such despite
    A fitting cause I then might well divine: 
    For gentle plant in arid soil to be
    Seems little suited:  so it better were,
    And this e’en nature dictates, thence to stir. 
    But since thy destiny prohibits thee
    Elsewhere to dwell, be this at least thy care
    Not always to sojourn in hatred there.

    MACGREGOR.

SONNET L.

Lasso, che mal accorto fui da prima.

HE PRAYS LOVE TO KINDLE ALSO IN HER THE FLAME BY WHICH HE IS UNCEASINGLY TORMENTED.

      Alas! this heart by me was little known
    In those first days when Love its depths explored,
    Where by degrees he made himself the lord
    Of my whole life, and claim’d it as his own: 
    I did not think that, through his power alone,
    A heart time-steel’d, and so with valour stored,
    Such proof of failing firmness could afford,
    And fell by wrong self-confidence o’erthrown. 
    Henceforward all defence too late will come,
    Save this, to prove, enough or little, here
    If to these mortal prayers Love lend his ear. 
    Not now my prayer—­nor can such e’er have room—­
    That with more mercy he consume my heart,
    But in the fire that she may bear her part.

    MACGREGOR.

SESTINA III.

L’ aere gravato, e l’ importuna nebbia.

HE COMPARES LAURA TO WINTER, AND FORESEES THAT SHE WILL ALWAYS BE THE SAME.

      The overcharged air, the impending cloud,
    Compress’d together by impetuous winds,
    Must presently discharge themselves in rain;
    Already as of crystal are the streams,
    And, for the fine grass late that clothed the vales,
    Is nothing now but the hoar frost and ice.

    And I, within my heart, more cold than ice,
    Of heavy thoughts have such a hovering cloud,
    As sometimes rears itself in these our vales,
    Lowly, and landlock’d against amorous winds,
    Environ’d everywhere with stagnant streams,
    When falls from soft’ning heaven the smaller rain.

    Lasts but a brief while every heavy rain;
    And summer melts away the snows and ice,
    When proudly roll th’ accumulated streams: 
    Nor ever hid the heavens so thick a cloud,
    Which, overtaken by the furious winds,
    Fled not from the first hills and quiet vales.

    But ah! what profit me the flowering vales? 
    Alike I mourn in sunshine and in rain,
    Suffering the same in warm and wintry winds;
    For only then my lady shall want ice
    At heart, and on her brow th’ accustom’d cloud,
    When dry shall be the seas, the lakes, and streams.

    While to the sea descend the mountain streams,
    As long as wild beasts love umbrageous vales,
    O’er those bright eyes shall hang th’ unfriendly cloud
    My own that moistens with continual rain;
    And in that lovely breast be harden’d ice
    Which forces still from mine so dolorous winds.