Father of heaven! after the days misspent,
    After the nights of wild tumultuous thought,
    In that fierce passion’s strong entanglement,
    One, for my peace too lovely fair, had wrought;
    Vouchsafe that, by thy grace, my spirit bent
    On nobler aims, to holier ways be brought;
    That so my foe, spreading with dark intent
    His mortal snares, be foil’d, and held at nought. 
    E’en now th’ eleventh year its course fulfils,
    That I have bow’d me to the tyranny
    Relentless most to fealty most tried. 
    Have mercy, Lord! on my unworthy ills: 
    Fix all my thoughts in contemplation high;
    How on the cross this day a Saviour died.

    DACRE.

      Father of heaven! despite my days all lost,
    Despite my nights in doting folly spent
    With that fierce passion which my bosom rent
    At sight of her, too lovely for my cost;
    Vouchsafe at length that, by thy grace, I turn
    To wiser life, and enterprise more fair,
    So that my cruel foe, in vain his snare
    Set for my soul, may his defeat discern. 
    Already, Lord, the eleventh year circling wanes
    Since first beneath his tyrant yoke I fell
    Who still is fiercest where we least rebel: 
    Pity my undeserved and lingering pains,
    To holier thoughts my wandering sense restore,
    How on this day his cross thy Son our Saviour bore.

    MACGREGOR.

BALLATA V.

Volgendo gli occhi al mio novo colore.

HER KIND SALUTE SAVED HIM FROM DEATH.

      Late as those eyes on my sunk cheek inclined,
    Whose paleness to the world seems of the grave,
    Compassion moved you to that greeting kind,
    Whose soft smile to my worn heart spirit gave. 
    The poor frail life which yet to me is left
    Was of your beauteous eyes the liberal gift,
    And of that voice angelical and mild;
    My present state derived from them I see;
    As the rod quickens the slow sullen child,
    So waken’d they the sleeping soul in me. 
    Thus, Lady, of my true heart both the keys
    You hold in hand, and yet your captive please: 
    Ready to sail wherever winds may blow,
    By me most prized whate’er to you I owe.

    MACGREGOR.

SONNET XLIX.

Se voi poteste per turbati segni.

HE ENTREATS LAURA NOT TO HATE THE HEART FROM WHICH SHE CAN NEVER BE ABSENT.

      If, but by angry and disdainful sign,
    By the averted head and downcast sight,
    By readiness beyond thy sex for flight,
    Deaf to all pure and worthy prayers of mine,
    Thou canst, by these or other arts of thine,
    ’Scape from my breast—­where Love on slip so slight
    Grafts every day new boughs—­of