Thus used to woe, they have no wish to part;
Each other mortal work is an offence.
No other theme will now my soul content
Than she who plants my death, with whose blest name
I make the air resound in echoes sweet:
Love spurs me to her as his only bent,
My hand can trace nought other but her fame,
No other spot attracts my willing feet.
WOLLASTON.
SONNET LXXVII.
Orso, al vostro destrier si puo ben porre.
HE SYMPATHISES WITH HIS FRIEND ORSO AT HIS INABILITY TO ATTEND A TOURNAMENT.
Orso, a curb upon
thy gallant horse
Well may we place to turn
him from his course,
But who thy heart may bind
against its will
Which honour courts and shuns
dishonour still?
Sigh not! for nought its praise
away can take,
Though Fate this journey hinder
you to make.
For, as already voiced by
general fame,
Now is it there, and none
before it came.
Amid the camp, upon the day
design’d,
Enough itself beneath those
arms to find
Which youth, love, valour,
and near blood concern,
Crying aloud: With noble
fire I burn,
As my good lord unwillingly
at home,
Who pines and languishes in
vain to come.
MACGREGOR.
SONNET LXXVIII.
Poi che voi ed io piu volte abbiam provato.
TO A FRIEND, COUNSELLING HIM TO ABANDON EARTHLY PLEASURES.
Still has it been
our bitter lot to prove
How hope, or e’er it
reach fruition, flies!
Up then to that high good,
which never dies,
Lift we the heart—to
heaven’s pure bliss above.
On earth, as in a tempting
mead, we rove,
Where coil’d ’mid
flowers the traitor serpent lies;
And, if some casual glimpse
delight our eyes,
’Tis but to grieve the
soul enthrall’d by Love.
Oh! then, as thou wouldst
wish ere life’s last day
To taste the sweets of calm
unbroken rest,
Tread firm the narrow, shun
the beaten way—
Ah! to thy friend too well
may be address’d:
“Thou show’st
a path, thyself most apt to stray,
Which late thy truant feet,
fond youth, have never press’d.”
WRANGHAM.
Friend, as we
both in confidence complain
To see our ill-placed hopes
return in vain,
Let that chief good which
must for ever please
Exalt our thought and fix
our happiness.
This world as some gay flowery
field is spread,
Which hides a serpent in its
painted bed,
And most it wounds when most
it charms our eyes,
At once the tempter and the
paradise.
And would you, then, sweet
peace of mind restore,
And in fair calm expect your
parting hour,
Leave the mad train, and court
the happy few.
Well may it be replied, “O
friend, you show
Others the path, from which
so often you
Have stray’d, and now
stray farther than before.”