Thy weary cheek that channell’d sorrow shows,
    My much loved lord, upon the one repose;
    More careful of thyself against Love be,
    Tyrant who smiles his votaries wan to see;
    And with the other close the left-hand path
    Too easy entrance where his message hath;
    In sun and storm thyself the same display,
    Because time faileth for the lengthen’d way. 
    And, with the third, drink of the precious herb
    Which purges every thought that would disturb,
    Sweet in the end though sour at first in taste: 
    But me enshrine where your best joys are placed,
    So that I fear not the grim bark of Styx,
    If with such prayer of mine pride do not mix.

    MACGREGOR.

BALLATA IV.

Perche quel che mi trasse ad amar prima.

HE WILL ALWAYS LOVE HER, THOUGH DENIED THE SIGHT OF HER.

      Though cruelty denies my view
    Those charms which led me first to love;
    To passion yet will I be true,
    Nor shall my will rebellious prove. 
    Amid the curls of golden hair
    That wave those beauteous temples round,
    Cupid spread craftily the snare
    With which my captive heart he bound: 
    And from those eyes he caught the ray
    Which thaw’d the ice that fenced my breast,
    Chasing all other thoughts away,
    With brightness suddenly imprest. 
    But now that hair of sunny gleam,
    Ah me! is ravish’d from my sight;
    Those beauteous eyes withdraw their beam,
    And change to sadness past delight. 
    A glorious death by all is prized;
    Tis death alone shall break my chain: 
    Oh! be Love’s timid wail despised. 
    Lovers should nobly suffer pain.

    NOTT.

      Though barr’d from all which led me first to love
    By coldness or caprice,
    Not yet from its firm bent can passion cease! 
    The snare was set amid those threads of gold,
    To which Love bound me fast;
    And from those bright eyes melted the long cold
    Within my heart that pass’d;
    So sweet the spell their sudden splendour cast,
    Its single memory still
    Deprives my soul of every other will. 
    But now, alas! from me of that fine hair
    Is ravish’d the dear sight;
    The lost light of those twin stars, chaste as fair,
    Saddens me in her flight;
    But, since a glorious death wins honour bright,
    By death, and not through grief,
    Love from such chain shall give at last relief.

    MACGREGOR.

SONNET XLVI.

L’ arbor gentil che forte amai molt’ anni.

IMPRECATION AGAINST THE LAUREL.