And its succeeding sun, with one more bright,
    Still dazzling, as in early youth, my sight: 
    Both suns I’ve seen at once uplift their ray;
    This drives the radiance of the stars away,
    But that which gilds my life eclipses e’en his light.

    NOTT.

      Soon as gay morn ascends her purple car,
    The plaintive warblings of the new-waked grove,
    The murmuring streams, through flowery meads that rove,
    Fill with sweet melody the valleys fair. 
    Aurora, famed for constancy in love,
    Whose face with snow, whose locks with gold compare. 
    Smoothing her aged husband’s silvery hair,
    Bids me the joys of rural music prove. 
    Then, waking, I salute the sun of day;
    But chief that beauteous sun, whose cheering ray
    Once gilt, nay gilds e’en now, life’s scene so bright. 
    Dear suns! which oft I’ve seen together rise;
    This dims each meaner lustre of the skies,
    And that sweet sun I love dims every light.

    ANON. 1777.

SONNET CLXXXIV.

Onde tolse Amor l’ oro e di qual vena.

THE CHARMS OF HER COUNTENANCE AND VOICE.

      Whence could Love take the gold, and from what vein,
    To form those bright twin locks?  What thorn could grow
    Those roses?  And what mead that white bestow
    Of the fresh dews, which pulse and breath obtain? 
    Whence came those pearls that modestly restrain
    Accents which courteous, sweet, and rare can flow? 
    And whence those charms that so divinely show,
    Spread o’er a face serene as heaven’s blue plain? 
    Taught by what angel, or what tuneful sphere,
    Was that celestial song, which doth dispense
    Such potent magic to the ravish’d ear? 
    What sun illumed those bright commanding eyes,
    Which now look peaceful, now in hostile guise;
    Now torture me with hope, and now with fear?

    NOTT.

      Say, from what vein did Love procure the gold
    To make those sunny tresses?  From what thorn
    Stole he the rose, and whence the dew of morn,
    Bidding them breathe and live in Beauty’s mould? 
    What depth of ocean gave the pearls that told
    Those gentle accents sweet, though rarely born? 
    Whence came so many graces to adorn
    That brow more fair than summer skies unfold? 
    Oh! say what angels lead, what spheres control
    The song divine which wastes my life away? 
    (Who can with trifles now my senses move?)
    What sun gave birth unto the lofty soul
    Of those enchanting eyes, whose glances stray
    To burn and freeze my heart—­the sport of Love?

    WROTTESLEY.

SONNET CLXXXV.

Qual mio destin, qual forza o qual inganno.