by hunter’s dart,
    Whose poison’d iron rankles in his breast,
    Flies and more grieves the more the chase is press’d,
    So I, with Love’s keen arrow in my heart,
    Endure at once my death and my delight,
    Rack’d with long grief, and weary with vain flight.

    MACGREGOR.

      Those gentle hills which hold my spirit still
    (For though I fly, my heart there must remain),
    Are e’er before me, whilst my burthen’s pain,
    By love bestow’d, I bear with patient will. 
    I marvel oft that I can yet fulfil
    That yoke’s sweet duties, which my soul enchain,
    I seek release, but find the effort vain;
    The more I fly, the nearer seems my ill. 
    So, like the stag, who, wounded by the dart,
    Its poison’d iron rankling in his side,
    Flies swifter at each quickening anguish’d throb,—­
    I feel the fatal arrow at my heart;
    Yet with its poison, joy awakes its tide;
    My flight exhausts me—­grief my life doth rob!

    WOLLASTON.

SONNET CLXXV.

Non dall’ Ispano Ibero all’ Indo Idaspe.

HIS WOES ARE UNEXAMPLED.

      From Spanish Ebro to Hydaspes old,
    Exploring ocean in its every nook,
    From the Red Sea to the cold Caspian shore,
    In earth, in heaven one only Phoenix dwells. 
    What fortunate, or what disastrous bird
    Omen’d my fate? which Parca winds my yarn,
    That I alone find Pity deaf as asp,
    And wretched live who happy hoped to be? 
    Let me not speak of her, but him her guide,
    Who all her heart with love and sweetness fills—­
    Gifts which, from him o’erflowing, follow her,
    Who, that my sweets may sour and cruel be,
    Dissembleth, careth not, or will not see
    That silver’d, ere my time, these temples are.

    MACGREGOR.

SONNET CLXXVI.

Voglia mi sprona; Amor mi guida e scorge.

HE DESCRIBES HIS STATE, SPECIFYING THE DATE OF HIS ATTACHMENT.

      Passion impels me, Love escorts and leads,
    Pleasure attracts me, habits old enchain,
    Hope with its flatteries comforts me again,
    And, at my harass’d heart, with fond touch pleads. 
    Poor wretch! it trusts her still, and little heeds
    The blind and faithless leader of our train;
    Reason is dead, the senses only reign: 
    One fond desire another still succeeds. 
    Virtue and honour, beauty, courtesy,
    With winning words and many a graceful way,
    My heart entangled in that laurel sweet. 
    In thirteen hundred seven and twenty, I
    —­’Twas April, the first hour, on its sixth day—­
    Enter’d Love’s labyrinth, whence is no retreat.

    MACGREGOR.