The air and earth rejoiced; the waves had rest
    By lake and river, and o’er ocean green: 
    ’Mid the enchanting scene
    One distant cloud alone my thought distress’d,
    Lest sometime it might be of tears the source
    Unless kind Heaven should elsewhere turn its course.

    “When first she enter’d on this life below,
    Which, to say sooth, not worthy was to hold,
    ’Twas strange to see her so
    Angelical and dear in baby mould;
    A snowy pearl she seem’d in finest gold;
    Next as she crawl’d, or totter’d with short pace,
    Wood, water, earth, and stone
    Grew green, and clear, and soft; with livelier grace
    The sward beneath her feet and fingers shone;
    With flowers the champain to her bright eyes smiled;
    At her sweet voice, babbling through lips that yet
    From Love’s own fount were wet,
    The hoarse wind silent grew, the tempest mild: 
    Thus clearly showing to the dull blind world
    How much in her was heaven’s own light unfurl’d.

    “At length, her life’s third flowery epoch won,
    She, year by year, so grew in charms and worth,
    That ne’er, methinks, the sun
    Such gracefulness and beauty saw on earth;
    Her eyes so full of modesty and mirth,
    Music and welcome on her words so hung,
    That mute in her high praise,
    Which thine alone may sound, is every tongue: 
    So bright her countenance with heavenly rays,
    Not long thy dazzled vision there may rest;
    From this her fair and fleshly tenement
    Such fire through thine is sent
    (Though gentler never kindled human breast),
    That yet I fear her sudden flight may be
    Too soon the cause of bitter grief to thee.”

    This said, she turn’d her to the rapid wheel
    Whereon she winds of mortal life the thread;
    Too true did she reveal
    The doom of woe which darken’d o’er my head! 
    A few brief years flew by,
    When she, for whom I so desire to die,
    By black and pitiless Death, who could not slay
    A fairer form than hers, was snatch’d away!

    MACGREGOR.

SONNET LV.

Or hai fatto l’ estremo di tua possa.

DEATH MAY DEPRIVE HIM OF THE SIGHT OF HER BEAUTIES, BUT NOT OF THE MEMORY OF HER VIRTUES.

      Now hast thou shown, fell Death! thine utmost might. 
    Through Love’s bright realm hast want and darkness spread,
    Hast now cropp’d beauty’s flower, its heavenly light
    Quench’d, and enclosed in the grave’s narrow bed;
    Now hast thou life despoil’d of all delight,
    Its ornament and sovereign honour shed: 
    But fame and worth it is not thine to blight;
    These mock thy power, and sleep not with the dead. 
    Be thine the mortal part; heaven holds the best,