No More Learning

Blest be the day, and blest the month, the year,
The spring, the hour, the very moment blest,
The lovely scene, the spot, where first oppress'd
I sunk, of two bright eyes the prisoner:
And blest the first soft pang, to me most dear,
Which thrill'd my heart, when Love became its guest;
And blest the bow, the shafts which pierced my breast,
And even the wounds, which bosom'd thence I bear.
Blest too the strains which, pour'd through glade and grove,
Have made the woodlands echo with her name;
The sighs, the tears, the languishment, the love:
And blest those sonnets, sources of my fame;
And blest that thought--Oh! never to remove!
Which turns to her alone, from her alone which came.

WRANGHAM.


Blest be the year, the month, the hour, the day,
The season and the time, and point of space,
And blest the beauteous country and the place
Where first of two bright eyes I felt the sway:
Blest the sweet pain of which I was the prey,
When newly doom'd Love's sovereign law to embrace,
And blest the bow and shaft to which I trace,
The wound that to my inmost heart found way:
Blest be the ceaseless accents of my tongue,
Unwearied breathing my loved lady's name:
Blest my fond wishes, sighs, and tears, and pains:
Blest be the lays in which her praise I sung,
That on all sides acquired to her fair fame,
And blest my thoughts! for o'er them all she reigns.

DACRE.




SONNET XLVIII.

_Padre del ciel, dopo i perduti giorni. _

CONSCIOUS OF HIS FOLLY, HE PRAYS GOD TO TURN HIM TO A BETTER LIFE.


Father of heaven! after the days misspent,
After the nights of wild tumultuous thought,
In that fierce passion's strong entanglement,
One, for my peace too lovely fair, had wrought;
Vouchsafe that, by thy grace, my spirit bent
On nobler aims, to holier ways be brought;
That so my foe, spreading with dark intent
His mortal snares, be foil'd, and held at nought.
E'en now th' eleventh year its course fulfils,
That I have bow'd me to the tyranny
Relentless most to fealty most tried.
Have mercy, Lord!
on my unworthy ills:
Fix all my thoughts in contemplation high;
How on the cross this day a Saviour died.

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.




SONNET XLIX.

_Se voi poteste per turbati segni. _

HE ENTREATS LAURA NOT TO HATE THE HEART FROM WHICH SHE CAN NEVER BE
ABSENT.