THOUGH HER EYES DESTROY HIM, HE CANNOT TEAR HIMSELF AWAY.

      What destiny of mine, what fraud or force,
    Unarm’d again conducts me to the field,
    Where never came I but with shame to yield
    ’Scape I or fall, which better is or worse? 
    —­Not worse, but better; from so sweet a source
    Shine in my heart those lights, so bright reveal’d
    The fatal fire, e’en now as then, which seal’d
    My doom, though twenty years have roll’d their course
    I feel death’s messengers when those dear eyes,
    Dazzling me from afar, I see appear,
    And if on me they turn as she draw near,
    Love with such sweetness tempts me then and tries,
    Tell it I cannot, nor recall in sooth,
    For wit and language fail to reach the truth!

    MACGREGOR.

SONNET CLXXXVI.

Liete e pensose, accompagnate e sole.

NOT FINDING HER WITH HER FRIENDS, HE ASKS THEM WHY SHE IS ABSENT.

P. Pensive and glad, accompanied, alone,
Ladies who cheat the time with converse gay,
Where does my life, where does my death delay? 
Why not with you her form, as usual, shown?
L. Glad are we her rare lustre to have known,
And sad from her dear company to stay,
Which jealousy and envy keep away
O’er other’s bliss, as their own ill who moan.
P. Who lovers can restrain, or give them law?
L. No one the soul, harshness and rage the frame;
As erst in us, this now in her appears. 
As oft the face, betrays the heart, we saw
Clouds that, obscuring her high beauty, came,
And in her eyes the dewy trace of tears.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET CLXXXVII.

Quando ‘l sol bagna in mur l’ aurato carro.

HIS NIGHTS ARE, LIKE HIS DAYS, PASSED IN TORMENT.

      When in the sea sinks the sun’s golden light,
    And on my mind and nature darkness lies,
    With the pale moon, faint stars and clouded skies
    I pass a weary and a painful night: 
    To her who hears me not I then rehearse
    My sad life’s fruitless toils, early and late;
    And with the world and with my gloomy fate,
    With Love, with Laura and myself, converse. 
    Sleep is forbid me:  I have no repose,
    But sighs and groans instead, till morn returns,
    And tears, with which mine eyes a sad heart feeds;
    Then comes the dawn, the thick air clearer grows,
    But not my soul; the sun which in it burns
    Alone can cure the grief his fierce warmth breeds.

    NOTT.

      When Phoebus lashes to the western main
    His fiery steeds, and shades the lurid air;
    Grief shades my soul, my night is spent in care;
    Yon moon, yon stars, yon heaven begin my pain. 
    Wretch that I am! full oft