So far as to mine eyes its light heaven show’d,
    So far as love and study train’d my wings,
    Novel and beautiful but mortal things
    From every star I found on her bestow’d: 
    So many forms in rare and varied mode
    Of heavenly beauty from immortal springs
    My panting intellect before me brings,
    Sunk my weak sight before their dazzling load. 
    Hence, whatsoe’er I spoke of her or wrote,
    Who, at God’s right, returns me now her prayers,
    Is in that infinite abyss a mote: 
    For style beyond the genius never dares;
    Thus, though upon the sun man fix his sight,
    He seeth less as fiercer burns its light.

    MACGREGOR.

SONNET LXIX.

Dolce mio caro e prezioso pegno.

HE PRAYS HER TO APPEAR BEFORE HIM IN A VISION.

      Dear precious pledge, by Nature snatch’d away,
    But yet reserved for me in realms undying;
    O thou on whom my life is aye relying,
    Why tarry thus, when for thine aid I pray? 
    Time was, when sleep could to mine eyes convey
    Sweet visions, worthy thee;—­why is my sighing
    Unheeded now?—­who keeps thee from replying? 
    Surely contempt in heaven cannot stay: 
    Often on earth the gentlest heart is fain
    To feed and banquet on another’s woe
    (Thus love is conquer’d in his own domain),
    But thou, who seest through me, and dost know
    All that I feel,—­thou, who canst soothe my pain,
    Oh! let thy blessed shade its peace bestow.

    WROTTESLEY.

SONNET LXX.

Deh qual pieta, qual angel fu si presto.

HIS PRAYER IS HEARD.

      What angel of compassion, hovering near,
    Heard, and to heaven my heart grief instant bore,
    Whence now I feel descending as of yore
    My lady, in that bearing chaste and dear,
    My lone and melancholy heart to cheer,
    So free from pride, of humbleness such store,
    In fine, so perfect, though at death’s own door,
    I live, and life no more is dull and drear. 
    Blessed is she who so can others bless
    With her fair sight, or with that tender speech
    To whose full meaning love alone can reach. 
    “Dear friend,” she says, “thy pangs my soul distress;
    But for our good I did thy homage shun”—­
    In sweetest tones which might arrest the sun.

    MACGREGOR.

SONNET LXXI.

Del cibo onde ’l signor mio sempre abbonda.

HE DESCRIBES THE APPARITION OF LAURA.