Lady! whose gentle virtues have obtain’d
    For thee a dwelling with thy Maker blest,
    To sit enthroned above, in angels’ vest
    (Whose lustre gold nor purple had attain’d): 
    Ah! thou who here the most exalted reign’d,
    Now through the eyes of Him who knows each breast,
    That heart’s pure faith and love thou canst attest,
    Which both my pen and tears alike sustain’d. 
    Thou, knowest, too, my heart was thine on earth,
    As now it is in heaven; no wish was there
    But to avow thine eyes, its only shrine: 
    Thus to reward the strife which owes its birth
    To thee, who won my each affection’d care,
    Pray God to waft me to his home and thine!

    WOLLASTON.

SONNET LXXVII.

Da’ piu begli occhi e dal piu chiaro viso.

HIS ONLY COMFORT IS THE EXPECTATION OF MEETING HER AGAIN IN HEAVEN.

      The brightest eyes, the most resplendent face
    That ever shone; and the most radiant hair,
    With which nor gold nor sunbeam could compare;
    The sweetest accent, and a smile all grace;
    Hands, arms, that would e’en motionless abase
    Those who to Love the most rebellious were;
    Fine, nimble feet; a form that would appear
    Like that of her who first did Eden trace;
    These fann’d life’s spark:  now heaven, and all its choir
    Of angel hosts those kindred charms admire;
    While lone and darkling I on earth remain. 
    Yet is not comfort fled; she, who can read
    Each secret of my soul, shall intercede;
    And I her sainted form behold again.

    NOTT.

      Yes, from those finest eyes, that face most sweet
    That ever shone, and from that loveliest hair,
    With which nor gold nor sunbeam may compare,
    That speech with love, that smile with grace replete,
    From those soft hands, those white arms which defeat. 
    Themselves unmoved, the stoutest hearts that e’er
    To Love were rebels; from those feet so fair,
    From her whole form, for Eden only meet,
    My spirit took its life—­now these delight
    The King of Heaven and his angelic train,
    While, blind and naked, I am left in night. 
    One only balm expect I ’mid my pain—­
    That she, mine every thought who now can see,
    May win this grace—­that I with her may be.

    MACGREGOR.

SONNET LXXVIII.

E’ mi par d’ or in ora udire il messo.

HE FEELS THAT THE DAY OF THEIR REUNION IS AT HAND.

      Methinks from hour to hour her voice I hear: 
    My Lady calls me!  I would fain obey;
    Within, without, I feel myself decay;
    And am so alter’d—­not with many a year—­
    That to myself a stranger I appear;