JA NEMAM MIRA

Ja nemam mira a u rat ne hrlim;
Leden a gorim, plašim se i nadam;
Po nebu letim, a na zemlju padam;
Ne hvatam ništa, a svijet citav grlim.

Amor me kazni da sred uza stojim,
Nit omcu driješi, nit okove steže,
Nit da me smakne, niti da odveže,
Nece me živa, ne smatra me svojim.

Bez vida vidim, nijem ,glas gubim:
Umrijeti žudim, a pomoci tražim,
Sebi sam mrzak, a drugoga ljubim.

Nit mi se mrije nit mi se živi,
Smijem se placuci, žalošcu se snažim.
Ovakvom stanju vi ste, gospo krivi.

SONET 1

Onaj slavuj koji celu noc je plako
Za decom - il' možda za draganom vene -
Do nebesa cvili. On liči na mene,
Jer i moja tuga bezmerna je tako.

Svirepa nam sudba sličan udes sprema;
On, usamljen s bolom kao i ja poje.
Ni ja nikog nemam, samo srce svoje,
Mišljah za boginju da samrti nema.

Jer ko bi verov'o - ah ta vera vajna! -
Da dva oka sto su kao sunce sjajna,
Zemljom pretvore se, zemlja da i skrije!

sad znam šta u knjizi sudbine mi piše:
U jadima svojim uviđam sve više -
Da na ovom svetu nista trajno nije!

SONET 2

Ja zamišljen duh koji se trudi,
Da i korake svoje usporava:
pazeć da ona mesta izbegava
Kud peskom stope ostavljaju ljudi.

No, ko drukčiju zaštitu da stvori:
onu što svet je primetiti neće?
jer u pokretu ugašene sreće -
Spolja se čita što unutra gori.

I uveren sam: brda i šume
obale, reke… sve zna i razume
Moj život koji tajna je za druge.

Puteve divlje nije tražit lako
Al' dođe Amor i počnemo tako:
On i ja o tom razgovore duge.

SONET 3

Život u toku zastajanja nema,
A smrt nam krupnim koracima ide;
Muči me sve što ja do sada vide`,
Još više ono što budućnost sprema.

Ka meni kao sen jedine sreće,
prilaze dani prošlosti sećanja -
i da njih nema, i s njima čekanja -
Ja bih van ovih misli bio veće.

Vraćaju mi se prijatnosti znane
Što jadnom srcu sladile su dane;
u luci vidim brod - lik sreće svoje.

Zamorene su ruke kormilara,
slomljeni jarbol oluja obara,
A svetiljke su ugašene moje!

SONET 4

Što se više približuje meta,
Dan kada se razrešimo zemnog jada -
I brzi bol vremena - bole zada-
Sve vidnije taštine su ovog sveta.

Sebi kažem: rastavlja nas sudba kleta!
O ljubavi ne zborimo više sada.
Zlo života ko sneg dođe i otpada.
Mi ćemo se osobodit svih tereta.

I mir tu je: jer ni nade biti neće -
Nade koja sve nas vara tako večno:
Dušu, osmeh, suze - sve što život kreće!

Mi vidimo da je često zalud muka
Da lečimo ono što je neizlečno
I da zalud uzdiše se, zalud kuka!

OPOJNI GREH

Devojčica me grli i ljubi.
Osećam kako joj se usne tope na mojim,
i kako joj telo drhti
od straha i čežnje.

U tišini
još nedovršene planinske kuće
miriše rano proleće
i njene male jabučaste grudi.
Penušaju se večernje magle
i oseća vlažnost kiše
u erotičnom vazduhu.

Ona se propinje na prste,
pripija svoja stegna čvrsto uz mene,
namesta oble kukove,
svoj zaobljeni trbuh…
utapa svoje nepomične oči
u mojim zenicama
i ljubi, ljubi…

Stavljam svoj potpis
usnama
na njen vrat izvijen
dok opijena srsima bledi moja devojčica
i kao leptirica treperi na mestu

Pogrešili smo
kaza mi
u jednom trenu slasti i vatre
zaustavljajući naše disanje
koje odveja vetar.

Pogrešili smo,
kaza mi s još većim strahom
otrgnuvsi se iz zagrljaja,
bežeći niz proplanak i
odnoseći vlažne poljupce
na mladoj koži.

Moje je oči ne stižu.

SEDAMNAEST VEĆ LJETA NEBO RUDI

Sedamnaest već ljeta nebo rudi
što nikad zgašen od početka gorim,
al' kad se mišlju o svom stanju morim,
osjećam usred plama mrazne studi.

Izreka, da se dlaka prije ćudi
mijenja, je prava; i s čuvstvima sporim
nagnuća Ijudska ne popuste; gorim
čini ih teške koprene hlad hudi.

O jao, kad će onaj dan da svane,
da motreć kako bježe moja ljela
iz dugih muka i ognja se selim?

Hoću li ikad vidjet one dane
kad će se slatki izraz lica sveta
očima svidjet baš koliko želim?

STO ĆUTIM

Što ćutim, što je, ako ljubav nije,
Al ako je ljubav, bože što je ona?
Ako je dobra, zašto je zlu sklona,
Ako je zla, zbog čega slatka mi je?

Gorim li od sebe, čemu plač i tužba,
Kriv li sam tome, malo jauk vrijedi.
O žrtva smrti, slatkoćo u bijedi,
Ako vas neću, čemu ste mi družba?

Al ako vas hoću, zdvajat nemam prava,
Suprotni me vjetri, kroz šumu i bjesnoću,
Tjeraju u čamcu vrh bezdana plava.

Slab razbor i grijesi razlog su mi sjeti,
Tako da neznam sam stvarno što hoću,
Te se znojim zimi a cvokoćem ljeti.

VI KOJI ZVUKOM RASUTIH RIMA

Vi kojl zvukom razasutih rima
slušate uzdah što bje srcu hrana
u prvoj tlapnji mladenačkih dana,
kad dijelom drugi čovjek bijah svima,

različit stil što plače i misao ima
zbog pustih nada i zbog pustih rana,
nadam se da će shvatit kom je znana
iskustvom Ijubav: oprost molim njima.

No svak je dugo, sada dobro vidim,
o meni brbljo i tiho i glasno,
pa sam se sebe često sramim jako;

l plod je mojih tlapnja da se stidim,
i da se kajem, i da spoznam jasno:
kratak je san na svijetu htijenje svako.

Sonnet I.

_Voi, ch' ascoltate in rime sparse il suono._


He confesses the vanity of his passion


      Ye who in rhymes dispersed the echoes hear
    Of those sad sighs with which my heart I fed
    When early youth my mazy wanderings led,
    Fondly diverse from what I now appear,
    Fluttering 'twixt frantic hope and frantic fear,
    From those by whom my various style is read,
    I hope, if e'er their hearts for love have bled,
    Not only pardon, but perhaps a tear.
    But now I clearly see that of mankind
    Long time I was the tale: whence bitter thought
    And self-reproach with frequent blushes teem;
    While of my frenzy, shame the fruit I find,
    And sad repentance, and the proof, dear-bought,
    That the world's joy is but a flitting dream.

    CHARLEMONT.


      O ye, who list in scatter'd verse the sound
    Of all those sighs with which my heart I fed,
    When I, by youthful error first misled,
    Unlike my present self in heart was found;
    Who list the plaints, the reasonings that abound
    Throughout my song, by hopes, and vain griefs bred;
    If e'er true love its influence o'er ye shed,
    Oh! let your pity be with pardon crown'd.
    But now full well I see how to the crowd
    For length of time I proved a public jest:
    E'en by myself my folly is allow'd:
    And of my vanity the fruit is shame,
    Repentance, and a knowledge strong imprest,
    That worldly pleasure is a passing dream.

    NOTT.


      Ye, who may listen to each idle strain
    Bearing those sighs, on which my heart was fed
    In life's first morn, by youthful error led,
    (Far other then from what I now remain!)
    That thus in varying numbers I complain,
    Numbers of sorrow vain and vain hope bred,
    If any in love's lore be practisèd,
    His pardon,--e'en his pity I may obtain:
    But now aware that to mankind my name
    Too long has been a bye-word and a scorn,
    I blush before my own severer thought;
    Of my past wanderings the sole fruit is shame,
    And deep repentance, of the knowledge born
    That all we value in this world is naught.

    DACRE.

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.

Sonnet XI.


_Se la mia vita dall' aspro tormento._

He hopes that time will render her more merciful


      If o'er each bitter pang, each hidden throe
    Sadly triumphant I my years drag on,
    Till even the radiance of those eyes is gone,
    Lady, which star-like now illume thy brow;
    And silver'd are those locks of golden glow,
    And wreaths and robes of green aside are thrown,
    And from thy cheek those hues of beauty flown,
    Which check'd so long the utterance of my woe,
    Haply my bolder tongue may then reveal
    The bosom'd annals of my heart's fierce fire,
    The martyr-throbs that now in night I veil:
    And should the chill Time frown on young Desire.
    Still, still some late remorse that breast may feel,
    And heave a tardy sigh--ere love with life expire.

    WRANGHAM.


      Lady, if grace to me so long be lent
    From love's sharp tyranny and trials keen,
    Ere my last days, in life's far vale, are seen,
    To know of thy bright eyes the lustre spent,
    The fine gold of thy hair with silver sprent,
    Neglected the gay wreaths and robes of green,
    Pale, too, and thin the face which made me, e'en
    'Gainst injury, slow and timid to lament:
    Then will I, for such boldness love would give,
    Lay bare my secret heart, in martyr's fire
    Years, days, and hours that yet has known to live;
    And, though the time then suit not fair desire,
    At least there may arrive to my long grief,
    Too late of tender sighs the poor relief.

    MACGREGOR.

Sonnet XII.


_Quando fra l' altre donne ad ora ad ora._

The beauty of Laura leads him to the contemplation of the supreme good


      Throned on her angel brow, when Love displays
    His radiant form among all other fair,
    Far as eclipsed their choicest charms appear,
    I feel beyond its wont my passion blaze.
    And still I bless the day, the hour, the place,
    When first so high mine eyes I dared to rear;
    And say, "Fond heart, thy gratitude declare,
    That then thou had'st the privilege to gaze.
    'Twas she inspired the tender thought of love,
    Which points to heaven, and teaches to despise
    The earthly vanities that others prize:
    She gave the soul's light grace, which to the skies
    Bids thee straight onward in the right path move;
    Whence buoy'd by hope e'en, now I soar to worlds above."

    WRANGHAM.


      When Love, whose proper throne is that sweet face,
    At times escorts her 'mid the sisters fair,
    As their each beauty is than hers less rare,
    So swells in me the fond desire apace.
    I bless the hour, the season and the place,
    So high and heavenward when my eyes could dare;
    And say: "My heart! in grateful memory bear
    This lofty honour and surpassing grace:
    From her descends the tender truthful thought,
    Which follow'd, bliss supreme shall thee repay,
    Who spurn'st the vanities that win the crowd:
    From her that gentle graceful love is caught,
    To heaven which leads thee by the right-hand way,
    And crowns e'en here with hopes both pure and proud."

    MACGREGOR.

Ballata II.


_Occhi miei lassi, mentre ch' io vi giro._

He invited his eyes to feast themselves on Laura


      My wearied eyes! while looking thus
    On that fair fatal face to us,
    Be wise, be brief, for--hence my sighs--
    Already Love our bliss denies.
    Death only can the amorous track
    Shut from my thoughts which leads them back
    To the sweet port of all their weal;
    But lesser objects may conceal
    Our light from you, that meaner far
    In virtue and perfection are.
    Wherefore, poor eyes! ere yet appears,
    Already nigh, the time of tears,
    Now, after long privation past,
    Look, and some comfort take at last.

    MACGREGOR.

Sonnet XIII.


_Io mi rivolgo indietro a ciascun passo._

On quitting Laura


      With weary frame which painfully I bear,
    I look behind me at each onward pace,
    And then take comfort from your native air,
    Which following fans my melancholy face;
    The far way, my frail life, the cherish'd fair
    Whom thus I leave, as then my thoughts retrace,
    I fix my feet in silent pale despair,
    And on the earth my tearful eyes abase.
    At times a doubt, too, rises on my woes,
    "How ever can this weak and wasted frame
    Live from life's spirit and one source afar?"
    Love's answer soon the truth forgotten shows--
    "This high pure privilege true lovers claim,
    Who from mere human feelings franchised are!"

    MACGREGOR.


      I look behind each step I onward trace,
    Scarce able to support my wearied frame,
    Ah, wretched me! I pantingly exclaim,
    And from her atmosphere new strength embrace;
    I think on her I leave--my heart's best grace--
    My lengthen'd journey--life's capricious flame--
    I pause in withering fear, with purpose tame,
    Whilst down my cheek tears quick each other chase.
    My doubting heart thus questions in my grief:
    "Whence comes it that existence thou canst know
    When from thy spirit thou dost dwell entire?"
    Love, holy Love, my heart then answers brief:
    "Such privilege I do on all bestow
    Who feed my flame with nought of earthly fire!"

    WOLLASTON.