abides,
    Moves from their lovely and bewitching smile. 
    So could I gaze, the while
    Love, at his sweet will, governs them and guides,
    —­E’en though the sun were nigh,
    Resting above us on his onward wheel—­
    On her, intensely with undazzled eye,
    Nor of myself nor others think or feel.

    Ah! that I should desire
    Things that can never in this world be won,
    Living on wishes hopeless to acquire. 
    Yet, were the knot undone,
    Wherewith my weak tongue Love is wont to bind,
    Checking its speech, when her sweet face puts on
    All its great charms, then would I courage find,
    Words on that point so apt and new to use,
    As should make weep whoe’er might hear the tale. 
    But the old wounds I bear,
    Stamp’d on my tortured heart, such power refuse;
    Then grow I weak and pale,
    And my blood hides itself I know not where;
    Nor as I was remain I:  hence I know
    Love dooms my death and this the fatal blow.

    Farewell, my song! already do I see
    Heavily in my hand the tired pen move
    From its long dear discourse with her I love;
    Not so my thoughts from communing with me.

    MACGREGOR.

SONNET LIV.

Io son gia stanco di pensar siccome.

HE WONDERS AT HIS LONG ENDURANCE OF SUCH TOIL AND SUFFERING.

      I weary me alway with questions keen
    How, why my thoughts ne’er turn from you away,
    Wherefore in life they still prefer to stay,
    When they might flee this sad and painful scene,
    And how of the fine hair, the lovely mien,
    Of the bright eyes which all my feelings sway,
    Calling on your dear name by night and day,
    My tongue ne’er silent in their praise has been,
    And how my feet not tender are, nor tired,
    Pursuing still with many a useless pace
    Of your fair footsteps the elastic trace;
    And whence the ink, the paper whence acquired,
    Fill’d with your memories:  if in this I err,
    Not art’s defect but Love’s own fault it were.

    MACGREGOR.

SONNET LV.

I begli occhi, ond’ i’ fui percosso in guisa.

HE IS NEVER WEARY OF PRAISING THE EYES OF LAURA.

      The bright eyes which so struck my fenceless side
    That they alone which harm’d can heal the smart
    Beyond or power of herbs or magic art,
    Or stone which oceans from our shores divide,
    The chance of other love have so denied
    That one sweet thought alone contents my heart,
    From following which if ne’er my tongue depart,
    Pity the guided though you blame the guide. 
    These are the bright eyes which, in every land
    But most in its own shrine, my heart, adored,
    Have spread the triumphs of my conquering lord;
    These are the same bright eyes which ever stand
    Burning within me, e’en as vestal fires,
    In singing which my fancy never tires.