Had she but hearken’d to my love’s appeal,
Who, throned in heaven, hath fled this world’s alloy.
My blinded love, and yet more stubborn mind,
Resistless urged me to my bosom’s shame,
And where my soul’s destruction I had met:
But blessed she who bade life’s current find
A holier course, who still’d my spirit’s flame
With gentle hope that soul might triumph yet.
WOLLASTON.
SONNET XXIII.
Quand’ io veggio dal ciel scender l’ Aurora.
MORN RENDERS HIS GRIEF MORE POIGNANT.
When from the
heavens I see Aurora beam,
With rosy-tinctured cheek
and golden hair,
Love bids my face the hue
of sadness wear:
“There Laura dwells!”
I with a sigh exclaim.
Thou knowest well the hour
that shall redeem,
Happy Tithonus, thy much-valued
fair;
But not to her I love can
I repair,
Till death extinguishes this
vital flame.
Yet need’st thou not
thy separation mourn;
Certain at evening’s
close is the return
Of her, who doth not thy hoar
locks despise;
But my nights sad, my days
are render’d drear,
By her, who bore my thoughts
to yonder skies,
And only a remember’d
name left here.
NOTT.
When from the
east appears the purple ray
Of morn arising, and salutes
the eyes
That wear the night in watching
for the day,
Thus speaks my heart:
“In yonder opening skies,
In yonder fields of bliss,
my Laura lies!”
Thou sun, that know’st
to wheel thy burning car,
Each eve, to the still surface
of the deep,
And there within thy Thetis’
bosom sleep;
Oh! could I thus my Laura’s
presence share,
How would my patient heart
its sorrows bear!
Adored in life, and honour’d
in the dust,
She that in this fond breast
for ever reigns
Has pass’d the gulph
of death!—To deck that bust,
No trace of her but the sad
name remains.
WOODHOUSELEE.
SONNET XXIV.
Gli occhi di ch’ io parlai si caldamente.
HIS LYRE IS NOW ATTUNED ONLY TO WOE.
The eyes, the
face, the limbs of heavenly mould,
So long the theme of my impassion’d
lay,
Charms which so stole me from
myself away,
That strange to other men
the course I hold;
The crisped locks of pure
and lucid gold,
The lightning of the angelic
smile, whose ray
To earth could all of paradise
convey,
A little dust are now!—to
feeling cold!
And yet I live!—but
that I live bewail,
Sunk the loved light that
through the tempest led
My shatter’d bark, bereft
of mast and sail:
Hush’d be for aye the
song that breathed love’s fire!
Lost is the theme on which
my fancy fed,
And turn’d to mourning
my once tuneful lyre.