Fuggendo la prigione ov’ Amor m’ ebbe.

HE LONGS TO RETURN TO THE CAPTIVITY OF LOVE.

      Fleeing the prison which had long detain’d,
    Where Love dealt with me as to him seem’d well,
    Ladies, the time were long indeed to tell,
    How much my heart its new-found freedom pain’d. 
    I felt within I could not, so bereaved,
    Live e’en a day:  and, midway, on my eyes
    That traitor rose in so complete disguise,
    A wiser than myself had been deceived: 
    Whence oft I’ve said, deep sighing for the past,
    Alas! the yoke and chains of old to me
    Were sweeter far than thus released to be. 
    Me wretched! but to learn mine ill at last;
    With what sore trial must I now forget
    Errors that round my path myself have set.

    MACGREGOR.

SONNET LXIX.

Erano i capei d’ oro all’ aura sparsi.

HE PAINTS THE BEAUTIES OF LAURA, PROTESTING HIS UNALTERABLE LOVE.

      Loose to the breeze her golden tresses flow’d
    Wildly in thousand mazy ringlets blown,
    And from her eyes unconquer’d glances shone,
    Those glances now so sparingly bestow’d. 
    And true or false, meseem’d some signs she show’d
    As o’er her cheek soft pity’s hue was thrown;
    I, whose whole breast with love’s soft food was sown,
    What wonder if at once my bosom glow’d? 
    Graceful she moved, with more than mortal mien,
    In form an angel:  and her accents won
    Upon the ear with more than human sound. 
    A spirit heavenly pure, a living sun,
    Was what I saw; and if no more ’twere seen,
    T’ unbend the bow will never heal the wound.

    ANON., OX., 1795.

      Her golden tresses on the wind she threw,
    Which twisted them in many a beauteous braid;
    In her fine eyes the burning glances play’d,
    With lovely light, which now they seldom show: 
    Ah! then it seem’d her face wore pity’s hue,
    Yet haply fancy my fond sense betray’d;
    Nor strange that I, in whose warm heart was laid
    Love’s fuel, suddenly enkindled grew! 
    Not like a mortal’s did her step appear,
    Angelic was her form; her voice, methought,
    Pour’d more than human accents on the ear. 
    A living sun was what my vision caught,
    A spirit pure; and though not such still found,
    Unbending of the bow ne’er heals the wound.

    NOTT.

      Her golden tresses to the gale were streaming,
    That in a thousand knots did them entwine,
    And the sweet rays which now so rarely shine
    From her enchanting eyes, were brightly beaming,
    And—­was it fancy?—­o’er that dear face gleaming
    Methought I saw Compassion’s tint divine;
    What marvel that this ardent heart of mine
    Blazed swiftly forth, impatient