My song! should any deem thy strain obscure,
    Say, that I care not, and, ere long to hear,
    In certain words and clear,
    Truth’s welcome message, that my hope is sure;
    For this alone, unless I widely err
    Of him who set me on the task, I came,
    That others I might stir
    To honourable acts of high and holy aim.

    MACGREGOR.

MADRIGALE IV.

Or vedi, Amor, che giovinetta donna.

A PRAYER TO LOVE THAT HE WILL TAKE VENGEANCE ON THE SCORNFUL PRIDE OF LAURA.

      Now, Love, at length behold a youthful fair,
    Who spurns thy rule, and, mocking all my care,
    ’Mid two such foes, is safe and fancy free. 
    Thou art well arm’d, ’mid flowers and verdure she,
    In simplest robe and natural tresses found,
    Against thee haughty still and harsh to me;
    I am thy thrall:  but, if thy bow be sound,
    If yet one shaft be thine, in pity, take
    Vengeance upon her for our common sake.

    MACGREGOR.

SONNET XCVI.

Quelle pietose rime, in ch’ io m’ accorsi.

TO ANTONIO OF FERRARA, WHO, IN A POEM, HAD LAMENTED PETRARCH’S SUPPOSED DEATH.

      Those pious lines wherein are finely met
    Proofs of high genius and a spirit kind,
    Had so much influence on my grateful mind
    That instantly in hand my pen I set
    To tell you that death’s final blow—­which yet
    Shall me and every mortal surely find—­
    I have not felt, though I, too, nearly join’d
    The confines of his realm without regret;
    But I turn’d back again because I read
    Writ o’er the threshold that the time to me
    Of life predestinate not all was fled,
    Though its last day and hour I could not see. 
    Then once more let your sad heart comfort know,
    And love the living worth which dead it honour’d so.

    MACGREGOR.

SONNET XCVII.

Dicesett’ anni ha gia rivolto il cielo.

E’EN IN OUR ASHES LIVE OUR WONTED FIRES.

      The seventeenth summer now, alas! is gone,
    And still with ardour unconsumed I glow;
    Yet find, whene’er myself I seek to know,
    Amidst the fire a frosty chill come on. 
    Truly ’tis said, ’Ere Habit quits her throne,
    Years bleach the hair.’  The senses feel life’s snow,
    But not less hot the tides of passion flow: 
    Such is our earthly nature’s malison! 
    Oh! come the happy day, when doom’d to smart
    No more, from flames and lingering sorrows free,
    Calm I may note how fast youth’s minutes flew! 
    Ah! will it e’er be mine the hour to see,
    When with delight, nor duty nor my heart
    Can blame, these eyes once more that angel face may view?