of Love’s dreaming? 
    There was nought mortal in her stately tread
    But grace angelic, and her speech awoke
    Than human voices a far loftier sound,
    A spirit of heaven,—­a living sun she broke
    Upon my sight;—­what if these charms be fled?—­
    The slackening of the bow heals not the wound.

    WROTTESLEY.

SONNET LXX.

La bella donna che cotanto amavi.

TO HIS BROTHER GERARDO, ON THE DEATH OF A LADY TO WHOM HE WAS ATTACHED.

      The beauteous lady thou didst love so well
    Too soon hath from our regions wing’d her flight,
    To find, I ween, a home ’mid realms of light;
    So much in virtue did she here excel
    Thy heart’s twin key of joy and woe can dwell
    No more with her—­then re-assume thy might,
    Pursue her by the path most swift and right,
    Nor let aught earthly stay thee by its spell. 
    Thus from thy heaviest burthen being freed,
    Each other thou canst easier dispel,
    And an unfreighted pilgrim seek thy sky;
    Too well, thou seest, how much the soul hath need,
    (Ere yet it tempt the shadowy vale) to quell
    Each earthly hope, since all that lives must die.

    WOLLASTON.

      The lovely lady who was long so dear
    To thee, now suddenly is from us gone,
    And, for this hope is sure, to heaven is flown,
    So mild and angel-like her life was here! 
    Now from her thraldom since thy heart is clear,
    Whose either key she, living, held alone,
    Follow where she the safe short way has shown,
    Nor let aught earthly longer interfere. 
    Thus disencumber’d from the heavier weight,
    The lesser may aside be easier laid,
    And the freed pilgrim win the crystal gate;
    So teaching us, since all things that are made
    Hasten to death, how light must be his soul
    Who treads the perilous pass, unscathed and whole!

    MACGREGOR.

SONNET LXXI.

Piangete, donne, e con voi pianga Amore.

ON THE DEATH OF CINO DA PISTOIA.

      Weep, beauteous damsels, and let Cupid weep,
    Of every region weep, ye lover train;
    He, who so skilfully attuned his strain
    To your fond cause, is sunk in death’s cold sleep! 
    Such limits let not my affliction keep,
    As may the solace of soft tears restrain;
    And, to relieve my bosom of its pain,
    Be all my sighs tumultuous, utter’d deep! 
    Let song itself, and votaries of verse,
    Breathe mournful accents o’er our Cino’s bier,
    Who late is gone to number with the blest! 
    Oh! weep, Pistoia, weep your sons perverse;
    Its choicest habitant has fled our sphere,
    And heaven may glory in its welcome guest!