MACGREGOR.

SONNET LX.

Ite, rime dolenti, al duro sasso.

HE PRAYS THAT SHE WILL BE NEAR HIM AT HIS DEATH, WHICH HE FEELS APPROACHING.

      Go, plaintive verse, to the cold marble go,
    Which hides in earth my treasure from these eyes;
    There call on her who answers from yon skies,
    Although the mortal part dwells dark and low. 
    Of life how I am wearied make her know,
    Of stemming these dread waves that round me rise: 
    But, copying all her virtues I so prize,
    Her track I follow, yet my steps are slow. 
    I sing of her, living, or dead, alone;
    (Dead, did I say?  She is immortal made!)
    That by the world she should be loved, and known. 
    Oh! in my passage hence may she be near,
    To greet my coming that’s not long delay’d;
    And may I hold in heaven the rank herself holds there!

    NOTT.

      Go, melancholy rhymes! your tribute bring
    To that cold stone, which holds the dear remains
    Of all that earth held precious;—­uttering,
    If heaven should deign to hear them, earthly strains. 
    Tell her, that sport of tempests, fit no more
    To stem the troublous ocean,—­here at last
    Her votary treads the solitary shore;
    His only pleasure to recall the past. 
    Tell her, that she who living ruled his fate,
    In death still holds her empire:  all his care,
    So grant the Muse her aid,—­to celebrate
    Her every word, and thought, and action fair. 
    Be this my meed, that in the hour of death
    Her kindred spirit may hail, and bless my parting breath!

    WOODHOUSELEE.

SONNET LXI.

S’ onesto amor puo meritar mercede.

HE PRAYS THAT, IN REWARD FOR HIS LONG AND VIRTUOUS ATTACHMENT, SHE WILL VISIT HIM IN DEATH.

      If Mercy e’er rewardeth virtuous love,
    If Pity still can do, as she has done,
    I shall have rest, for clearer than the sun
    My lady and the world my faith approve. 
    Who fear’d me once, now knows, yet scarce believes
    I am the same who wont her love to seek,
    Who seek it still; where she but heard me speak,
    Or saw my face, she now my soul perceives. 
    Wherefore I hope that e’en in heaven she mourns
    My heavy anguish, and on me the while
    Her sweet face eloquent of pity turns,
    And that when shuffled off this mortal coil,
    Her way to me with that fair band she’ll wend,
    True follower of Christ and virtue’s friend.

    MACGREGOR.

      If virtuous love doth merit recompense—­
    If pity still maintain its wonted sway—­
    I that reward shall win, for bright as day
    To earth and Laura breathes my faith’s incense.