Nor sight nor sound from weariness can screen: 
    Yet doth my lady, by compassion led,
    Return to solace my unfailing woe;
    Earth yields no other balm:—­oh! could I tell
    How bright she seems, and how her accents flow,
    Not unto man alone Love’s flames would spread,
    But even bears and tigers share the spell.

    WROTTESLEY.

SONNET XVI.

Si breve e ’l tempo e ’l pensier si veloce.

THE REMEMBRANCE OF HER CHASES SADNESS FROM HIS HEART.

      So brief the time, so fugitive the thought
    Which Laura yields to me, though dead, again,
    Small medicine give they to my giant pain;
    Still, as I look on her, afflicts me nought. 
    Love, on the rack who holds me as he brought,
    Fears when he sees her thus my soul retain,
    Where still the seraph face and sweet voice reign,
    Which first his tyranny and triumph wrought. 
    As rules a mistress in her home of right,
    From my dark heavy heart her placid brow
    Dispels each anxious thought and omen drear. 
    My soul, which bears but ill such dazzling light,
    Says with a sigh:  “O blessed day! when thou
    Didst ope with those dear eyes thy passage here!”

    MACGREGOR.

SONNET XVII.

Ne mai pietosa madre al caro figlio.

HER COUNSEL ALONE AFFORDS HIM RELIEF.

      Ne’er did fond mother to her darling son,
    Or zealous spouse to her beloved mate,
    Sage counsel give, in perilous estate,
    With such kind caution, in such tender tone,
    As gives that fair one, who, oft looking down
    On my hard exile from her heavenly seat,
    With wonted kindness bends upon my fate
    Her brow, as friend or parent would have done: 
    Now chaste affection prompts her speech, now fear,
    Instructive speech, that points what several ways
    To seek or shun, while journeying here below;
    Then all the ills of life she counts, and prays
    My soul ere long may quit this terrene sphere: 
    And by her words alone I’m soothed and freed from woe.

    NOTT.

      Ne’er to the son, in whom her age is blest,
    The anxious mother—­nor to her loved lord
    The wedded dame, impending ill to ward,
    With careful sighs so faithful counsel press’d,
    As she, who, from her high eternal rest,
    Bending—­as though my exile she deplored—­
    With all her wonted tenderness restored,
    And softer pity on her brow impress’d! 
    Now with a mother’s fears, and now as one
    Who loves with chaste affection, in her speech
    She points what to pursue and what to shun! 
    Our years retracing of long, various grief,
    Wooing my soul at higher good to reach,
    And while she speaks, my bosom finds relief!