am one;
    For, of this fair the splendour to regard,
    I am but weak and ill—­against late hours
    And darkness gath’ring round—­myself to ward. 
    Wherefore, with tearful eyes of failing powers,
    My destiny condemns me still to turn
    Where following faster I but fiercer burn.

    MACGREGOR.

SONNET XVIII.

Vergognando talor ch’ ancor si taccia.

THE PRAISES OF LAURA TRANSCEND HIS POETIC POWERS.

      Ashamed sometimes thy beauties should remain
    As yet unsung, sweet lady, in my rhyme;
    When first I saw thee I recall the time,
    Pleasing as none shall ever please again. 
    But no fit polish can my verse attain,
    Not mine is strength to try the task sublime: 
    My genius, measuring its power to climb,
    From such attempt doth prudently refrain. 
    Full oft I oped my lips to chant thy name;
    Then in mid utterance the lay was lost: 
    But say what muse can dare so bold a flight? 
    Full oft I strove in measure to indite;
    But ah, the pen, the hand, the vein I boast,
    At once were vanquish’d by the mighty theme!

    NOTT.

      Ashamed at times that I am silent, yet,
    Lady, though your rare beauties prompt my rhyme,
    When first I saw thee I recall the time
    Such as again no other can be met. 
    But, with such burthen on my shoulders set. 
    My mind, its frailty feeling, cannot climb,
    And shrinks alike from polish’d and sublime,
    While my vain utterance frozen terrors let. 
    Often already have I sought to sing,
    But midway in my breast the voice was stay’d,
    For ah! so high what praise may ever spring? 
    And oft have I the tender verse essay’d,
    But still in vain; pen, hand, and intellect
    In the first effort conquer’d are and check’d.

    MACGREGOR.

SONNET XIX.

Mille fiate, o dolce mia guerrera.

HIS HEART, REJECTED BY LAURA, WILL PERISH, UNLESS SHE RELENT.

      A thousand times, sweet warrior, have I tried,
    Proffering my heart to thee, some peace to gain
    From those bright eyes, but still, alas! in vain,
    To such low level stoops not thy chaste pride. 
    If others seek the love thus thrown aside,
    Vain were their hopes and labours to obtain;
    The heart thou spurnest I alike disdain,
    To thee displeasing, ’tis by me denied. 
    But if, discarded thus, it find not thee
    Its joyless exile willing to befriend,
    Alone, untaught at others’ will to wend,
    Soon from life’s weary burden will it flee. 
    How heavy then the guilt to both, but more
    To thee, for thee it did the most adore.

    MACGREGOR.