What if her God have call’d her hence, to dwell
    Where virtue finds a more congenial state? 
    If so, she will illuminate that sphere
    Even as a sun:  but I—­’tis done with me! 
    I then am nothing, have no business here! 
    O cruel absence! why not let me see
    The worst? my little tale is told, I fear,
    My scene is closed ere it accomplish’d be.

    MOREHEAD.

      No tidings yet—­I listen, but in vain;
    Of her, my beautiful beloved foe,
    What or to think or say I nothing know,
    So thrills my heart, my fond hopes so sustain,
    Danger to some has in their beauty lain;
    Fairer and chaster she than others show;
    God haply seeks to snatch from earth below
    Virtue’s best friend, that heaven a star may gain,
    Or rather sun.  If what I dread be nigh,
    My life, its trials long, its brief repose
    Are ended all.  O cruel absence! why
    Didst thou remove me from the menaced woes? 
    My short sad story is already done,
    And midway in its course my vain race run.

    MACGREGOR.

SONNET CCXVII.

La sera desiar, odiar l’ aurora.

CONTRARY TO THE WONT OF LOVERS, HE PREFERS MORN TO EVE.

      Tranquil and happy loves in this agree,
    The evening to desire and morning hate: 
    On me at eve redoubled sorrows wait—­
    Morning is still the happier hour for me. 
    For then my sun and Nature’s oft I see
    Opening at once the orient’s rosy gate,
    So match’d in beauty and in lustre great,
    Heaven seems enamour’d of our earth to be! 
    As when in verdant leaf the dear boughs burst
    Whose roots have since so centred in my core,
    Another than myself is cherish’d more. 
    Thus the two hours contrast, day’s last and first: 
    Reason it is who calms me to desire,
    And fear and hate who fiercer feed my fire.

    MACGREGOR.

SONNET CCXVIII.

Far potess’ io vendetta di colei.

HIS SOUL VISITS HER IN SLEEP.

      Oh! that from her some vengeance I could wrest
    With words and glances who my peace destroys,
    And then abash’d, for my worse sorrow, flies,
    Veiling her eyes so cruel, yet so blest;
    Thus mine afflicted spirits and oppress’d
    By sure degrees she sorely drains and dries,
    And in my heart, as savage lion, cries
    Even at night, when most I should have rest. 
    My soul, which sleep expels from his abode,
    The body leaves, and, from its trammels free,
    Seeks her whose mien so often menace show’d. 
    I marvel much, if heard its advent be,
    That while to her it spake, and o’er her wept,
    And round her clung, asleep she alway kept.