My poor heart op’ning with his puissant hand,
    Love planted there, as in its home, to dwell
    A Laurel, green and bright, whose hues might well
    In rivalry with proudest emeralds stand: 
    Plough’d by my pen and by my heart-sighs fann’d,
    Cool’d by the soft rain from mine eyes that fell,
    It grew in grace, upbreathing a sweet smell,
    Unparallel’d in any age or land. 
    Fair fame, bright honour, virtue firm, rare grace,
    The chastest beauty in celestial frame,—­
    These be the roots whence birth so noble came. 
    Such ever in my mind her form I trace,
    A happy burden and a holy thing,
    To which on rev’rent knee with loving prayer I cling.

    MACGREGOR.

SONNET CXCIII.

Cantai, or piango; e non men di dolcezza.

THOUGH IN THE MIDST OF PAIN, HE DEEMS HIMSELF THE HAPPIEST OF MEN.

      I sang, who now lament; nor less delight
    Than in my song I found, in tears I find;
    For on the cause and not effect inclined,
    My senses still desire to scale that height: 
    Whence, mildly if she smile or hardly smite,
    Cruel and cold her acts, or meek and kind,
    All I endure, nor care what weights they bind,
    E’en though her rage would break my armour quite. 
    Let Love and Laura, world and fortune join,
    And still pursue their usual course for me,
    I care not, if unblest, in life to be. 
    Let me or burn to death or living pine,
    No gentler state than mine beneath the sun,
    Since from a source so sweet my bitters run.

    MACGREGOR.

SONNET CXCIV.

I’ piansi, or canto; che ’l celeste lume.

AT HER RETURN, HIS SORROWS VANISH.

      I wept, but now I sing; its heavenly light
    That living sun conceals not from my view,
    But virtuous love therein revealeth true
    His holy purposes and precious might;
    Whence, as his wont, such flood of sorrow springs
    To shorten of my life the friendless course,
    Nor bridge, nor ford, nor oar, nor sails have force
    To forward mine escape, nor even wings. 
    But so profound and of so full a vein
    My suff’ring is, so far its shore appears,
    Scarcely to reach it can e’en thought contrive: 
    Nor palm, nor laurel pity prompts to gain,
    But tranquil olive, and the dark sky clears,
    And checks my grief and wills me to survive.

    MACGREGOR.

SONNET CXCV.

I’ mi vivea di mia sorte contento.

HE FEARS THAT AN ILLNESS WHICH HAS ATTACKED THE EYES OF LAURA MAY DEPRIVE HIM OF THEIR SIGHT.