MACGREGOR.

SONNET XLI.

Perch’ io t’ abbia guardato di menzogna.

IN HER PRESENCE HE CAN NEITHER SPEAK, WEEP, NOR SIGH.

      Although from falsehood I did thee restrain
    With all my power, and paid thee honour due,
    Ungrateful tongue; yet never did accrue
    Honour from thee, but shame, and fierce disdain: 
    Most art thou cold, when most I want the strain
    Thy aid should lend while I for pity sue;
    And all thy utterance is imperfect too,
    When thou dost speak, and as the dreamer’s vain. 
    Ye too, sad tears, throughout each lingering night
    Upon me wait, when I alone would stay;
    But, needed by my peace, you take your flight: 
    And, all so prompt anguish and grief t’ impart,
    Ye sighs, then slow, and broken breathe your way: 
    My looks alone truly reveal my heart.

    NOTT.

      With all my power, lest falsehood should invade,
    I guarded thee and still thy honour sought,
    Ungrateful tongue! who honour ne’er hast brought,
    But still my care with rage and shame repaid: 
    For, though to me most requisite, thine aid,
    When mercy I would ask, availeth nought,
    Still cold and mute, and e’en to words if wrought
    They seem as sounds in sleep by dreamers made. 
    And ye, sad tears, o’ nights, when I would fain
    Be left alone, my sure companions, flow,
    But, summon’d for my peace, ye soon depart: 
    Ye too, mine anguish’d sighs, so prompt to pain,
    Then breathe before her brokenly and slow,
    And my face only speaks my suffering heart.

    MACGREGOR.

CANZONE V.

Nella stagion che ’l ciel rapido inchina.

NIGHT BRINGS REPOSE TO OTHERS, BUT NOT TO HIM.

      In that still season, when the rapid sun
    Drives down the west, and daylight flies to greet
    Nations that haply wait his kindling flame;
    In some strange land, alone, her weary feet
    The time-worn pilgrim finds, with toil fordone,
    Yet but the more speeds on her languid frame;
    Her solitude the same,
    When night has closed around;
    Yet has the wanderer found
    A deep though short forgetfulness at last
    Of every woe, and every labour past. 
    But ah! my grief, that with each moment grows,
    As fast, and yet more fast,
    Day urges on, is heaviest at its close.

    When Phoebus rolls his everlasting wheels
    To give night room; and from encircling wood,
    Broader and broader yet descends the shade;
    The labourer arms him for his evening trade,
    And all the weight his burthen’d heart conceals
    Lightens with glad discourse or descant rude;
    Then spreads his board with