SONNET XCII.

In mezzo di duo amanti onesta altera.

LAURA TURNING TO SALUTE HIM, THE SUN, THROUGH JEALOUSY, WITHDREW BEHIND A CLOUD.

      ’Tween two fond lovers I a lady spied,
    Virtuous but haughty, and with her that lord,
    By gods above and men below adored—­
    The sun on this, myself upon that side—­
    Soon as she found herself the sphere denied
    Of her bright friend, on my fond eyes she pour’d
    A flood of life and joy, which hope restored
    Less cold to me will be her future pride. 
    Suddenly changed itself to cordial mirth
    The jealous fear to which at his first sight
    So high a rival in my heart gave birth;
    As suddenly his sad and rueful plight
    From further scrutiny a small cloud veil’d,
    So much it ruffled him that then he fail’d.

    MACGREGOR.

SONNET XCIII.

Pien di quella ineffabile dolcezza.

WHEREVER HE IS, HE SEES ONLY LAURA.

      O’erflowing with the sweets ineffable,
    Which from that lovely face my fond eyes drew,
    What time they seal’d, for very rapture, grew. 
    On meaner beauty never more to dwell,
    Whom most I love I left:  my mind so well
    Its part, to muse on her, is train’d to do,
    None else it sees; what is not hers to view,
    As of old wont, with loathing I repel. 
    In a low valley shut from all around,
    Sole consolation of my heart-deep sighs,
    Pensive and slow, with Love I walk alone: 
    Not ladies here, but rocks and founts are found,
    And of that day blest images arise,
    Which my thought shapes where’er I turn mine eyes.

    MACGREGOR.

SONNET XCIV.

Se ‘l sasso ond’ e piu chiusa questa valle.

COULD HE BUT SEE THE HOUSE OF LAURA, HIS SIGHS MIGHT REACH HER MORE QUICKLY.

      If, which our valley bars, this wall of stone,
    From which its present name we closely trace,
    Were by disdainful nature rased, and thrown
    Its back to Babel and to Rome its face;
    Then had my sighs a better pathway known
    To where their hope is yet in life and grace: 
    They now go singly, yet my voice all own;
    And, where I send, not one but finds its place. 
    There too, as I perceive, such welcome sweet
    They ever find, that none returns again,
    But still delightedly with her remain. 
    My grief is from the eyes, each morn to meet—­
    Not the fair scenes my soul so long’d to see—­
    Toil for my weary limbs and tears for me.

    MACGREGOR.

SONNET XCV.

Rimansi addietro il sestodecim’ anno.