Dacre.
Father of heaven! despite my days all lost,
Despite my nights in doting folly spent
With that fierce passion which my bosom rent
At sight of her, too lovely for my cost;
Vouchsafe at length that, by thy grace, I turn
To wiser life, and enterprise more fair,
So that my cruel foe, in vain his snare
Set for my soul, may his defeat discern.
Already, Lord, the eleventh year circling wanes
Since first beneath his tyrant yoke I fell
Who still is fiercest where we least rebel:
Pity my undeserved and lingering pains,
To holier thoughts my wandering sense restore,
How on this day his cross thy Son our Saviour bore.
Macgregor.
BALLATA V.
Volgendo gli occhi al mio novo colore.
HER KIND SALUTE SAVED HIM FROM DEATH.
Late as those eyes on my sunk cheek inclined,
Whose paleness to the world seems of the grave,
Compassion moved you to that greeting kind,
Whose soft smile to my worn heart spirit gave.
The poor frail life which yet to me is left
Was of your beauteous eyes the liberal gift,
And of that voice angelical and mild;
My present state derived from them I see;
As the rod quickens the slow sullen child,
So waken'd they the sleeping soul in me.
Thus, Lady, of my true heart both the keys
You hold in hand, and yet your captive please:
Ready to sail wherever winds may blow,
By me most prized whate'er to you I owe.
Macgregor.