To every sound, save sighs, this air is mute,
    When from rude rocks, I view the smiling land
    Where she was born, who held my life in hand
    From its first bud till blossoms turn’d to fruit: 
    To heaven she’s gone, and I’m left destitute
    To mourn her loss, and cast around in pain
    These wearied eyes, which, seeking her in vain
    Where’er they turn, o’erflow with grief acute;
    There’s not a root or stone amongst these hills,
    Nor branch nor verdant leaf ’midst these soft glades,
    Nor in the valley flowery herbage grows,
    Nor liquid drop the sparkling fount distils,
    Nor savage beast that shelters in these shades,
    But knows how sharp my grief—­how deep my woes.

    WROTTESLEY.

SONNET XXI.

L’ alma mia fiamma oltra le belle bella.

HE ACKNOWLEDGES THE WISDOM OF HER PAST COLDNESS TO HIM.

      My noble flame—­more fair than fairest are
    Whom kind Heaven here has e’er in favour shown—­
    Before her time, alas for me! has flown
    To her celestial home and parent star. 
    I seem but now to wake; wherein a bar
    She placed on passion ’twas for good alone,
    As, with a gentle coldness all her own,
    She waged with my hot wishes virtuous war. 
    My thanks on her for such wise care I press,
    That with her lovely face and sweet disdain
    She check’d my love and taught me peace to gain. 
    O graceful artifice! deserved success! 
    I with my fond verse, with her bright eyes she,
    Glory in her, she virtue got in me.

    MACGREGOR.

SONNET XXII.

Come va ’l mondo! or mi diletta e piace.

HE BLESSES LAURA FOR HER VIRTUE.

      How goes the world! now please me and delight
    What most displeased me:  now I see and feel
    My trials were vouchsafed me for my weal,
    That peace eternal should brief war requite. 
    O hopes and wishes, ever fond and slight,
    In lovers most, which oftener harm than heal! 
    Worse had she yielded to my warm appeal
    Whom Heaven has welcomed from the grave’s dark night. 
    But blind love and my dull mind so misled,
    I sought to trespass even by main force
    Where to have won my precious soul were dead. 
    Blessed be she who shaped mine erring course
    To better port, by turns who curb’d and lured
    My bold and passionate will where safety was secured.

    MACGREGOR.

      Alas! this changing world! my present joy
    Was once my grief’s dark source, and now I feel
    My sufferings pass’d were but my soul to heal
    Its fearful warfare—­peace’s soft decoy. 
    Poor human wishes!  Hope, thou fragile toy
    To lovers oft! my woe had