MACGREGOR.

SONNET CCXXVI.

Aspro core e selvaggio, e cruda voglia.

HOPE ALONE SUPPORTS HIM IN HIS MISERY.

      Hard heart and cold, a stern will past belief,
    In angel form of gentle sweet allure;
    If thus her practised rigour long endure,
    O’er me her triumph will be poor and brief. 
    For when or spring, or die, flower, herb, and leaf. 
    When day is brightest, night when most obscure,
    Alway I weep.  Great cause from Fortune sure,
    From Love and Laura have I for my grief. 
    I live in hope alone, remembering still
    How by long fall of small drops I have seen
    Marble and solid stone that worn have been. 
    No heart there is so hard, so cold no will,
    By true tears, fervent prayers, and faithful love
    That will not deign at length to melt and move.

    MACGREGOR.

SONNET CCXXVII.

Signor mio caro, ogni pensier mi tira.

HE LAMENTS HIS ABSENCE FROM LAURA AND COLONNA, THE ONLY OBJECTS OF HIS AFFECTION.

      My lord and friend! thoughts, wishes, all inclined
    My heart to visit one so dear to me,
    But Fortune—­can she ever worse decree?—­
    Held me in hand, misled, or kept behind. 
    Since then the dear desire Love taught my mind
    But leads me to a death I did not see,
    And while my twin lights, wheresoe’er I be,
    Are still denied, by day and night I’ve pined. 
    Affection for my lord, my lady’s love,
    The bonds have been wherewith in torments long
    I have been bound, which round myself I wove. 
    A Laurel green, a Column fair and strong,
    This for three lustres, that for three years more
    In my fond breast, nor wish’d it free, I bore.

    MACGREGOR.

[Illustration:  SELVA PIANA, NEAR PARMA.]

TO LAURA IN DEATH.

SONNET I.

Oime il bel viso! oime il soave sguardo!

ON THE ANNOUNCEMENT OF THE DEATH OF LAURA.

      Woe for the ’witching look of that fair face! 
    The port where ease with dignity combined! 
    Woe for those accents, that each savage mind
    To softness tuned, to noblest thoughts the base! 
    And the sweet smile, from whence the dart I trace,
    Which now leaves death my only hope behind! 
    Exalted soul, most fit on thrones to ’ve shined,
    But that too late she came this earth to grace! 
    For you I still must burn, and breathe in you;
    For I was ever yours; of you bereft,
    Full little now I reck all other care. 
    With hope and with desire you thrill’d me through,
    When last my only joy on earth I left:—­
    But caught by winds each word was lost in air.