MACGREGOR.

      That ever-honour’d, yet too bitter day,
    Her image hath so graven in my breast,
    That only memory can return it dress’d
    In living charms, no genius could portray: 
    Her air such graceful sadness did display,
    Her plaintive, soft laments my ear so bless’d,
    I ask’d if mortal, or a heavenly guest,
    Did thus the threatening clouds in smiles array. 
    Her locks were gold, her cheeks were breathing snow,
    Her brows with ebon arch’d—­bright stars her eyes,
    Wherein Love nestled, thence his dart to aim: 
    Her teeth were pearls—­the rose’s softest glow
    Dwelt on that mouth, whence woke to speech grief’s sighs
    Her tears were crystal—­and her breath was flame.

    WOLLASTON.

SONNET CXXV.

Ove ch’ i’ posi gli occhi lassi o giri.

HER IMAGE IS EVER IN HIS HEART.

      Where’er I rest or turn my weary eyes,
    To ease the longings which allure them still,
    Love pictures my bright lady at his will,
    That ever my desire may verdant rise. 
    Deep pity she with graceful grief applies—­
    Warm feelings ever gentle bosoms fill—­
    While captived equally my fond ears thrill
    With her sweet accents and seraphic sighs. 
    Love and fair Truth were both allied to tell
    The charms I saw were in the world alone,
    That ’neath the stars their like was never known. 
    Nor ever words so dear and tender fell
    On listening ear:  nor tears so pure and bright
    From such fine eyes e’er sparkled in the light.

    MACGREGOR.

SONNET CXXVI.

In qual parte del cielo, in quale idea.

HE EXTOLS THE BEAUTY AND VIRTUE OF LAURA.

      Say from what part of heaven ’twas Nature drew,
    From what idea, that so perfect mould
    To form such features, bidding us behold,
    In charms below, what she above could do? 
    What fountain-nymph, what dryad-maid e’er threw
    Upon the wind such tresses of pure gold? 
    What heart such numerous virtues can unfold? 
    Although the chiefest all my fond hopes slew. 
    He for celestial charms may look in vain,
    Who has not seen my fair one’s radiant eyes,
    And felt their glances pleasingly beguile. 
    How Love can heal his wounds, then wound again,
    He only knows, who knows how sweet her sighs,
    How sweet her converse, and how sweet her smile.

    NOTT.

      In what celestial sphere—­what realm of thought,
    Dwelt the bright model from which Nature drew
    That fair and beauteous face, in which we view
    Her utmost power, on earth, divinely wrought? 
    What sylvan queen—­what nymph by fountain sought,