me to the brim,
    Thrilling my very marrow and my bones. 
    Love show’d to me, nay, sculptured on my heart,
    That sweet and sparkling tear, and those soft words
    Wrote with a diamond on its inmost core,
    Where with his constant and ingenious keys
    He still returneth often, to draw thence
    True tears of mine and long and heavy sighs.

    MACGREGOR.

SONNET CXXIII.

I’ vidi in terra angelici costumi.

THE EFFECTS OF HER GRIEF.

      On earth reveal’d the beauties of the skies,
    Angelic features, it was mine to hail;
    Features, which wake my mingled joy and wail,
    While all besides like dreams or shadows flies. 
    And fill’d with tears I saw those two bright eyes,
    Which oft have turn’d the sun with envy pale;
    And from those lips I heard—­oh! such a tale,
    As might awake brute Nature’s sympathies! 
    Wit, pity, excellence, and grief, and love
    With blended plaint so sweet a concert made,
    As ne’er was given to mortal ear to prove: 
    And heaven itself such mute attention paid,
    That not a breath disturb’d the listening grove—­
    Even aether’s wildest gales the tuneful charm obey’d.

    WRANGHAM.

      Yes, I beheld on earth angelic grace,
    And charms divine which mortals rarely see,
    Such as both glad and pain the memory;
    Vain, light, unreal is all else I trace: 
    Tears I saw shower’d from those fine eyes apace,
    Of which the sun ofttimes might envious be;
    Accents I heard sigh’d forth so movingly,
    As to stay floods, or mountains to displace. 
    Love and good sense, firmness, with pity join’d
    And wailful grief, a sweeter concert made
    Than ever yet was pour’d on human ear: 
    And heaven unto the music so inclined,
    That not a leaf was seen to stir the shade;
    Such melody had fraught the winds, the atmosphere.

    NOTT.

SONNET CXXIV.

Quel sempre acerbo ed onorato giorno.

HE RECALLS HER AS HE SAW HER WHEN IN TEARS.

      That ever-painful, ever-honour’d day
    So left her living image on my heart
    Beyond or lover’s wit or poet’s art,
    That oft to it will doting memory stray. 
    A gentle pity softening her bright mien,
    Her sorrow there so sweet and sad was heard,
    Doubt in the gazer’s bosom almost stirr’d
    Goddess or mortal, which made heaven serene. 
    Fine gold her hair, her face as sunlit snow,
    Her brows and lashes jet, twin stars her eyne,
    Whence the young archer oft took fatal aim;
    Each loving lip—­whence, utterance sweet and low
    Her pent grief found—­a rose which rare pearls line,
    Her tears of crystal and her sighs of flame.