BASIL KENNET.

SONNET LXXIX.

Quella fenestra, ove l’ un sol si vede.

RECOLLECTIONS OF LOVE.

      That window where my sun is often seen
    Refulgent, and the world’s at morning’s hours;
    And that, where Boreas blows, when winter lowers,
    And the short days reveal a clouded scene;
    That bench of stone where, with a pensive mien,
    My Laura sits, forgetting beauty’s powers;
    Haunts where her shadow strikes the walls or flowers,
    And her feet press the paths or herbage green: 
    The place where Love assail’d me with success;
    And spring, the fatal time that, first observed,
    Revives the keen remembrance every year;
    With looks and words, that o’er me have preserved
    A power no length of time can render less,
    Call to my eyes the sadly-soothing tear.

    PENN.

      That window where my sun is ever seen,
    Dazzling and bright, and Nature’s at the none;
    And that where still, when Boreas rude has blown
    In the short days, the air thrills cold and keen: 
    The stone where, at high noon, her seat has been,
    Pensive and parleying with herself alone: 
    Haunts where her bright form has its shadow thrown,
    Or trod her fairy foot the carpet green: 
    The cruel spot where first Love spoil’d my rest,
    And the new season which, from year to year,
    Opes, on this day, the old wound in my breast: 
    The seraph face, the sweet words, chaste and dear,
    Which in my suffering heart are deep impress’d,
    All melt my fond eyes to the frequent tear.

    MACGREGOR.

SONNET LXXX.

Lasso! ben so che dolorose prede.

THOUGH FOR FOURTEEN YEARS HE HAS STRUGGLED UNSUCCESSFULLY, HE STILL HOPES TO CONQUER HIS PASSION.

      Alas! well know I what sad havoc makes
    Death of our kind, how Fate no mortal spares! 
    How soon the world whom once it loved forsakes,
    How short the faith it to the friendless bears! 
    Much languishment, I see, small mercy wakes;
    For the last day though now my heart prepares,
    Love not a whit my cruel prison breaks,
    And still my cheek grief’s wonted tribute wears. 
    I mark the days, the moments, and the hours
    Bear the full years along, nor find deceit,
    Bow’d ’neath a greater force than magic spell. 
    For fourteen years have fought with varying powers
    Desire and Reason:  and the best shall beat;
    If mortal spirits here can good foretell.

    MACGREGOR.