O my sad eyes! our sun is overcast,—­
    Nay, rather borne to heaven, and there is shining,
    Waiting our coming, and perchance repining
    At our delay; there shall we meet at last: 
    And there, mine ears, her angel words float past,
    Those who best understand their sweet divining;
    Howe’er, my feet, unto the search inclining,
    Ye cannot reach her in those regions vast. 
    Why, then, do ye torment me thus, for, oh! 
    It is no fault of mine, that ye no more
    Behold, and hear, and welcome her below;
    Blame Death,—­or rather praise Him and adore,
    Who binds and frees, restrains and letteth go,
    And to the weeping one can joy restore.

    WROTTESLEY.

SONNET VIII.

Poiche la vista angelica serena.

WITH HER, HIS ONLY SOLACE, IS TAKEN AWAY ALL HIS DESIRE OF LIFE.

      Since her calm angel face, long beauty’s fane,
    My beggar’d soul by this brief parting throws
    In darkest horrors and in deepest woes,
    I seek by uttering to allay my pain. 
    Certes, just sorrow leads me to complain: 
    This she, who is its cause, and Love too shows;
    No other remedy my poor heart knows
    Against the troubles that in life obtain. 
    Death! thou hast snatch’d her hence with hand unkind,
    And thou, glad Earth! that fair and kindly face
    Now hidest from me in thy close embrace;
    Why leave me here, disconsolate and blind,
    Since she who of mine eyes the light has been,
    Sweet, loving, bright, no more with me is seen?

    MACGREGOR.

SONNET IX.

S’ Amor novo consiglio non n’ apporta.

HE DESCRIBES HIS SAD STATE.

      If Love to give new counsel still delay,
    My life must change to other scenes than these;
    My troubled spirit grief and terror freeze,
    Desire augments while all my hopes decay. 
    Thus ever grows my life, by night and day,
    Despondent, and dismay’d, and ill at ease,
    Harass’d and helmless on tempestuous seas,
    With no sure escort on a doubtful way. 
    Her path a sick imagination guides,
    Its true light underneath—­ah, no! on high,
    Whence on my heart she beams more bright than eye,
    Not on mine eyes; from them a dark veil hides
    Those lovely orbs, and makes me, ere life’s span
    Is measured half, an old and broken man.

    MACGREGOR.

SONNET X.

Nell’ eta sua piu bella e piu fiorita.

HE DESIRES TO DIE, THAT HIS SOUL MAY BE WITH HER, AS HIS THOUGHTS ALREADY ARE.