Ah, Love! some succour to my weak mind deign,
    Lend to my frail and weary style thine aid,
    To sing of her who is immortal made,
    A citizen of the celestial reign. 
    And grant, Lord, that my verse the height may gain
    Of her great praises, else in vain essay’d,
    Whose peer in worth or beauty never stay’d
    In this our world, unworthy to retain. 
    Love answers:  “In myself and Heaven what lay,
    By conversation pure and counsel wise,
    All was in her whom death has snatch’d away. 
    Since the first morn when Adam oped his eyes,
    Like form was ne’er—­suffice it this to say,
    Write down with tears what scarce I tell for sighs.”

    MACGREGOR.

SONNET XC.

Vago augelletto che cantando vai.

THE PLAINTIVE SONG OF A BIRD RECALLS TO HIM HIS OWN KEENER SORROW.

      Poor solitary bird, that pour’st thy lay;
    Or haply mournest the sweet season gone: 
    As chilly night and winter hurry on,
    And day-light fades and summer flies away;
    If as the cares that swell thy little throat
    Thou knew’st alike the woes that wound my rest. 
    Ah, thou wouldst house thee in this kindred breast,
    And mix with mine thy melancholy note. 
    Yet little know I ours are kindred ills: 
    She still may live the object of thy song: 
    Not so for me stern death or Heaven wills! 
    But the sad season, and less grateful hour,
    And of past joy and sorrow thoughts that throng
    Prompt my full heart this idle lay to pour.

    DACRE.

      Sweet bird, that singest on thy airy way,
    Or else bewailest pleasures that are past;
    What time the night draws nigh, and wintry blast;
    Leaving behind each merry month, and day;
    Oh, couldst thou, as thine own, my state survey,
    With the same gloom of misery o’ercast;
    Unto my bosom thou mightst surely haste
    And, by partaking, my sad griefs allay. 
    Yet would thy share of woe not equal mine,
    Since the loved mate thou weep’st doth haply live,
    While death, and heaven, me of my fair deprive: 
    But hours less gay, the season’s drear decline;
    With thoughts on many a sad, and pleasant year,
    Tempt me to ask thy piteous presence here.

    NOTT.

CANZONE VIII.

Vergine bella che di sol vestita.

TO THE VIRGIN MARY.

    Beautiful Virgin! clothed with the sun,
    Crown’d with the stars, who so the Eternal Sun
    Well pleasedst that in thine his light he hid;
    Love pricks me on to utter speech of thee,
    And—­feeble to commence without thy aid—­
    Of Him who on thy bosom rests in love. 
    Her I invoke who gracious