how oft the
sparkling
eye
Belies the inward tear, where none can gaze!
Belies the inward tear, where none can gaze!
Petrarch - Poems
_ Nathless the mind not thus itself contents,
Breaking the stagnant woes which there unite,
For misery in fine hopes finds no relief.
MACGREGOR.
_P. _ What act, what dream, absorbs thee, O my soul?
Say, must we peace, a truce, or warfare hail?
_H. _ Our fate I know not; but her eyes unveil
The grief our woe doth in her heart enrol.
_P. _ But that is vain, since by her eyes' control
With nature I no sympathy inhale.
_H. _ Yet guiltless she, for Love doth there prevail.
_P. _ No balm to me, since she will not condole.
_H. _ When man is mute, how oft the spirit grieves,
In clamorous woe!
how oft the sparkling eye
Belies the inward tear, where none can gaze!
_P. _ Yet restless still, the grief the mind conceives
Is not dispell'd, but stagnant seems to lie.
The wretched hope not, though hope aid might raise.
WOLLASTON.
SONNET CXVIII.
_Nom d' atra e tempestosa onda marina. _
HE IS LED BY LOVE TO REASON.
No wearied mariner to port e'er fled
From the dark billow, when some tempest's nigh,
As from tumultuous gloomy thoughts I fly--
Thoughts by the force of goading passion bred:
Nor wrathful glance of heaven so surely sped
Destruction to man's sight, as does that eye
Within whose bright black orb Love's Deity
Sharpens each dart, and tips with gold its head.
Enthroned in radiance there he sits, not blind,
Quiver'd, and naked, or by shame just veil'd,
A live, not fabled boy, with changeful wing;
Thence unto me he lends instruction kind,
And arts of verse from meaner bards conceal'd,
Thus am I taught whate'er of love I write or sing.
NOTT.
Ne'er from the black and tempest-troubled brine
The weary mariner fair haven sought,
As shelter I from the dark restless thought
Whereto hot wishes spur me and incline:
Nor mortal vision ever light divine
Dazzled, as mine, in their rare splendour caught
Those matchless orbs, with pride and passion fraught,
Where Love aye haunts his darts to gild and fine.
Him, blind no more, but quiver'd, there I view,
Naked, except so far as shame conceals,
A winged boy--no fable--quick and true.
What few perceive he thence to me reveals;
So read I clearly in her eyes' dear light
Whate'er of love I speak, whate'er I write.
MACGREGOR.
SONNET CXIX.
Breaking the stagnant woes which there unite,
For misery in fine hopes finds no relief.
MACGREGOR.
_P. _ What act, what dream, absorbs thee, O my soul?
Say, must we peace, a truce, or warfare hail?
_H. _ Our fate I know not; but her eyes unveil
The grief our woe doth in her heart enrol.
_P. _ But that is vain, since by her eyes' control
With nature I no sympathy inhale.
_H. _ Yet guiltless she, for Love doth there prevail.
_P. _ No balm to me, since she will not condole.
_H. _ When man is mute, how oft the spirit grieves,
In clamorous woe!
how oft the sparkling eye
Belies the inward tear, where none can gaze!
_P. _ Yet restless still, the grief the mind conceives
Is not dispell'd, but stagnant seems to lie.
The wretched hope not, though hope aid might raise.
WOLLASTON.
SONNET CXVIII.
_Nom d' atra e tempestosa onda marina. _
HE IS LED BY LOVE TO REASON.
No wearied mariner to port e'er fled
From the dark billow, when some tempest's nigh,
As from tumultuous gloomy thoughts I fly--
Thoughts by the force of goading passion bred:
Nor wrathful glance of heaven so surely sped
Destruction to man's sight, as does that eye
Within whose bright black orb Love's Deity
Sharpens each dart, and tips with gold its head.
Enthroned in radiance there he sits, not blind,
Quiver'd, and naked, or by shame just veil'd,
A live, not fabled boy, with changeful wing;
Thence unto me he lends instruction kind,
And arts of verse from meaner bards conceal'd,
Thus am I taught whate'er of love I write or sing.
NOTT.
Ne'er from the black and tempest-troubled brine
The weary mariner fair haven sought,
As shelter I from the dark restless thought
Whereto hot wishes spur me and incline:
Nor mortal vision ever light divine
Dazzled, as mine, in their rare splendour caught
Those matchless orbs, with pride and passion fraught,
Where Love aye haunts his darts to gild and fine.
Him, blind no more, but quiver'd, there I view,
Naked, except so far as shame conceals,
A winged boy--no fable--quick and true.
What few perceive he thence to me reveals;
So read I clearly in her eyes' dear light
Whate'er of love I speak, whate'er I write.
MACGREGOR.
SONNET CXIX.
