My faithful mirror oft to me has told—­
    My weary spirit and my shrivell’d skin
    My failing powers to prove it all begin—­
    “Deceive thyself no longer, thou art old.” 
    Man is in all by Nature best controll’d,
    And if with her we struggle, time creeps in;
    At the sad truth, on fire as waters win,
    A long and heavy sleep is off me roll’d;
    And I see clearly our vain life depart,
    That more than once our being cannot be: 
    Her voice sounds ever in my inmost heart. 
    Who now from her fair earthly frame is free: 
    She walk’d the world so peerless and alone,
    Its fame and lustre all with her are flown.

    MACGREGOR.

      The mirror’d friend—­my changing form hath read. 
    My every power’s incipient decay—­
    My wearied soul—­alike, in warning say
    “Thyself no more deceive, thy youth hath fled.” 
    ’Tis ever best to be by Nature led,
    We strive with her, and Death makes us his prey;
    At that dread thought, as flames the waters stay,
    The dream is gone my life hath sadly fed. 
    I wake to feel how soon existence flies: 
    Once known, ’tis gone, and never to return. 
    Still vibrates in my heart the thrilling tone
    Of her, who now her beauteous shrine defies: 
    But she, who here to rival, none could learn,
    Hath robb’d her sex, and with its fame hath flown.

    WOLLASTON.

SONNET LXXXIII.

Volo con l’ ali de’ pensieri al cielo.

HE SEEMS TO BE WITH HER IN HEAVEN.

      So often on the wings of thought I fly
    Up to heaven’s blissful seats, that I appear
    As one of those whose treasure is lodged there,
    The rent veil of mortality thrown by. 
    A pleasing chillness thrills my heart, while I
    Listen to her voice, who bids me paleness wear—­
    “Ah! now, my friend, I love thee, now revere,
    For changed thy face, thy manners,” doth she cry. 
    She leads me to her Lord:  and then I bow,
    Preferring humble prayer, He would allow
    That I his glorious face, and hers might see. 
    Thus He replies:  “Thy destiny’s secure;
    To stay some twenty, or some ten years more,
    Is but a little space, though long it seems to thee.”

    NOTT.

SONNET LXXXIV.

Morte ha spento quel Sol ch’ abbagliar suolmi.

WEARY OF LIFE, NOW THAT SHE IS NO LONGER WITH HIM, HE DEVOTES HIMSELF TO GOD.

      Death has the bright sun quench’d which wont to burn;
    Her pure and constant eyes his dark realms hold: 
    She now is dust, who dealt me heat and cold;
    To common trees my chosen laurels turn;
    Hence I at once my bliss and bane discern. 
    None now there is my feelings