SONNET CLXIV.

L’ aura celeste che ’n quel verde Lauro.

HER HAIR AND EYES.

      The heavenly airs from yon green laurel roll’d,
    Where Love to Phoebus whilom dealt his stroke,
    Where on my neck was placed so sweet a yoke,
    That freedom thence I hope not to behold,
    O’er me prevail, as o’er that Arab old
    Medusa, when she changed him to an oak;
    Nor ever can the fairy knot be broke
    Whose light outshines the sun, not merely gold;
    I mean of those bright locks the curled snare
    Which folds and fastens with so sweet a grace
    My soul, whose humbleness defends alone. 
    Her mere shade freezes with a cold despair
    My heart, and tinges with pale fear my face;
    And oh! her eyes have power to make me stone.

    MACGREGOR.

SONNET CLXV.

L’ aura soave ch’ al sol spiega e vibra.

HIS HEART LIES TANGLED IN HER HAIR.

      The pleasant gale, that to the sun unplaits
    And spreads the gold Love’s fingers weave, and braid
    O’er her fine eyes, and all around her head,
    Fetters my heart, the wishful sigh creates: 
    No nerve but thrills, no artery but beats,
    Approaching my fair arbiter with dread,
    Who in her doubtful scale hath ofttimes weigh’d
    Whether or death or life on me awaits;
    Beholding, too, those eyes their fires display,
    And on those shoulders shine such wreaths of hair,
    Whose witching tangles my poor heart ensnare. 
    But how this magic’s wrought I cannot say;
    For twofold radiance doth my reason blind,
    And sweetness to excess palls and o’erpowers my mind.

    NOTT.

      The soft gale to the sun which shakes and spreads
    The gold which Love’s own hand has spun and wrought. 
    There, with her bright eyes and those fairy threads,
    Binds my poor heart and sifts each idle thought. 
    My veins of blood, my bones of marrow fail,
    Thrills all my frame when I, to hear or gaze,
    Draw near to her, who oft, in balance frail,
    My life and death together holds and weighs,
    And see those love-fires shine wherein I burn,
    And, as its snow each sweetest shoulder heaves,
    Flash the fair tresses right and left by turn;
    Verse fails to paint what fancy scarce conceives. 
    From two such lights is intellect distress’d,
    And by such sweetness weary and oppress’d.

    MACGREGOR.

SONNET CLXVI.

O bella man, che mi distringi ’l core.

THE STOLEN GLOVE.