With mad rage gnash their teeth and talons whet,
    And vengeance of past loss on us pursue: 
    While this new grief disheartens and appalls,
    Replace not in its sheath your honour’d sword,
    But, boldly following where your fortune calls,
    E’en to its goal be glory’s path explored,
    Which fame and honour to the world may give
    That e’en for centuries after death will live.

    MACGREGOR.

[Footnote Q:  Orsa.  A play on the word Orsim.]

SONNET LXXXIII.

L’ aspettata virtu che ’n voi fioriva.

TO PAUDOLFO MALATESTA, LORD OF RIMINI.

      Sweet virtue’s blossom had its promise shed
    Within thy breast (when Love became thy foe);
    Fair as the flower, now its fruit doth glow,
    And not by visions hath my hope been fed. 
    To hail thee thus, I by my heart am led,
    That by my pen thy name renown should know;
    No marble can the lasting fame bestow
    Like that by poets’ characters is spread. 
    Dost think Marcellus’ or proud Caesar’s name,
    Or Africanus, Paulus—­still resound,
    That sculptors proud have effigied their deed? 
    No, Pandolph, frail the statuary’s fame,
    For immortality alone is found
    Within the records of a poet’s meed.

    WOLLASTON.

      The flower, in youth which virtue’s promise bore,
    When Love in your pure heart first sought to dwell,
    Now beareth fruit that flower which matches well,
    And my long hopes are richly come ashore,
    Prompting my spirit some glad verse to pour
    Where to due honour your high name may swell,
    For what can finest marble truly tell
    Of living mortal than the form he wore? 
    Think you great Caesar’s or Marcellus’ name,
    That Paulus, Africanus to our days,
    By anvil or by hammer ever came? 
    No! frail the sculptor’s power for lasting praise: 
    Our study, my Pandolfo, only can
    Give immortality of fame to man.

    MACGREGOR.

CANZONE XI.[R]

Mai non vo’ piu cantar, com’ io soleva.

ENIGMAS.

      Never more shall I sing, as I have sung: 
    For still she heeded not; and I was scorn’d: 
    So e’en in loveliest spots is trouble found. 
    Unceasingly to sigh is no relief. 
    Already on the Alp snow gathers round: 
    Already day is near; and I awake. 
    An affable and modest air is sweet;
    And in a lovely lady that she be
    Noble and dignified, not proud and cold,
    Well pleases it to find. 
    Love o’er his empire rules without a sword. 
    He who has miss’d his way let him turn back: 
    Who has no home the heath must be his bed: 
    Who lost or has not gold,
    Will sate his thirst at the clear crystal spring.