But with stout heart his fainting spirit cheers,
    And spent and wayworn forward still doth go;
  Then comes to Rome, following his heart’s desire,
    To gaze upon the portraiture of Him
    Whom yet he hopes in heaven above to see: 
  Thus I, alas! my seeking spirit tire,
    Lady, to find in other features dim
    The longed for, loved, true lineaments of thee.

IN VITA DI MADONNA LAURA.  LII

OH THAT I HAD WINGS LIKE A DOVE!

  I am so tired beneath the ancient load
    Of my misdeeds and custom’s tyranny,
    That much I fear to fail upon the road
    And yield my soul unto mine enemy. 
  ’Tis true a friend from whom all splendour flowed,
    To save me came with matchless courtesy: 
    Then flew far up from sight to heaven’s abode,
    So that I strive in vain his face to see. 
  Yet still his voice reverberates here below: 
    Oh ye who labour, lo! the path is here;
    Come unto me if none your going stay! 
  What grace, what love, what fate surpassing fear
    Shall give me wings like dove’s wings soft as snow,
    That I may rest and raise me from the clay?

* * * * *

IN MORTE DI MADONNA LAURA.  XXIV

  The eyes whereof I sang my fervid song,
    The arms, the hands, the feet, the face benign,
    Which severed me from what was rightly mine,
    And made me sole and strange amid the throng,
  The crisped curls of pure gold beautiful,
    And those angelic smiles which once did shine
    Imparadising earth with joy divine,
    Are now a little dust—­dumb, deaf, and dull. 
  And yet I live! wherefore I weep and wail,
    Left alone without the light I loved so long,
    Storm-tossed upon a bark that hath no sail. 
  Then let me here give o’er my amorous song;
    The fountains of old inspiration fail,
    And nought but woe my dolorous chords prolong.

IN MORTE DI MADONNA LAURA.  XXXIV

  In thought I raised me to the place where she
    Whom still on earth I seek and find not, shines;
    There ’mid the souls whom the third sphere confines,
    More fair I found her and less proud to me. 
  She took my hand and said:  Here shalt thou be
    With me ensphered, unless desires mislead;
    Lo!  I am she who made thy bosom bleed,
    Whose day ere eve was ended utterly: 
  My bliss no mortal heart can understand;
    Thee only do I lack, and that which thou
    So loved, now left on earth, my beauteous veil. 
  Ah! wherefore did she cease and loose my hand? 
    For at the sound of that celestial tale
    I all but stayed in paradise till now.

* * * * *

IN MORTE DI MADONNA LAURA.  LXXIV