WRANGHAM.

      Thither my ecstatic thought had rapt me, where
    She dwells, whom still on earth I seek in vain;
    And there, with those whom the third heavens contain,
    I saw her, much more kind, and much more fair. 
    My hand she took, and said:  “Within this sphere,
    If hope deceive me not, thou shalt again
    With me reside:  who caused thy mortal pain
    Am I, and even in summer closed my year. 
    My bliss no human thought can understand: 
    Thee only I await; and, that erewhile
    You held so dear, the veil I left behind.”—­
    She ceased—­ah why?  Why did she loose my hand? 
    For oh! her hallow’d words, her roseate smile
    In heaven had well nigh fix’d my ravish’d mind!

    CHARLEMONT.

SONNET XXXV.

Amor che meco al buon tempo ti stavi.

HE VENTS HIS SORROW TO ALL WHO WITNESSED HIS FORMER FELICITY.

      Love, that in happier days wouldst meet me here
    Along these meads that nursed our kindred strains;
    And that old debt to clear which still remains,
    Sweet converse with the stream and me wouldst share: 
    Ye flowers, leaves, grass, woods, grots, rills, gentle air,
    Low valleys, lofty hills, and sunny plains: 
    The harbour where I stored my love-sick pains,
    And all my various chance, my racking care: 
    Ye playful inmates of the greenwood shade;
    Ye nymphs, and ye that in the waves pursue
    That life its cool and grassy bottom lends:—­
    My days were once so fair; now dark and dread
    As death that makes them so.  Thus the world through
    On each as soon as born his fate attends.

    ANON., OX., 1795.

      On these green banks in happier days I stray’d
    With Love, who whisper’d many a tender tale;
    And the glad waters, winding through the dale,
    Heard the sweet eloquence fond Love display’d. 
    You, purpled plain, cool grot, and arching glade;
    Ye hills, ye streams, where plays the silken gale;
    Ye pathless wilds, you rock-encircled vale
    Which oft have beard the tender plaints I made;
    Ye blue-hair’d nymphs, who ceaseless revel keep,
    In the cool bosom of the crystal deep;
    Ye woodland maids who climb the mountain’s brow;
    Ye mark’d how joy once wing’d each hour so gay;
    Ah, mark how sad each hour now wears away! 
    So fate with human bliss blends human woe!

    ANON. 1777.

SONNET XXXVI.

Mentre che ’l cor dagli amorosi vermi.

HAD SHE NOT DIED SO EARLY, HE WOULD HAVE LEARNED TO PRAISE HER MORE WORTHILY.