Here turn’d to look on me, and lingering stood;
    There first her beauteous eyes my spirit stole: 
    And here she smiled, and there her accents rang,
    Her speaking face here told another mood. 
    Thus Love, our sovereign, holds me in control.

    WOLLASTON.

SONNET XC.

Qui dove mezzo son, Sennuccio mio.

THE MERE SIGHT OF VAUCLUSE MAKES HIM FORGET ALL THE PERILS OF HIS JOURNEY.

      Friend, on this spot, I life but half endure
    (Would I were wholly here and you content),
    Where from the storm and wind my course I bent,
    Which suddenly had left the skies obscure. 
    Fain would I tell—­for here I feel me sure—­
    Why lightnings now no fear to me present;
    And why unmitigated, much less spent,
    E’en as before my fierce desires allure. 
    Soon as I reach’d these realms of love, and saw
    Where, sweet and pure, to life my Laura came,
    Who calms the air, at rest the thunder lays;
    Love in my soul, where she alone gives law,
    Quench’d the cold fear and kindled the fast flame;
    What were it then on her bright eyes to gaze!

    MACGREGOR.

SONNET XCI.

Dell’ empia Babilonia, ond’ e fuggita.

LEAVING ROME, HE DESIRES ONLY PEACE WITH LAURA AND PROSPERITY TO COLONNA.

      Yes, out of impious Babylon I’m flown,
    Whence flown all shame, whence banish’d is all good,
    That nurse of error, and of guilt th’ abode,
    To lengthen out a life which else were gone: 
    There as Love prompts, while wandering alone,
    I now a garland weave, and now an ode;
    With him I commune, and in pensive mood
    Hope better times; this only checks my moan. 
    Nor for the throng, nor fortune do I care,
    Nor for myself, nor sublunary things,
    No ardour outwardly, or inly springs: 
    I ask two persons only:  let my fair
    For me a kind and tender heart maintain;
    And be my friend secure in his high post again.

    NOTT.

      From impious Babylon, where all shame is dead,
    And every good is banish’d to far climes,
    Nurse of rank errors, centre of worst crimes,
    Haply to lengthen life, I too am fled: 
    Alone, at last alone, and here, as led
    At Love’s sweet will, I posies weave or rhymes,
    Self-parleying, and still on better times
    Wrapt in fond thoughts whence only hope is fed. 
    Cares for the world or fortune I have none,
    Nor much for self, nor any common theme: 
    Nor feel I in me, nor without, great heat. 
    Two friends alone I ask, and that the one
    More merciful and meek to me may seem,
    The other well as erst, and firm of feet.

    MACGREGOR.