Yet well ought I to pardon all the winds
    But for the love of one, that ’mid two streams
    Shut me among bright verdure and pure ice;
    So that I pictured then in thousand vales
    The shade wherein I was, which heat or rain
    Esteemeth not, nor sound of broken cloud.

    But fled not ever cloud before the winds,
    As I that day:  nor ever streams with rain
    Nor ice, when April’s sun opens the vales.

    MACGREGOR.

[Illustration:  CASTLE OF ST. ANGELO & ST. PETERS.]

SONNET LI.

Del mar Tirreno alla sinistra riva.

THE FALL.

      Upon the left shore of the Tyrrhene sea,
    Where, broken by the winds, the waves complain,
    Sudden I saw that honour’d green again,
    Written for whom so many a page must be: 
    Love, ever in my soul his flame who fed,
    Drew me with memories of those tresses fair;
    Whence, in a rivulet, which silent there
    Through long grass stole, I fell, as one struck dead. 
    Lone as I was, ’mid hills of oak and fir,
    I felt ashamed; to heart of gentle mould
    Blushes suffice:  nor needs it other spur. 
    ’Tis well at least, breaking bad customs old,
    To change from eyes to feet:  from these so wet
    By those if milder April should be met.

    MACGREGOR.

SONNET LII.

L’ aspetto sacro della terra vostra.

THE VIEW OF ROME PROMPTS HIM TO TEAR HIMSELF FROM LAURA, BUT LOVE WILL NOT ALLOW HIM.

      The solemn aspect of this sacred shore
    Wakes for the misspent past my bitter sighs;
    ‘Pause, wretched man! and turn,’ as conscience cries,
    Pointing the heavenward way where I should soar. 
    But soon another thought gets mastery o’er
    The first, that so to palter were unwise;
    E’en now the time, if memory err not, flies,
    When we should wait our lady-love before. 
    I, for his aim then well I apprehend,
    Within me freeze, as one who, sudden, hears
    News unexpected which his soul offend. 
    Returns my first thought then, that disappears;
    Nor know I which shall conquer, but till now
    Within me they contend, nor hope of rest allow!

    MACGREGOR.

SONNET LIII.

Ben sapev’ io che natural consiglio.

FLEEING FROM LOVE, HE FALLS INTO THE HANDS OF HIS MINISTERS.

      Full well I know that natural wisdom nought,
    Love, ’gainst thy power, in any age prevail’d,
    For snares oft set, fond oaths that ever fail’d,
    Sore proofs of thy sharp talons long had taught;
    But lately, and in me it wonder wrought—­
    With care this new experience be detail’d—­