beams again,
    Which then so dazzle me that flight is vain: 
    I ask for my escape not arms, but wings: 
    Heaven by this light condemns me sure to die,
    Which from afar consumes, and burns when nigh.

    MACGREGOR.

SONNET CLXII.

Di di in di vo cangiando il viso e ’l pelo.

HIS WOUNDS CAN BE HEALED ONLY BY PITY OR DEATH.

      I alter day by day in hair and mien,
    Yet shun not the old dangerous baits and dear,
    Nor sever from the laurel, limed and green,
    Which nor the scorching sun, nor fierce cold sear. 
    Dry shall the sea, the sky be starless seen,
    Ere I shall cease to covet and to fear
    Her lovely shadow, and—­which ill I screen—­
    To like, yet loathe, the deep wound cherish’d here: 
    For never hope I respite from my pain,
    From bones and nerves and flesh till I am free,
    Unless mine enemy some pity deign,
    Till things impossible accomplish’d be,
    None but herself or death the blow can heal
    Which Love from her bright eyes has left my heart to feel.

    MACGREGOR.

SONNET CLXIII.

L’ aura serena che fra verdi fronde.

THE GENTLE BREEZE (L’ AURA) RECALLS TO HIM THE TIME WHEN HE FIRST SAW HER.

      The gentle gale, that plays my face around,
    Murmuring sweet mischief through the verdant grove,
    To fond remembrance brings the time, when Love
    First gave his deep, although delightful wound;
    Gave me to view that beauteous face, ne’er found
    Veil’d, as disdain or jealousy might move;
    To view her locks that shone bright gold above,
    Then loose, but now with pearls and jewels bound: 
    Those locks she sweetly scatter’d to the wind,
    And then coil’d up again so gracefully,
    That but to think on it still thrills the sense. 
    These Time has in more sober braids confined;
    And bound my heart with such a powerful tie,
    That death alone can disengage it thence.

    NOTT.

      The balmy airs that from yon leafy spray
    My fever’d brow with playful murmurs greet,
    Recall to my fond heart the fatal day
    When Love his first wound dealt, so deep yet sweet,
    And gave me the fair face—­in scorn away
    Since turn’d, or hid by jealousy—­to meet;
    The locks, which pearls and gems now oft array,
    Whose shining tints with finest gold compete,
    So sweetly on the wind were then display’d,
    Or gather’d in with such a graceful art,
    Their very thought with passion thrills my mind. 
    Time since has twined them in more sober braid,
    And with a snare so powerful bound my heart,
    Death from its fetters only can unbind.

    MACGREGOR.