O my sad eyes! our sun is overcast,—
Nay, rather borne to heaven, and there is shining,
Waiting our coming, and perchance repining
At our delay; there shall we meet at last:
And there, mine ears, her angel words float past,
Those who best understand their sweet divining;
Howe'er, my feet, unto the search inclining,
Ye cannot reach her in those regions vast.
Why, then, do ye torment me thus, for, oh!
It is no fault of mine, that ye no more
Behold, and hear, and welcome her below;
Blame Death,—or rather praise Him and adore,
Who binds and frees, restrains and letteth go,
And to the weeping one can joy restore.
Wrottesley.
SONNET VIII.
Poichè la vista angelica serena.
WITH HER, HIS ONLY SOLACE, IS TAKEN AWAY ALL HIS DESIRE OF LIFE.
Since her calm angel face, long beauty's fane,
My beggar'd soul by this brief parting throws
In darkest horrors and in deepest woes,
I seek by uttering to allay my pain.
Certes, just sorrow leads me to complain:
This she, who is its cause, and Love too shows;
No other remedy my poor heart knows
Against the troubles that in life obtain.
Death! thou hast snatch'd her hence with hand unkind,
And thou, glad Earth! that fair and kindly face
Now hidest from me in thy close embrace;
Why leave me here, disconsolate and blind,
Since she who of mine eyes the light has been,
Sweet, loving, bright, no more with me is seen?
Macgregor.