranger's sword her plains invest?
That her green fields be dyed, Hope ye, with blood from the Barbarians' veins?
Beguiled by error weak, Ye see not, though to pierce so deep ye boast, Who love, or faith, in venal bosoms seek: When throng'd your standards most, Ye are encompass'd most by hostile bands.
O hideous deluge gather'd in strange lands, That rushing down amain O'erwhelms our every native lovely plain! Alas! if our own hands Have thus our weal betray'd, who shall our cause sustain?
Well did kind Nature, guardian of our state, Rear her rude Alpine heights, A lofty rampart against German hate; But blind ambition, seeking his own ill, With ever restless will, To the pure gales contagion foul invites: Within the same strait fold The gentle flocks and wolves relentless throng, Where still meek innocence must suffer wrong: And these,--oh, shame avow'd!-- Are of the lawless hordes no tie can hold: Fame tells how Marius' sword Erewhile their bosoms gored,-- Nor has Time's hand aught blurr'd the record proud! When they who, thirsting, stoop'd to quaff the flood, With the cool waters mix'd, drank of a comrade's blood! Great Caesar's name I pass, who o'er our plains Pour'd forth the ensanguin'd tide, Drawn by our own good swords from out their veins; But now--nor know I what ill stars preside-- Heaven holds this land in hate! To you the thanks!--whose hands control her helm!-- You, whose rash feuds despoil Of all the beauteous earth the fairest realm! Are ye impell'd by judgment, crime, or fate, To oppress the desolate?
From broken fortunes, and from humble toil, The hard-earn'd dole to wring, While from afar ye bring Dealers in blood, bartering their souls for hire?
In truth's great cause I sing.
Nor hatred nor disdain my earnest lay inspire.
Nor mark ye yet, confirm'd by proof on proof, Bavaria's perfidy, Who strikes in mockery, keeping death aloof?
(Shame, worse than aught of loss, in honour's eye!) While ye, with honest rage, devoted pour Your inmost bosom's gore!-- Yet give one hour to thought, And ye shall own, how little he can hold Another's glory dear, who sets his own at nought O Latin blood of old! Arise, and wrest from obloquy thy fame, Nor bow before a name Of hollow sound, whose power no laws enforce! For if barbarians rude Have higher minds subdued, Ours! ours the crime!--not such wise Nature's course.
Ah! is not this the soil my foot first press'd?
And here, in cradled rest, Was I not softly hush'd ?--here fondly rear'd?
Ah! is not this my country ?--so endear'd By every filial tie! In whose lap shrouded both my parents lie! Oh! by this tender thought, Your torpid bosoms to compassion wrought, Look on the people's grief! Who, after God, of you expect relief; And if ye but relent, Virtue shall rouse her in embattled might, Against blind fury bent, Nor long shall doubtful hang the unequal fight; For no,--the ancient flame Is not extinguish'd yet, that raised the Italian name! Mark, sovereign Lords! how Time, with pinion strong, Swift hurries life along! E'en now, behold! Death presses on the rear.
We sojourn here a day--the next, are gone! The soul disrobed--alone, Must shuddering seek the doubtful pass we fear.
Oh! at the dreaded bourne, Abase the lofty brow of wrath and scorn, (Storms adverse to the eternal calm on high!) And ye, whose cruelty Has sought another's harm, by fairer deed Of heart, or hand, or intellect, aspire To win the honest meed Of just renown--the noble mind's desire! Thus sweet on earth the stay! Thus to the spirit pure, unbarr'd is Heaven's way! My song! with courtesy, and numbers sooth, Thy daring reasons grace, For thou the mighty, in their pride of place, Must woo to gentle ruth, Whose haughty will long evil customs nurse, Ever to truth averse! Thee better fortunes wait, Among the virtuous few--the truly great! Tell them--but who shall bid my terrors cease?
Peace! Peace! on thee I call! return, O heaven-born Peace! DACRE.
* * * * * See Time, that flies, and spreads his hasty wing! See Life, how swift it runs the race of years, And on its weary shoulders death appears! Now all is life and all is spring: Think on the winter and the darker day When the soul, naked and alone, Must prove the dubious step, the still unknown, Yet ever beaten way.
And through this fatal vale Would you be wafted with some gentle gale?
Put off that eager strife and fierce disdain, Clouds that involve our life's serene, And storms that ruffle all the scene; Your precious hours, misspent in others' pain, On nobler deeds, worthy yourselves, bestow; Whether with hand or wit you raise Some monument of peaceful praise, Some happy labour of fair love: 'Tis all of heaven that you can find below, And opens into all above.
BASIL KENNET.
CANZONE XVII.
_Di pensier in pensier, di monte in monte._ DISTANCE AND SOLITUDE.
From hill to hill I roam, from thought to thought, With Love my guide; the beaten path I fly, For there in vain the tranquil life is sought: If 'mid the waste well forth a lonely rill, Or deep embosom'd a low valley lie, In its calm shade my trembling heart's still; And there, if Love so will, I smile, or weep, or fondly hope, or fear.
While on my varying brow, that speaks the soul, The wild emotions roll, Now dark, now bright, as shifting skies appear; That whosoe'er has proved the lover's state Would say, He feels the flame, nor knows his future fate.
On mountains high, in forests drear and wide, I find repose, and from the throng'd resort Of man turn fearfully my eyes aside; At each lone step thoughts ever new arise Of her I love, who oft with cruel sport Will mock the pangs I bear, the tears, the sighs; Yet e'en these ills I prize, Though bitter, sweet, nor would they were removed For my heart whispers me, Love yet has power To grant a happier hour: Perchance, though self-despised, thou yet art loved: E'en then my breast a passing sigh will heave, Ah! when, or how, may I a hope so wild believe?
Where shadows of high rocking pines dark wave I stay my footsteps, and on some rude stone With thought intense her beauteous face engrave; Roused from the trance, my bosom bathed I find With tears, and cry, Ah! whither thus alone Hast thou far wander'd, and whom left behind?
But as with fixed mind On this fair image I impassion'd rest, And, viewing her, forget awhile my ills, Love my rapt fancy fills; In its own error sweet the soul is blest, While all around so bright the visions glide; Oh! might the cheat endure, I ask not aught beside.
Her form portray'd within the lucid stream Will oft appear, or on the verdant lawn, Or glossy beech, or fleecy cloud, will gleam So lovely fair, that Leda's self might say, Her Helen sinks eclipsed, as at the dawn A star when cover'd by the solar ray: And, as o'er wilds I stray Where the eye nought but savage nature meets, There Fancy most her brightest tints employs; But when rude truth destroys The loved illusion of those dreamed sweets, I sit me down on the cold rugged stone, Less coid, less dead than I, and think, and weep alone.
Where the huge mountain rears his brow sublime, On which no neighbouring height its shadow flings, Led by desire intense the steep I climb; And tracing in the boundless space each woe, Whose sad remembrance my torn bosom wrings, Tears, that bespeak the heart o'erfraught, will flow: While, viewing all below, From me, I cry, what worlds of air divide The beauteous form, still absent and still near! Then, chiding soft the tear, I whisper low, haply she too has sigh'd That thou art far away: a thought so sweet Awhile my labouring soul will of its burthen cheat.
Go thou, my song, beyond that Alpine bound, Where the pure smiling heavens are most serene, There by a murmuring stream may I be found, Whose gentle airs around Waft grateful odours from the laurel green; Nought but my empty form roams here unblest, There dwells my heart with her who steals it from my breast.
DACRE.
SONNET C.
_Poi che 'l cammin m' e chiuso di mercede._ THOUGH FAR FROM LAURA, SOLITARY AND UNHAPPY, ENVY STILL PURSUES HIM.
Since mercy's door is closed, alas! to me, And hopeless paths my poor life separate From her in whom, I know not by what fate, The guerdon lay of all my constancy, My heart that lacks not other food, on sighs I feed: to sorrow born, I live on tears: Nor therefore mourn I: sweeter far appears My present grief than others can surmise.
On thy dear portrait rests alone my view, Which nor Praxiteles nor Xeuxis drew, But a more bold and cunning pencil framed.
What shore can hide me, or what distance shield, If by my cruel exile yet untamed Insatiate Envy finds me here concealed?
MACGREGOR.
SONNET CI.
_Io canterei d' Amor si novamente._ REPLY TO A SONNET OF JACOPO DA LENTINO.
Ways apt and new to sing of love I'd find, Forcing from her hard heart full many a sigh, And re-enkindle in her frozen mind Desires a thousand, passionate and high; O'er her fair face would see each swift change pass, See her fond eyes at length where pity reigns, As one who sorrows when too late, alas! For his own error and another's pains; See the fresh roses edging that fair snow Move with her breath, that ivory descried, Which turns to marble him who sees it near; See all, for which in this brief life below Myself I weary not but rather pride That Heaven for later times has kept me here.
MACGREGOR.
SONNET CII.
_S' Amor non e, che dunque e quel ch' i' sento ?_ THE CONTRADICTIONS OF LOVE.
If no love is, O God, what fele I so?
And if love is, what thing and which is he?
If love be gode, from whence cometh my woe?
If it be wicke, a wonder thinketh me When every torment and adversite That cometh of him may to me savory thinke: For aye more thurst I the more that I drinke.
And if that at my owne lust I brenne, From whence cometh my wailing and my pleinte?
If harme agre me whereto pleine I thenne?
I not nere why unwery that I feinte.
O quicke deth, O surele harme so quainte, How may I see in me such quantite, But if that I consent that so it be?
CHAUCER.
If 'tis not love, what is it feel I then?
If 'tis, how strange a thing, sweet powers above! If love be kind, why does it fatal prove?
If cruel, why so pleasing is the pain?
If 'tis my will to love, why weep, why plain?
If not my will, tears cannot love remove.
O living death! O rapturous pang!--why, love! If I consent not, canst thou o'er me reign?
If I consent, 'tis wrongfully I mourn: Thus on a stormy sea my bark is borne By adverse winds, and with rough tempest tost; Thus unenlightened, lost in error's maze, My blind opinion ever dubious strays; I'm froze by summer, scorched by winter's frost.
ANON.