DACRE.

SONNET XVIII.

Se quell’ aura soave de’ sospiri.

SHE RETURNS IN PITY TO COMFORT HIM WITH HER ADVICE.

      If that soft breath of sighs, which, from above,
    I hear of her so long my lady here,
    Who, now in heaven, yet seems, as of our sphere,
    To breathe, and move, to feel, and live, and love,
    I could but paint, my passionate verse should move
    Warmest desires; so jealous, yet so dear
    O’er me she bends and breathes, without a fear,
    That on the way I tire, or turn, or rove. 
    She points the path on high:  and I who know
    Her chaste anxiety and earnest prayer,
    In whispers sweet, affectionate, and low,
    Train, at her will, my acts and wishes there: 
    And find such sweetness in her words alone
    As with their power should melt the hardest stone.

    MACGREGOR.

SONNET XIX.

Sennuccio mio, benche doglioso e solo.

ON THE DEATH OF HIS FRIEND SENNUCCIO.

      O friend! though left a wretched pilgrim here,
    By thee though left in solitude to roam,
    Yet can I mourn that thou hast found thy home,
    On angel pinions borne, in bright career? 
    Now thou behold’st the ever-turning sphere,
    And stars that journey round the concave dome;
    Now thou behold’st how short of truth we come,
    How blind our judgment, and thine own how clear! 
    That thou art happy soothes my soul oppress’d. 
    O friend! salute from me the laurell’d band,
    Guitton and Cino, Dante, and the rest: 
    And tell my Laura, friend, that here I stand,
    Wasting in tears, scarce of myself possess’d,
    While her blest beauties all my thoughts command.

    MOREHEAD.

      Sennuccio mine!  I yet myself console,
    Though thou hast left me, mournful and alone,
    For eagerly to heaven thy spirit has flown,
    Free from the flesh which did so late enrol;
    Thence, at one view, commands it either pole,
    The planets and their wondrous courses known,
    And human sight how brief and doubtful shown;
    Thus with thy bliss my sorrow I control. 
    One favour—­in the third of those bright spheres. 
    Guido and Dante, Cino, too, salute,
    With Franceschin and all that tuneful train,
    And tell my lady how I live, in tears,
    (Savage and lonely as some forest brute)
    Her sweet face and fair works when memory brings again.

    MACGREGOR.

SONNET XX.

I’ ho pien di sospir quest’ aer tutto.

VAUCLUSE HAS BECOME TO HIM A SCENE OF PAIN.