That nightingale, who now melodious mourns
    Perhaps his children or his consort dear,
    The heavens with sweetness fills; the distant bourns
    Resound his notes, so piteous and so clear;
    With me all night he weeps, and seems by turns
    To upbraid me with my fault and fortune drear,
    Whose fond and foolish heart, where grief sojourns,
    A goddess deem’d exempt from mortal fear. 
    Security, how easy to betray! 
    The radiance of those eyes who could have thought
    Should e’er become a senseless clod of clay? 
    Living, and weeping, late I’ve learn’d to say
    That here below—­Oh, knowledge dearly bought!—­
    Whate’er delights will scarcely last a day!

    CHARLEMONT.

SONNET XLIV.

Ne per sereno cielo ir vaghe stelle.

NOTHING THAT NATURE OFFERS CAN AFFORD HIM CONSOLATION.

      Not skies serene, with glittering stars inlaid,
    Nor gallant ships o’er tranquil ocean dancing,
    Nor gay careering knights in arms advancing,
    Nor wild herds bounding through the forest glade,
    Nor tidings new of happiness delay’d,
    Nor poesie, Love’s witchery enhancing,
    Nor lady’s song beside clear fountain glancing,
    In beauty’s pride, with chastity array’d;
    Nor aught of lovely, aught of gay in show,
    Shall touch my heart, now cold within her tomb
    Who was erewhile my life and light below! 
    So heavy—­tedious—­sad—­my days unblest,
    That I, with strong desire, invoke Death’s gloom,
    Her to behold, whom ne’er to have seen were best!

    DACRE.

      Nor stars bright glittering through the cool still air,
    Nor proud ships riding on the tranquil main,
    Nor armed knights light pricking o’er the plain,
    Nor deer in glades disporting void of care,
    Nor tidings hoped by recent messenger,
    Nor tales of love in high and gorgeous strain,
    Nor by clear stream, green mead, or shady lane
    Sweet-chaunted roundelay of lady fair;
    Nor aught beside my heart shall e’er engage—­
    Sepulchred, as ’tis henceforth doom’d to be,
    With her, my eyes’ sole mirror, beam, and bliss. 
    Oh! how I long this weary pilgrimage
    To close; that I again that form may see,
    Which never to have seen had been my happiness!

    WRANGHAM.

SONNET XLV.

Passato e ’l tempo omai, lasso! che tanto.

HIS ONLY DESIRE IS AGAIN TO BE WITH HER.

      Fled—­fled, alas! for ever—­is the day,
    Which to my flame some soothing whilom brought;
    And fled is she of whom I wept and wrote: 
    Yet still the pang, the tear, prolong their stay! 
    And fled that angel vision far away;
    But flying, with soft glance