WRANGHAM.

      For seventeen summers heaven has o’er me roll’d
    Since first I burn’d, nor e’er found respite thence,
    But when to weigh our state my thoughts commence
    I feel amidst the flames a frosty cold. 
    We change the form, not nature, is an old
    And truthful proverb:  thus, to dull the sense
    Makes not the human feelings less intense;
    The dark shades of our painful veil still hold. 
    Alas! alas! will e’er that day appear
    When, my life’s flight beholding, I may find
    Issue from endless fire and lingering pain,—­
    The day which, crowning all my wishes here,
    Of that fair face the angel air and kind
    Shall to my longing eyes restore again?

    MACGREGOR.

SONNET XCVIII.

Quel vago impallidir che ’l dolce riso.

LEAVE-TAKING.

      That witching paleness, which with cloud of love
    Veil’d her sweet smile, majestically bright,
    So thrill’d my heart, that from the bosom’s night
    Midway to meet it on her face it strove. 
    Then learnt I how, ’mid realms of joy above,
    The blest behold the blest:  in such pure light
    I scann’d her tender thought, to others’ sight
    Viewless!—­but my fond glances would not rove. 
    Each angel grace, each lowly courtesy,
    E’er traced in dame by Love’s soft power inspired,
    Would seem but foils to those which prompt my lay: 
    Upon the ground was cast her gentle eye,
    And still methought, though silent, she inquired,
    “What bears my faithful friend so soon, so far away?”

    WRANGHAM.

      There was a touching paleness on her face,
    Which chased her smiles, but such sweet union made
    Of pensive majesty and heavenly grace,
    As if a passing cloud had veil’d her with its shade;
    Then knew I how the blessed ones above
    Gaze on each other in their perfect bliss,
    For never yet was look of mortal love
    So pure, so tender, so serene as this. 
    The softest glance fond woman ever sent
    To him she loved, would cold and rayless be
    Compared to this, which she divinely bent
    Earthward, with angel sympathy, on me,
    That seem’d with speechless tenderness to say,
    “Who takes from me my faithful friend away?”

    E. (New Monthly Magazine.)

SONNET XCIX.

Amor, Fortuna, e la mia mente schiva.

THE CAUSES OF HIS WOE.

      Love, Fortune, and my melancholy mind,
    Sick of the present, lingering on the past,
    Afflict me so, that envious thoughts I cast
    On those who life’s dark shore have left behind. 
    Love racks my bosom:  Fortune’s wintry wind
    Kills every comfort: