And, glorying in its brightness, brighter glows,
    While memory still records the great and good. 
    O thou, in thine high triumph, angel blest! 
    Let thy heart yield to pity of my woes,
    E’en as thy beauty here my soul subdued.

    DACRE.

      Now hast thou shown the utmost of thy might,
    O cruel Death!  Love’s kingdom hast thou rent,
    And made it poor; in narrow grave hast pent
    The blooming flower of beauty and its light! 
    Our wretched life thou hast despoil’d outright
    Of every honour, every ornament! 
    But then her fame, her worth, by thee unblent,
    Shall still survive!—­her dust is all thy right;
    The rest heaven holds, proud of her charms divine
    As of a brighter sun.  Nor dies she here—­
    Her memory lasts, to good men ever dear! 
    O angel new, in thy celestial sphere
    Let pity now thy sainted heart incline,
    As here below thy beauty vanquish’d mine!

    CHARLEMONT.

SONNET LVI.

L’ aura e l’ odore e ‘l refrigerio e l’ ombra.

HER OWN VIRTUES IMMORTALISE HER IN HEAVEN, AND HIS PRAISES ON EARTH.

      The air and scent, the comfort and the shade
    Of my sweet laurel, and its flowery sight,
    That to my weary life gave rest and light,
    Death, spoiler of the world, has lowly laid. 
    As when the moon our sun’s eclipse has made,
    My lofty light has vanish’d so in night;
    For aid against himself I Death invite;
    With thoughts so dark does Love my breast invade. 
    Thou didst but sleep, bright lady, a brief sleep,
    In bliss amid the chosen spirits to wake,
    Who gaze upon their God, distinct and near: 
    And if my verse shall any value keep,
    Preserved and praised ’mid noble minds to make
    Thy name, its memory shall be deathless here.

    MACGREGOR.

      The fragrant gale, and the refreshing shade
    Of my sweet laurel, and its verdant form,
    That were my shelter in life’s weary storm,
    Have felt the power that makes all nature fade: 
    Now has my light been lost in gloomy shade,
    E’en as the sun behind his sister’s form: 
    I call for Death to free me from Death’s storm,
    But Love descends and brings me better aid! 
    He tells me, lady, that one moment’s sleep
    Alone was thine, and then thou didst awake
    Among the elect, and in thy Maker’s arms: 
    And if my verse oblivion’s power can keep
    Aloof, thy name its place on earth-will take
    Where Genius still will dote upon thy charms!

    MOREHEAD.

SONNET LVII.

L’ ultimo, lasso! de’ miei giorni allegri.

HE REVERTS TO THEIR LAST MEETING.