The son of Philip, when he saw the tomb
    Of fierce Achilles, with a sigh, thus said: 
    “O happy, whose achievements erst found room
    From that illustrious trumpet to be spread
    O’er earth for ever!”—­But, beyond the gloom
    Of deep Oblivion shall that loveliest maid,
    Whose like to view seems not of earthly doom,
    By my imperfect accents be convey’d? 
    Her of the Homeric, the Orphean Lyre,
    Most worthy, or that shepherd, Mantua’s pride,
    To be the theme of their immortal lays;
    Her stars and unpropitious fate denied
    This palm:—­and me bade to such height aspire,
    Who, haply, dim her glories by my praise.

    CAPEL LOFFT.

      When Alexander at the famous tomb
    Of fierce Achilles stood, the ambitious sigh
    Burst from his bosom—­“Fortunate! on whom
    Th’ eternal bard shower’d honours bright and high.” 
    But, ah! for so to each is fix’d his doom,
    This pure fair dove, whose like by mortal eye
    Was never seen, what poor and scanty room
    For her great praise can my weak verse supply? 
    Whom, worthiest Homer’s line and Orpheus’ song,
    Or his whom reverent Mantua still admires—­
    Sole and sufficient she to wake such lyres! 
    An adverse star, a fate here only wrong,
    Entrusts to one who worships her dear name,
    Yet haply injures by his praise her fame.

    MACGREGOR.

SONNET CLV.

Almo Sol, quella fronde ch’ io sola amo.

TO THE SUN, WHOSE SETTING HID LAURA’S DWELLING FROM HIS VIEW.

      O blessed Sun! that sole sweet leaf I love,
    First loved by thee, in its fair seat, alone,
    Bloometh without a peer, since from above
    To Adam first our shining ill was shown. 
    Pause we to look on her!  Although to stay
    Thy course I pray thee, yet thy beams retire;
    Their shades the mountains fling, and parting day
    Parts me from all I most on earth desire. 
    The shadows from yon gentle heights that fall,
    Where sparkles my sweet fire, where brightly grew
    That stately laurel from a sucker small,
    Increasing, as I speak, hide from my view
    The beauteous landscape and the blessed scene,
    Where dwells my true heart with its only queen.

    MACGREGOR.

SONNET CLVI.

Passa la nave mia colma d’ oblio.

UNDER THE FIGURE OF A TEMPEST-TOSSED VESSEL, HE DESCRIBES HIS OWN SAD STATE.

      My bark, deep laden with oblivion, rides
    O’er boisterous waves, through winter’s midnight gloom,
    ’Twixt Scylla and Charybdis, while, in room
    Of pilot, Love, mine enemy, presides;
    At every oar a guilty fancy bides,
    Holding at nought the tempest