thou behold,
    Of others’ weal more thoughtful than his own,
    The chief, by general Italy revered,
    Tell him from me, to whom he is but known
    As one to Virtue and by Fame endear’d,
    Till stamp’d upon his heart the sad truth be,
    That, day by day to thee,
    With suppliant attitude and streaming eyes,
    For justice and relief our seven-hill’d city cries.

    MACGREGOR.

MADRIGALE II.

Perche al viso d’ Amor portava insegna.

A LOVE JOURNEY—­DANGER IN THE PATH—­HE TURNS BACK.

      Bright in whose face Love’s conquering ensign stream’d,
    A foreign fair so won me, young and vain,
    That of her sex all others worthless seem’d: 
    Her as I follow’d o’er the verdant plain,
    I heard a loud voice speaking from afar,
    “How lost in these lone woods his footsteps are!”
    Then paused I, and, beneath the tall beech shade,
    All wrapt in thought, around me well survey’d,
    Till, seeing how much danger block’d my way,
    Homeward I turn’d me though at noon of day.

    MACGREGOR.

BALLATA III.

Quel foco, ch’ io pensai che fosse spento.

HE THOUGHT HIMSELF FREE, BUT FINDS THAT HE IS MORE THAN EVER ENTHRALLED BY LOVE.

      That fire for ever which I thought at rest,
    Quench’d in the chill blood of my ripen’d years,
    Awakes new flames and torment in my breast. 
    Its sparks were never all, from what I see,
    Extinct, but merely slumbering, smoulder’d o’er;
    Haply this second error worse may be,
    For, by the tears, which I, in torrents, pour,
    Grief, through these eyes, distill’d from my heart’s core,
    Which holds within itself the spark and bait,
    Remains not as it was, but grows more great. 
    What fire, save mine, had not been quench’d and kill’d
    Beneath the flood these sad eyes ceaseless shed? 
    Struggling ’mid opposites—­so Love has will’d—­
    Now here, now there, my vain life must be led,
    For in so many ways his snares are spread,
    When most I hope him from my heart expell’d
    Then most of her fair face its slave I’m held.

    MACGREGOR.

SONNET XLIII.

Se col cieco desir che ’l cor distrugge.

BLIGHTED HOPE.

      Either that blind desire, which life destroys
    Counting the hours, deceives my misery,
    Or, even while yet I speak, the moment flies,
    Promised at once to pity and to me. 
    Alas! what baneful shade o’erhangs and dries
    The seed so near its full maturity? 
    ’Twixt me and hope what brazen walls arise? 
    From murderous wolves not even my fold is free. 
    Ah, woe is me!  Too clearly