Was thus thy task, from heaven’s reality. 
    Yes—­thine the portrait heaven alone could wake,
    This clime, nor earth, such beauty could conceive,
    Where droops the spirit ’neath its earthly shrine: 
    The soul’s reflected grace was thine to take,
    Which not on earth thy painting could achieve,
    Where mortal limits all the powers confine.

    WOLLASTON.

SONNET LVIII.

Quando giunse a Simon l’ alto concetto.

HE DESIRES ONLY THAT MEMMI HAD BEEN ABLE TO IMPART SPEECH TO HIS PORTRAIT OF LAURA.

      When, at my word, the high thought fired his mind,
    Within that master-hand which placed the pen,
    Had but the painter, in his fair work, then
    Language and intellect to beauty join’d,
    Less ’neath its care my spirit since had pined,
    Which worthless held what still pleased other men;
    And yet so mild she seems that my fond ken
    Of peace sees promise in that aspect kind. 
    When further communing I hold with her
    Benignantly she smiles, as if she heard
    And well could answer to mine every word: 
    But far o’er mine thy pride and pleasure were,
    Bright, warm and young, Pygmalion, to have press’d
    Thine image long and oft, while mine not once has blest.

    MACGREGOR.

      When Simon at my wish the proud design
    Conceived, which in his hand the pencil placed,
    Had he, while loveliness his picture graced,
    But added speech and mind to charms divine;
    What sighs he then had spared this breast of mine: 
    That bliss had given to higher bliss distaste: 
    For, when such meekness in her look was traced,
    ’Twould seem she soon to kindness might incline. 
    But, urging converse with the portray’d fair,
    Methinks she deigns attention to my prayer,
    Though wanting to reply the power of voice. 
    What praise thyself, Pygmalion, hast thou gain’d;
    Forming that image, whence thou hast obtain’d
    A thousand times what, once obtain’d, would me rejoice.

    NOTT.

SONNET LIX.

Se al principio risponde il fine e ’l mezzo.

IF HIS PASSION STILL INCREASE, HE MUST SOON DIE.

      If, of this fourteenth year wherein I sigh,
    The end and middle with its opening vie,
    Nor air nor shade can give me now release,
    I feel mine ardent passion so increase: 
    For Love, with whom my thought no medium knows,
    Beneath whose yoke I never find repose,
    So rules me through these eyes, on mine own ill
    Too often turn’d, but half remains to kill. 
    Thus, day by day, I feel me sink apace,
    And yet so secretly none else may trace,
    Save she whose glances my fond bosom tear. 
    Scarcely till now this load of life I bear
    Nor know how long with me will be her stay,
    For death draws near, and hastens life away.