I feed my fancy on such noble food,
    That Jove I envy not his godlike meal;
    I see her—­joy invades me like a flood,
    And lethe of all other bliss I feel;
    I hear her—­instantly that music rare
    Bids from my captive heart the fond sigh flow;
    Borne by the hand of Love I know not where,
    A double pleasure in one draught I know. 
    Even in heaven that dear voice pleaseth well,
    So winning are its words, its sound so sweet,
    None can conceive, save who had heard, their spell;
    Thus, in the same small space, visibly, meet
    All charms of eye and ear wherewith our race
    Art, Genius, Nature, Heaven have join’d to grace.

    MACGREGOR.

      Such noble aliment sustains my soul,
    That Jove I envy not his godlike food;
    I gaze on her—­and feel each other good
    Engulph’d in that blest draught at Lethe’s bowl: 
    Her every word I in my heart enrol,
    That on its grief it still may constant brood;
    Prostrate by Love—­my doom not understood
    From that one form, I feel a twin control. 
    My spirit drinks the music of her voice,
    Whose speaking harmony (to heaven so dear)
    They only feel who in its tone partake: 
    Again within her face my eyes rejoice,
    For in its gentle lineaments appear
    What Genius, Nature, Art, and Heaven can wake.

    WOLLASTON.

SONNET CLXI.

L’ aura gentil che rasserena i poggi.

JOURNEYING TO VISIT LAURA, HE FEELS RENEWED ARDOUR AS HE APPROACHES.

      The gale, that o’er yon hills flings softer blue,
    And wakes to life each bud that gems the glade,
    I know; its breathings such impression made,
    Wafting me fame, but wafting sorrow too: 
    My wearied soul to soothe, I bid adieu
    To those dear Tuscan haunts I first survey’d;
    And, to dispel the gloom around me spread,
    I seek this day my cheering sun to view,
    Whose sweet attraction is so strong, so great,
    That Love again compels me to its light;
    Then he so dazzles me, that vain were flight. 
    Not arms to brave, ’tis wings to ’scape, my fate
    I ask; but by those beams I’m doom’d to die,
    When distant which consume, and which enflame when nigh.

    NOTT.

      The gentle air, which brightens each green hill,
    Wakening the flowers that paint this bowery glade,
    I recognise it by its soft breath still,
    My sorrow and renown which long has made: 
    Again where erst my sick heart shelter sought,
    From my dear native Tuscan air I flee: 
    That light may cheer my dark and troubled thought,
    I seek my sun, and hope to-day to see. 
    That sun so great and genial sweetness brings,
    That Love compels me to his