DACRE.

      Now of my life each gay and greener year
    Pass’d by, and cooler grew each hour the flame
    With which I burn’d:  and to that point we came
    Whence life descends, as to its end more near;
    Now ’gan my lovely foe each virtuous fear
    Gently to lay aside, as safe from blame;
    And though with saint-like virtue still the same,
    Mock’d my sweet pains indeed, but deign’d to hear
    Nigh drew the time when Love delights to dwell
    With Chastity; and lovers with their mate
    Can fearless sit, and all they muse of tell. 
    Death envied me the joys of such a state;
    Nay, e’en the hopes I form’d:  and on them fell
    E’en in midway, like some arm’d foe in wait.

    ANON., OX., 1795.

SONNET XLVIII.

Tempo era omai da trovar pace o tregua.

HE CONSOLES HIMSELF WITH THE BELIEF THAT SHE NOW AT LAST SYMPATHISES WITH HIM.

      ’Twas time at last from so long war to find
    Some peace or truce, and, haply, both were nigh,
    But Death their welcome feet has turn’d behind,
    Who levels all distinctions, low as high;
    And as a cloud dissolves before the wind,
    So she, who led me with her lustrous eye,
    Whom ever I pursue with faithful mind,
    Her fair life briefly ending, sought the sky. 
    Had she but stay’d, as I grew changed and old
    Her tone had changed, and no distrust had been
    To parley with me on my cherish’d ill: 
    With what frank sighs and fond I then had told
    My lifelong toils, which now from heaven, I ween,
    She sees, and with me sympathises still.

    MACGREGOR.

      My life’s long warfare seem’d about to cease,
    Peace had my spirit’s contest well nigh freed;
    But levelling Death, who doth to all concede
    An equal doom, clipp’d Time’s blest wings of peace: 
    As zephyrs chase the clouds of gathering fleece,
    So did her life from this world’s breath recede,
    Their vision’d light could once my footsteps lead,
    But now my all, save thought, she doth release. 
    Oh! would that she her flight awhile had stay’d,
    For Time had stamp’d on me his warning hand,
    And calmer I had told my storied love: 
    To her in virtue’s tone I had convey’d
    My heart’s long grief—­now, she doth understand,
    And sympathises with that grief above.

    WOLLASTON.

SONNET XLIX.

Tranquillo porto avea mostrato Amore.

DEATH HAS ROBBED HIM IN ONE MOMENT OF THE FRUIT OF HIS LIFE.