soft and clear. 
    And certes, my sole study and desire
    Was but—­I knew not how—­in those long years
    To unburthen my sad heart, not fame acquire. 
    I wept, but wish’d no honour in my tears. 
    Fain would I now taste joy; but that high fair,
    Silent and weary, calls me to her there.

    MACGREGOR.

      Oh! had I deem’d my sighs, in numbers rung,
    Could e’er have gain’d the world’s approving smile,
    I had awoke my rhymes in choicer style,
    My sorrow’s birth more tunefully had sung: 
    But she is gone whose inspiration hung
    On all my words, and did my thoughts beguile;
    My numbers harsh seem’d melody awhile,
    Now she is mute who o’er them music flung. 
    Nor fame, nor other incense, then I sought,
    But how to quell my heart’s o’erwhelming grief;
    I wept, but sought no honour in my tear: 
    But could the world’s fair suffrage now be bought,
    ’Twere joy to gain, but that my hour is brief,
    Her lofty spirit waves me to her bier.

    WOLLASTON.

SONNET XXVI.

Soleasi nel mio cor star bella e viva.

SINCE HER DEATH, NOTHING IS LEFT TO HIM BUT GRIEF.

      She stood within my heart, warm, young, alone,
    As in a humble home a lady bright;
    By her last flight not merely am I grown
    Mortal, but dead, and she an angel quite. 
    A soul whence every bliss and hope is flown,
    Love shorn and naked of its own glad light,
    Might melt with pity e’en a heart of stone: 
    But none there is to tell their grief or write;
    These plead within, where deaf is every ear
    Except mine own, whose power its griefs so mar
    That nought is left me save to suffer here. 
    Verily we but dust and shadows are! 
    Verily blind and evil is our will! 
    Verily human hopes deceive us still!

    MACGREGOR.

      ’Mid life’s bright glow she dwelt within my soul,
    The sovereign tenant of a humble cell,
    But when for heaven she bade the world farewell,
    Death seem’d to grasp me in his fierce control: 
    My wither’d love torn from its brightening goal—­
    My soul without its treasure doom’d to dwell—­
    Could I but trace their grief, their sorrow tell,
    A stone might wake, and fain with them condole. 
    They inly mourn, where none can hear their woe
    Save I alone, who too with grief oppress’d,
    Can only soothe my anguish by my sighs: 
    Life is indeed a shadowy dream below;
    Our blind desires by Reason’s chain unbless’d,
    Whilst Hope in treacherous wither’d fragments lies.

    WOLLASTON.

SONNET XXVII.

Soleano i miei pensier soavemente.

HE COMFORTS HIMSELF WITH THE HOPE THAT SHE HEARS HIM.