BALLATA II.
Occhi miei lassi, mentre ch' io vi giro.
HE INVITES HIS EYES TO FEAST THEMSELVES ON LAURA.
My wearied eyes! while looking thus
On that fair fatal face to us,
Be wise, be brief, for—hence my sighs—
Already Love our bliss denies.
Death only can the amorous track
Shut from my thoughts which leads them back
To the sweet port of all their weal;
But lesser objects may conceal
Our light from you, that meaner far
In virtue and perfection are.
Wherefore, poor eyes! ere yet appears,
Already nigh, the time of tears,
Now, after long privation past,
Look, and some comfort take at last.
Macgregor.
SONNET XIII.
Io mi rivolgo indietro a ciascun passo.
ON QUITTING LAURA.
With weary frame which painfully I bear,
I look behind me at each onward pace,
And then take comfort from your native air,
Which following fans my melancholy face;
The far way, my frail life, the cherish'd fair
Whom thus I leave, as then my thoughts retrace,
I fix my feet in silent pale despair,
And on the earth my tearful eyes abase.
At times a doubt, too, rises on my woes,
"How ever can this weak and wasted frame
Live from life's spirit and one source afar?"
Love's answer soon the truth forgotten shows—
"This high pure privilege true lovers claim,
Who from mere human feelings franchised are!"