Broke at the first breath of mine ardent word
    Or low’ring still she others’ blame incurr’d
    Her bright and killing eyes who thus withdrew
    No ruth for self I crave, for her no hate;
    I wish not this—­that passes power of mine: 
    Such was mine evil star and cruel fate. 
    But I shall ever sing her charms divine,
    That, when I have resign’d this mortal breath,
    The world may know how sweet to me was death.

    MACGREGOR.

SONNET CLXXXII.

Tra quantunque leggiadre donne e belle.

ALL NATURE WOULD BE IN DARKNESS WERE SHE, ITS SUN, TO PERISH.

      Where’er she moves, whatever dames among,
    Beauteous or graceful, matchless she below. 
    With her fair face she makes all others show
    Dim, as the day’s bright orb night’s starry throng. 
    And Love still whispers, with prophetic tongue,—­
    “Long as on earth is seen that glittering brow,
    Shall life have charms:  but she shall cease to glow
    And with her all my power shall fleet along,
    Should Nature from the skies their twin-lights wrest;
    Hush every breeze, each herb and flower destroy;
    Strip man of reason—­speech; from Ocean’s breast
    His tides, his tenants chase—­such, earth’s annoy;
    Yea, still more darken’d were it and unblest,
    Had she, thy Laura, closed her eyes to love and joy.”

    WRANGHAM.

      Whene’er amidst the damsels, blooming bright,
    She shows herself, whose like was never made,
    At her approach all other beauties fade,
    As at morn’s orient glow the gems of night. 
    Love seems to whisper,—­“While to mortal sight
    Her graces shall on earth be yet display’d,
    Life shall be blest; ’till soon with her decay’d,
    The virtues, and my reign shall sink outright.” 
    Of moon and sun, should nature rob the sky,
    The air of winds, the earth of herbs and leaves,
    Mankind of speech and intellectual eye,
    The ocean’s bed of fish, and dancing waves;
    Even so shall all things dark and lonely lye,
    When of her beauty Death the world bereaves!

    CHARLEMONT.

SONNET CLXXXIII.

Il cantar novo e ’l pianger degli augelli.

MORNING.

      The birds’ sweet wail, their renovated song,
    At break of morn, make all the vales resound;
    With lapse of crystal waters pouring round,
    In clear, swift runnels, the fresh shores among. 
    She, whose pure passion knows nor guile nor wrong,
    With front of snow, with golden tresses crown’d,
    Combing her aged husband’s hoar locks found,
    Wakes me when sportful wakes the warbling throng. 
    Thus, roused from sleep, I greet the dawning day,