“Death from thy every law my heart has freed;
    She who my lady was is pass’d on high,
    Leaving me free to count dull hours drag by,
    To solitude and sorrow still decreed.”

    MACGREGOR.

SONNET III.

L’ ardente nodo ov’ io fui, d’ ora in ora.

ON THE DEATH OF ANOTHER LADY.

      That burning toil, in which I once was caught,
    While twice ten years and one I counted o’er,
    Death has unloosed:  like burden I ne’er bore;
    That grief ne’er fatal proves I now am taught. 
    But Love, who to entangle me still sought,
    Spread in the treacherous grass his net once more,
    So fed the fire with fuel as before,
    That my escape I hardly could have wrought. 
    And, but that my first woes experience gave,
    Snared long since and kindled I had been,
    And all the more, as I’m become less green: 
    My freedom death again has come to save,
    And break my bond; that flame now fades, and fails,
    ’Gainst which nor force nor intellect prevails.

    NOTT.

SONNET IV.

La vita fugge, e non s’ arresta un’ ora.

PAST, PRESENT, AND FUTURE ARE NOW ALIKE PAINFUL TO HIM.

      Life passes quick, nor will a moment stay,
    And death with hasty journeys still draws near;
    And all the present joins my soul to tear,
    With every past and every future day: 
    And to look back or forward, so does prey
    On this distracted breast, that sure I swear,
    Did I not to myself some pity bear,
    I were e’en now from all these thoughts away. 
    Much do I muse on what of pleasures past
    This woe-worn heart has known; meanwhile, t’ oppose
    My passage, loud the winds around me roar. 
    I see my bliss in port, and torn my mast
    And sails, my pilot faint with toil, and those
    Fair lights, that wont to guide me, now no more.

    ANON., OX., 1795.

      Life ever flies with course that nought may stay,
    Death follows after with gigantic stride;
    Ills past and present on my spirit prey,
    And future evils threat on every side: 
    Whether I backward look or forward fare,
    A thousand ills my bosom’s peace molest;
    And were it not that pity bids me spare
    My nobler part, I from these thoughts would rest. 
    If ever aught of sweet my heart has known,
    Remembrance wakes its charms, while, tempest tost,
    I mark the clouds that o’er my course still frown;
    E’en in the port I see the storm afar;
    Weary my pilot, mast and cable lost,
    And set for ever my fair polar star.

    DACRE.

SONNET V.

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