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 INVITES 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