Whence stings of love once issued far and wide. 
    That winning air, that rare discourse and meek,
    Surely from heaven inspired, that gentle glance
    Which wounded my poor heart, and wins it still,
    Are gone; if I am slow her road to seek,
    I hope her fair and graceful name perchance
    To consecrate with this worn weary quill.

    MACGREGOR.

      Within one mortal shrine two foes had met—­
    Beauty and Virtue—­yet they dwelt so bright,
    That ne’er within the soul did they excite
    Rebellious thought, their union might beget: 
    But, parted to fulfil great nature’s debt,
    One blooms in heaven, exulting in its height;
    Its twin on earth doth rest, from whose veil’d night
    No more those eyes of love man’s soul can fret. 
    That speech by Heaven inspired, so humbly wise—­
    That graceful air—­her look so winning, meek,
    That woke and kindles still my bosom’s pain—­
    They all have fled; but if to gain her skies
    I tardy seem, my weary pen would seek
    For her blest name a consecrated reign!

    WOLLASTON.

SONNET XXX.

Quand’ io mi volgo indietro a mirar gli anni.

THE REMEMBRANCE OF THE PAST ENHANCES HIS MISERY.

      When I look back upon the many years
    Which in their flight my best thoughts have entomb’d,
    And spent the fire, that, spite her ice, consumed,
    And finish’d the repose so full of tears,
    Broken the faith which Love’s young dream endears,
    And the two parts of all my blessing doom’d,
    This low in earth, while heaven has that resumed,
    And lost the guerdon of my pains and fears,
    I wake, and feel me to the bitter wind
    So bare, I envy the worst lot I see;
    Self-terror and heart-grief on me so wait. 
    O Death, O Fate, O Fortune, stars unkind! 
    O day for ever dark and drear to me! 
    How have ye sunk me in this abject state!

    MACGREGOR.

      When memory turns to gaze on time gone by
    (Which in its flight hath arm’d e’en thought with wings),
    And to my troubled rest a period brings,
    Quells, too, the flame which long could ice defy;
    And when I mark Love’s promise wither’d lie,
    That treasure parted which my bosom wrings
    (For she in heaven, her shrine to nature clings),
    Whilst thus my toils’ reward she doth deny;—­
    I then awake and feel bereaved indeed! 
    The darkest fate on earth seems bliss to mine—­
    So much I fear myself, and dread its woe! 
    O Fortune!—­Death!  O star!  O fate decreed! 
    O bitter day! that yet must sweetly shine,
    Alas! too surely thou hast laid me low!

    WOLLASTON.

SONNET XXXI.