to grieve,
    When my fond hope, already at life’s last,
    Came to my heart, not by the wonted way,
    Where sleep its seal, its dew where sorrow cast—­
    Alas! how changed—­and said, or seem’d to say,
    “Sight of these eyes not yet does Heaven refuse,
    Then wherefore should thy tost heart courage lose?”

    MACGREGOR.

SONNET XXVII.

Apollo, s’ ancor vive il bel desio.

HE COMPARES HER TO A LAUREL, WHICH HE SUPPLICATES APOLLO TO DEFEND.

      O Phoebus, if that fond desire remains,
    Which fired thy breast near the Thessalian wave;
    If those bright tresses, which such pleasure gave,
    Through lapse of years thy memory not disdains;
    From sluggish frosts, from rude inclement rains. 
    Which last the while thy beams our region leave,
    That honour’d sacred tree from peril save,
    Whose name of dear accordance waked our pains! 
    And, by that amorous hope which soothed thy care,
    What time expectant thou wert doom’d to sigh
    Dispel those vapours which disturb our sky! 
    So shall we both behold our favorite fair
    With wonder, seated on the grassy mead,
    And forming with her arms herself a shade.

    NOTT.

      If live the fair desire, Apollo, yet
    Which fired thy spirit once on Peneus’ shore,
    And if the bright hair loved so well of yore
    In lapse of years thou dost not now forget,
    From the long frost, from seasons rude and keen,
    Which last while hides itself thy kindling brow,
    Defend this consecrate and honour’d bough,
    Which snared thee erst, whose slave I since have been. 
    And, by the virtue of the love so dear
    Which soothed, sustain’d thee in that early strife,
    Our air from raw and lowering vapours clear: 
    So shall we see our lady, to new life
    Restored, her seat upon the greensward take,
    Where her own graceful arms a sweet shade o’er her make.

    MACGREGOR.

SONNET XXVIII.

Solo e pensoso i piu deserti campi.

HE SEEKS SOLITUDE, BUT LOVE FOLLOWS HIM EVERYWHERE.

      Alone, and lost in thought, the desert glade
    Measuring I roam with ling’ring steps and slow;
    And still a watchful glance around me throw,
    Anxious to shun the print of human tread: 
    No other means I find, no surer aid
    From the world’s prying eye to hide my woe: 
    So well my wild disorder’d gestures show,
    And love lorn looks, the fire within me bred,
    That well I deem each mountain, wood and plain,
    And river knows, what I from man conceal,
    What dreary hues my life’s fond prospects dim. 
    Yet whate’er wild or savage paths I’ve ta’en,
    Where’er I wander, love attends me still,
    Soft whisp’ring to my soul, and I to him.