Sonnet II.


_Per far una leggiadra sua vendetta._

How he became the victim of love


      For many a crime at once to make me smart,
    And a delicious vengeance to obtain,
    Love secretly took up his bow again,
    As one who acts the cunning coward's part;
    My courage had retired within my heart,
    There to defend the pass bright eyes might gain;
    When his dread archery was pour'd amain
    Where blunted erst had fallen every dart.
    Scared at the sudden brisk attack, I found
    Nor time, nor vigour to repel the foe
    With weapons suited to the direful need;
    No kind protection of rough rising ground,
    Where from defeat I might securely speed,
    Which fain I would e'en now, but ah, no method know!

    NOTT.


      One sweet and signal vengeance to obtain
    To punish in a day my life's long crime,
    As one who, bent on harm, waits place and time,
    Love craftily took up his bow again.
    My virtue had retired to watch my heart,
    Thence of weak eyes the danger to repell,
    When momently a mortal blow there fell
    Where blunted hitherto dropt every dart.
    And thus, o'erpower'd in that first attack,
    She had nor vigour left enough, nor room
    Even to arm her for my pressing need,
    Nor to the steep and painful mountain back
    To draw me, safe and scathless from that doom,
    Whence, though alas! too weak, she fain had freed.

    MACGREGOR.

Sonnet III.


_Era 'l giorno ch' al sol si scoloraro._

He blames love for wounding him on a holy day (Good Friday).


      'Twas on the morn, when heaven its blessed ray
    In pity to its suffering master veil'd,
    First did I, Lady, to your beauty yield,
    Of your victorious eyes th' unguarded prey.
    Ah! little reck'd I that, on such a day,
    Needed against Love's arrows any shield;
    And trod, securely trod, the fatal field:
    Whence, with the world's, began my heart's dismay.
    On every side Love found his victim bare,
    And through mine eyes transfix'd my throbbing heart;
    Those eyes, which now with constant sorrows flow:
    But poor the triumph of his boasted art,
    Who thus could pierce a naked youth, nor dare
    To you in armour mail'd even to display his bow!

    WRANGHAM.


      'Twas on the blessed morning when the sun
    In pity to our Maker hid his light,
    That, unawares, the captive I was won,
    Lady, of your bright eyes which chain'd me quite;
    That seem'd to me no time against the blows
    Of love to make defence, to frame relief:
    Secure and unsuspecting, thus my woes
    Date their commencement from the common grief.
    Love found me feeble then and fenceless all,
    Open the way and easy to my heart
    Through eyes, where since my sorrows ebb and flow:
    But therein was, methinks, his triumph small,
    On me, in that weak state, to strike his dart,
    Yet hide from you so strong his very bow.

    MACGREGOR.

Sonnet IV.


_Quel ch' infinita providenza ed arte._

He celebrates the birthplace of Laura


      He that with wisdom, goodness, power divine,
    Did ample Nature's perfect book design,
    Adorn'd this beauteous world, and those above,
    Kindled fierce Mars, and soften'd milder Jove:
    When seen on earth the shadows to fulfill
    Of the less volume which conceal'd his will,
    Took John and Peter from their homely care,
    And made them pillars of his temple fair.
    Nor in imperial Rome would He be born,
    Whom servile Judah yet received with scorn:
    E'en Bethlehem could her infant King disown,
    And the rude manger was his early throne.
    Victorious sufferings did his pomp display,
    Nor other chariot or triumphal way.
    At once by Heaven's example and decree,
    Such honour waits on such humility.

    BASIL KENNET.


      The High Eternal, in whose works supreme
    The Master's vast creative power hath spoke:
    At whose command each circling sphere awoke,
    Jove mildly rose, and Mars with fiercer beam:
    To earth He came, to ratify the scheme
    Reveal'd to us through prophecy's dark cloak,
    To sound redemption, speak man's fallen yoke:
    He chose the humblest for that heavenly theme.
    But He conferr'd not on imperial Rome
    His birth's renown; He chose a lowlier sky,--
    To stand, through Him, the proudest spot on earth!
    And now doth shine within its humble home
    A star, that doth each other so outvie,
    That grateful nature hails its lovely birth.

    WOLLASTON.


      Who show'd such infinite providence and skill
    In his eternal government divine,
    Who launch'd the spheres, gave sun and moon to shine,
    And brightest wonders the dark void to fill;
    On earth who came the Scriptures to maintain,
    Which for long years the truth had buried yet,
    Took John and Peter from the fisher's net
    And gave to each his part in the heavenly reign.
    He for his birth fair Rome preferr'd not then,
    But lowly Bethlehem; thus o'er proudest state
    He ever loves humility to raise.
    Now rises from small spot like sun again,
    Whom Nature hails, the place grows bright and great
    Which birth so heavenly to our earth displays.

    MACGREGOR.

Sonnet V.


_Quand' io movo i sospiri a chiamar voi._

He plays upon the name Laureta or laura


      In sighs when I outbreathe your cherish'd name,
    That name which love has writ upon my heart,
    LAUd instantly upon my doting tongue,
    At the first thought of its sweet sound, is heard;
    Your REgal state, which I encounter next,
    Doubles my valour in that high emprize:
    But TAcit ends the word; your praise to tell
    Is fitting load for better backs than mine.
    Thus all who call you, by the name itself,
    Are taught at once to LAUd and to REvere,
    O worthy of all reverence and esteem!
    Save that perchance Apollo may disdain
    That mortal tongue of his immortal boughs
    Should ever so presume as e'en to speak.

    ANON.

Sonnet VI.


_Sì traviato è 'l folle mio desio._

Of his foolish passion for Laura


      So wayward now my will, and so unwise,
    To follow her who turns from me in flight,
    And, from love's fetters free herself and light,
    Before my slow and shackled motion flies,
    That less it lists, the more my sighs and cries
    Would point where passes the safe path and right,
    Nor aught avails to check or to excite,
    For Love's own nature curb and spur defies.
    Thus, when perforce the bridle he has won,
    And helpless at his mercy I remain,
    Against my will he speeds me to mine end
    'Neath yon cold laurel, whose false boughs upon
    Hangs the harsh fruit, which, tasted, spreads the pain
    I sought to stay, and mars where it should mend.

    MACGREGOR.


      My tameless will doth recklessly pursue
    Her, who, unshackled by love's heavy chain,
    Flies swiftly from its chase, whilst I in vain
    My fetter'd journey pantingly renew;
    The safer track I offer to its view,
    But hopeless is my power to restrain,
    It rides regardless of the spur or rein;
    Love makes it scorn the hand that would subdue.
    The triumph won, the bridle all its own,
    Without one curb I stand within its power,
    And my destruction helplessly presage:
    It guides me to that laurel, ever known,
    To all who seek the healing of its flower,
    To aggravate the wound it should assuage.

    WOLLASTON.

Sonnet VII.


_La gola e 'l sonno e l' oziose piume._

To a friend, ecouraging him to pursue poetry


      Torn is each virtue from its earthly throne
    By sloth, intemperance, and voluptuous ease;
    E'en nature deviates from her wonted ways,
    Too much the slave of vicious custom grown.
    Far hence is every light celestial gone,
    That guides mankind through life's perplexing maze;
    And those, whom Helicon's sweet waters please,
    From mocking crowds receive contempt alone.
    Who now would laurel, myrtle-wreaths obtain?
    Let want, let shame, Philosophy attend!
    Cries the base world, intent on sordid gain.
    What though thy favourite path be trod by few;
    Let it but urge thee more, dear gentle friend!
    Thy great design of glory to pursue.

    ANON.


      Intemperance, slumber, and the slothful down
    Have chased each virtue from this world away;
    Hence is our nature nearly led astray
    From its due course, by habitude o'erthrown;
    Those kindly lights of heaven so dim are grown,
    Which shed o'er human life instruction's ray;
    That him with scornful wonder they survey,
    Who would draw forth the stream of Helicon.
    "Whom doth the laurel please, or myrtle now?
    Naked and poor, Philosophy, art thou!"
    The worthless crowd, intent on lucre, cries.
    Few on thy chosen road will thee attend;
    Yet let it more incite thee, gentle friend,
    To prosecute thy high-conceived emprize.

    NOTT.

Sonnet VIII.


_A piè de' colli ove la bella vesta._

He feigns an address from some birds which he had presented


      Beneath the verdant hills--where the fair vest
    Of earthly mould first took the Lady dear,
    Who him that sends us, feather'd captives, here
    Awakens often from his tearful rest--
    Lived we in freedom and in quiet, blest
    With everything which life below might cheer,
    No foe suspecting, harass'd by no fear
    That aught our wanderings ever could molest;
    But snatch'd from that serener life, and thrown
    To the low wretched state we here endure,
    One comfort, short of death, survives alone:
    Vengeance upon our captor full and sure!
    Who, slave himself at others' power, remains
    Pent in worse prison, bound by sterner chains.

    MACGREGOR.


      Beneath those very hills, where beauty threw
    Her mantle first o'er that earth-moulded fair,
    Who oft from sleep, while shedding many a tear,
    Awakens him that sends us unto you,
    Our lives in peacefulness and freedom flew,
    E'en as all creatures wish who hold life dear;
    Nor deem'd we aught could in its course come near,
    Whence to our wanderings danger might accrue.
    But from the wretched state to which we're brought,
    Leaving another with sereneness fraught,
    Nay, e'en from death, one comfort we obtain;
    That vengeance follows him who sent us here;
    Another's utmost thraldom doomed to bear,
    Bound he now lies with a still stronger chain.

    NOTT.

Sonnet IX.


_Quando 'l pianeta che distingue l' ore._

With a presentt of fruit in spring


      When the great planet which directs the hours
    To dwell with Taurus from the North is borne,
    Such virtue rays from each enkindled horn,
    Rare beauty instantly all nature dowers;
    Nor this alone, which meets our sight, that flowers
    Richly the upland and the vale adorn,
    But Earth's cold womb, else lustreless and lorn,
    Is quick and warm with vivifying powers,
    Till herbs and fruits, like these I send, are rife.
    --So she, a sun amid her fellow fair,
    Shedding the rays of her bright eyes on me,
    Thoughts, acts, and words of love wakes into life--
    But, ah! for me is no new Spring, nor e'er,
    Smile they on whom she will, again can be.

    MACGREGOR.


      When Taurus in his house doth Phoebus keep,
    There pours so bright a virtue from his crest
    That Nature wakes, and stands in beauty drest,
    The flow'ring meadows start with joy from sleep:
    Nor they alone rejoice--earth's bosom deep
    (Though not one beam illumes her night of rest)
    Responsive smiles, and from her fruitful breast
    Gives forth her treasures for her sons to reap.
    Thus she, who dwells amid her sex a sun,
    Shedding upon my soul her eyes' full light,
    Each thought creates, each deed, each word of love:
    But though my heart's proud mastery she hath won
    Alas! within me dwells eternal night:
    My spirit ne'er Spring's genial breath doth prove.

    WOLLASTON.

Sonnet X.


_Gloriosa Colonna, in cui s' appoggia._

To Stefano Colonna the Elder, inviting him to the country


      Glorious Colonna! still the strength and stay
    Of our best hopes, and the great Latin name
    Whom power could never from the true right way
    Seduce by flattery or by terror tame:
    No palace, theatres, nor arches here,
    But, in their stead, the fir, the beech, and pine
    On the green sward, with the fair mountain near
    Paced to and fro by poet friend of thine;
    Thus unto heaven the soul from earth is caught;
    While Philomel, who sweetly to the shade
    The livelong night her desolate lot complains,
    Fills the soft heart with many an amorous thought:
    --Ah! why is so rare good imperfect made
    While severed from us still my lord remains.

    MACGREGOR.


      Glorious Colonna! thou, the Latins' hope,
    The proud supporter of our lofty name,
    Thou hold'st thy path of virtue still the same,
    Amid the thunderings of Rome's Jove--the Pope.
    Not here do human structures interlope
    The fir to rival, or the pine-tree's claim,
    The soul may revel in poetic flame
    Upon yon mountain's green and gentle slope.
    And thus from earth to heaven the spirit soars,
    Whilst Philomel her tale of woe repeats
    Amid the sympathising shades of night,
    Thus through man's breast love's current sweetly pours:
    Yet still thine absence half the joy defeats,--
    Alas! my friend, why dim such radiant light?

    WOLLASTON.

Ballata I.


_Lassare il velo o per sole o per ombra._

Perceiving his passion, Laura's severity increases


      Never thy veil, in sun or in the shade,
    Lady, a moment I have seen
    Quitted, since of my heart the queen
    Mine eyes confessing thee my heart betray'd
    While my enamour'd thoughts I kept conceal'd.
    Those fond vain hopes by which I die,
    In thy sweet features kindness beam'd:
    Changed was the gentle language of thine eye
    Soon as my foolish heart itself reveal'd;
    And all that mildness which I changeless deem'd--
    All, all withdrawn which most my soul esteem'd.
    Yet still the veil I must obey,
    Which, whatsoe'er the aspect of the day,
    Thine eyes' fair radiance hides, my life to overshade.

    CAPEL LOFFT.


      Wherefore, my unkind fair one, say,
    Whether the sun fierce darts his ray,
    Or whether gloom o'erspreads the sky,
    That envious veil is ne'er thrown by;
    Though well you read my heart, and knew
    How much I long'd your charms to view?
    While I conceal'd each tender thought,
    That my fond mind's destruction wrought,
    Your face with pity sweetly shone;
    But, when love made my passion known,
    Your sunny locks were seen no more,
    Nor smiled your eyes as heretofore;
    Behind a jealous cloud retired
    Those beauties which I most admired.
    And shall a veil thus rule my fate?
    O cruel veil, that whether heat
    Or cold be felt, art doom'd to prove
    Fatal to me, shadowing the lights I love!

    NOTT.