All my old usual life is put away—­
    Could I but know how long I have to stay! 
    Grant, Heaven, the long-wish’d summons may be near! 
    Oh, blest the day when from this earthly gaol
    I shall be freed, when burst and broken lies
    This mortal guise, so heavy yet so frail,
    When from this black night my saved spirit flies,
    Soaring up, up, above the bright serene,
    Where with my Lord my Lady shall be seen.

    MACGREGOR.

SONNET LXXIX.

L’ aura mia sacra al mio stanco riposo.

HE TELLS HER IN SLEEP OF HIS SUFFERINGS, AND, OVERCOME BY HER SYMPATHY, AWAKES.

      On my oft-troubled sleep my sacred air
    So softly breathes, at last I courage take,
    To tell her of my past and present ache,
    Which never in her life my heart did dare. 
    I first that glance so full of love declare
    Which served my lifelong torment to awake,
    Next, how, content and wretched for her sake,
    Love day by day my tost heart knew to tear. 
    She speaks not, but, with pity’s dewy trace,
    Intently looks on me, and gently sighs,
    While pure and lustrous tears begem her face;
    My spirit, which her sorrow fiercely tries,
    So to behold her weep with anger burns,
    And freed from slumber to itself returns.

    MACGREGOR.

SONNET LXXX.

Ogni giorno mi par piu di mill’ anni.

FAR FROM FEARING, HE PRAYS FOR DEATH.

      Each day to me seems as a thousand years,
    That I my dear and faithful star pursue,
    Who guided me on earth, and guides me too
    By a sure path to life without its tears. 
    For in the world, familiar now, appears
    No snare to tempt; so rare a light and true
    Shines e’en from heaven my secret conscience through,
    Of lost time and loved sin the glass it rears. 
    Not that I need the threats of death to dread,
    (Which He who loved us bore with greater pain)
    That, firm and constant, I his path should tread: 
    ’Tis but a brief while since in every vein
    Of her he enter’d who my fate has been,
    Yet troubled not the least her brow serene.

    MACGREGOR.

SONNET LXXXI.

Non puo far morte il dolce viso amaro.

SINCE HER DEATH HE HAS CEASED TO LIVE.

      Death cannot make that beauteous face less fair,
    But that sweet face may lend to death a grace;
    My spirit’s guide! from her each good I trace;
    Who learns to die, may seek his lesson there. 
    That holy one! who not his blood would spare,
    But did the dark Tartarean bolts unbrace;
    He, too, doth from my soul death’s terrors chase: