WRANGHAM.

      Love, Nature, and that gentle soul as bright,
    Where every lofty virtue dwells and reigns,
    Are sworn against my peace.  As wont, Love strains
    His every power that I may perish quite. 
    Nature her delicate form by bonds so slight
    Holds in existence, that no help sustains;
    She is so modest that she now disdains
    Longer to brook this vile life’s painful fight. 
    Thus fades and fails the spirit day by day,
    Which on those dear and lovely limbs should wait,
    Our mirror of true grace which wont to give: 
    And soon, if Mercy turn not Death away,
    Alas! too well I see in what sad state
    Are those vain hopes wherein I loved to live.

    MACGREGOR.

SONNET CLII.

Questa Fenice dell’ aurata piuma.

HE COMPARES HER TO THE PHOENIX.

      This wondrous Phoenix with the golden plumes
    Forms without art so rare a ring to deck
    That beautiful and soft and snowy neck,
    That every heart it melts, and mine consumes: 
    Forms, too, a natural diadem which lights
    The air around, whence Love with silent steel
    Draws liquid subtle fire, which still I feel
    Fierce burning me though sharpest winter bites;
    Border’d with azure, a rich purple vest,
    Sprinkled with roses, veils her shoulders fair: 
    Rare garment hers, as grace unique, alone! 
    Fame, in the opulent and odorous breast
    Of Arab mountains, buries her sole lair,
    Who in our heaven so high a pitch has flown.

    MACGREGOR.

SONNET CLIII.

Se Virgilio ed Omero avessin visto.

THE MOST FAMOUS POETS OF ANTIQUITY WOULD HAVE SUNG HER ONLY, HAD THEY SEEN HER.

      Had tuneful Maro seen, and Homer old,
    The living sun which here mine eyes behold,
    The best powers they had join’d of either lyre,
    Sweetness and strength, that fame she might acquire;
    Unsung had been, with vex’d AEneas, then
    Achilles and Ulysses, godlike men,
    And for nigh sixty years who ruled so well
    The world; and who before AEgysthus fell;
    Nay, that old flower of virtues and of arms,
    As this new flower of chastity and charms,
    A rival star, had scarce such radiance flung. 
    In rugged verse him honour’d Ennius sung,
    I her in mine.  Grant, Heaven! on my poor lays
    She frown not, nor disdain my humble praise.

    ANON.

SONNET CLIV.

Giunto Alessandro alla famosa tomba.

HE FEARS THAT HE IS INCAPABLE OF WORTHILY CELEBRATING HER.