my heart it smote
    (’Twas then my own) which straight, divided, sought
    Her, who had wrapp’d it in her robe of clay. 
    Part shares her tomb, part to her heaven is sped;
    Where now, with laurel wreathed, in triumph’s car
    She reaps the meed of matchless holiness: 
    So might I, of this flesh discumbered,
    Which holds me prisoner here, from sorrow far
    With her expatiate free ’midst realms of endless bliss!

    WRANGHAM.

      Ah! gone for ever are the happy years
    That soothed my soul amid Love’s fiercest fire,
    And she for whom I wept and tuned my lyre
    Has gone, alas!—­But left my lyre, my tears: 
    Gone is that face, whose holy look endears;
    But in my heart, ere yet it did retire,
    Left the sweet radiance of its eyes, entire;—­
    My heart?  Ah; no! not mine! for to the spheres
    Of light she bore it captive, soaring high,
    In angel robe triumphant, and now stands
    Crown’d with the laurel wreath of chastity: 
    Oh! could I throw aside these earthly bands
    That tie me down where wretched mortals sigh,—­
    To join blest spirits in celestial lands!

    MOREHEAD.

SONNET XLVI.

Mente mia che presaga de’ tuoi danni.

HE RECALLS WITH GRIEF THEIR LAST MEETING.

      My mind! prophetic of my coming fate,
    Pensive and gloomy while yet joy was lent,
    On the loved lineaments still fix’d, intent
    To seek dark bodings, ere thy sorrow’s date! 
    From her sweet acts, her words, her looks, her gait,
    From her unwonted pity with sadness blent,
    Thou might’st have said, hadst thou been prescient,
    “I taste my last of bliss in this low state!”
    My wretched soul! the poison, oh, how sweet! 
    That through my eyes instill’d the burning smart,
    Gazing on hers, no more on earth to meet! 
    To them—­my bosom’s wealth! condemn’d to part
    On a far journey—­as to friends discreet,
    All my fond thoughts I left, and lingering heart.

    DACRE.

SONNET XLVII.

Tutta la mia fiorita e verde etade.

JUST WHEN HE MIGHT FAIRLY HOPE SOME RETURN OF AFFECTION, ENVIOUS DEATH CARRIES HER OFF.

      All my green years and golden prime of man
    Had pass’d away, and with attemper’d sighs
    My bosom heaved—­ere yet the days arise
    When life declines, contracting its brief span. 
    Already my loved enemy began
    To lull suspicion, and in sportive guise,
    With timid confidence, though playful, wise,
    In gentle mockery my long pains to scan: 
    The hour was near when Love, at length, may mate
    With Chastity; and, by the dear one’s side,
    The lover’s thoughts and words may freely flow: 
    Death saw, with envy, my too happy state,
    E’en its fair promise—­and, with fatal pride,
    Strode in the midway forth, an armed foe!