Give her dear glance again to bless my sight,
    Which, as the sun on snow, beam’d still for me;
    Open each window bright
    Where pass’d my heart whence no return can be;
    Resume thy golden shafts, prepare thy bow,
    And let me once more drink with old delight
    Of that dear voice the sound,
    Whence what love is I first was taught to know. 
    And, for the lures, which still I covet so,
    Were rifest, richest there my soul that bound,
    Waken to life her tongue, and on the breeze
    Let her light silken hair,
    Loosen’d by Love’s own fingers, float at ease;
    Do this, and I thy willing yoke will bear,
    Else thy hope faileth my free will to snare.

    Oh! never my gone heart those links of gold,
    Artlessly negligent, or curl’d with grace,
    Nor her enchanting face,
    Sweetly severe, can captive cease to hold;
    These, night and day, the amorous wish in me
    Kept, more than laurel or than myrtle, green,
    When, doff’d or donn’d, we see
    Of fields the grass, of woods their leafy screen. 
    And since that Death so haughty stands and stern
    The bond now broken whence I fear’d to flee,
    Nor thine the art, howe’er the world may turn,
    To bind anew the chain,
    What boots it, Love, old arts to try again? 
    Their day is pass’d:  thy power, since lost the arms
    Which were my terror once, no longer harms.

    Thy arms were then her eyes, unrivall’d, whence
    Live darts were freely shot of viewless flame;
    No help from reason came,
    For against Heaven avails not man’s defence;
    Thought, Silence, Feeling, Gaiety, Wit, Sense,
    Modest demeanour, affable discourse,
    In words of sweetest force
    Whence every grosser nature gentle grew,
    That angel air, humble to all and kind,
    Whose praise, it needs not mine, from all we find;
    Stood she, or sat, a grace which often threw
    Doubt on the gazer’s mind
    To which the meed of highest praise was due—­
    O’er hardest hearts thy victory was sure,
    With arms like these, which lost I am secure.

    The minds which Heaven abandons to thy reign,
    Haply are bound in many times and ways,
    But mine one only chain,
    Its wisdom shielding me from more, obeys;
    Yet freedom brings no joy, though that he burst. 
    Rather I mournful ask, “Sweet pilgrim mine,
    Alas! what doom divine
    Me earliest bound to life yet frees thee first: 
    God, who has snatch’d thee from the world so soon,
    Only to kindle our desires, the boon
    Of virtue, so complete and lofty, gave
    Now, Love, I may deride
    Thy future wounds, nor fear to be thy slave;
    In vain thy bow is bent, its bolts fall wide,
    When closed her brilliant eyes their virtue died.