No More Learning

The birds, breeze, water, branches, whisper love;
Herb, flower, and verdant path the lay symphonious move.

CAPEL LOFFT.




SONNET XIII.

_Quante fiate al mio dolce ricetto. _

HER FORM STILL HAUNTS HIM IN SOLITUDE.


How oft, all lonely, to my sweet retreat
From man and from myself I strive to fly,
Bathing with dewy eyes each much-loved seat,
And swelling every blossom with a sigh!
How oft, deep musing on my woes complete,
Along the dark and silent glens I lie,
In thought again that dearest form to meet
By death possess'd, and therefore wish to die!
How oft I see her rising from the tide
Of Sorga, like some goddess of the flood;
Or pensive wander by the river's side;
Or tread the flowery mazes of the wood;
Bright as in life; while angel pity throws
O'er her fair face the impress of my woes.

MERIVALE.




SONNET XIV.

_Alma felice, che sovente torni. _

HE THANKS HER THAT FROM TIME TO TIME SHE RETURNS TO CONSOLE HIM WITH HER
PRESENCE.


O blessed spirit! who dost oft return,
Ministering comfort to my nights of woe,
From eyes which Death, relenting in his blow,
Has lit with all the lustres of the morn:
How am I gladden'd, that thou dost not scorn
O'er my dark days thy radiant beam to throw!
Thus do I seem again to trace below
Thy beauties, hovering o'er their loved sojourn.
There now, thou seest, where long of thee had been
My sprightlier strain, of thee my plaint I swell--
Of thee! --oh, no! of mine own sorrows keen.
One only solace cheers the wretched scene:
By many a sign I know thy coming well--
Thy step, thy voice and look, and robe of favour'd green.

WRANGHAM.


When welcome slumber locks my torpid frame,
I see thy spirit in the midnight dream;
Thine eyes that still in living lustre beam:
In all but frail mortality the same.
Ah! then, from earth and all its sorrows free,
Methinks I meet thee in each former scene:
Once the sweet shelter of a heart serene;
Now vocal only while I weep for thee.
For thee! --ah, no! From human ills secure.
Thy hallow'd soul exults in endless day;
'Tis I who linger on the toilsome way:
No balm relieves the anguish I endure;
Save the fond feeble hope that thou art near
To soothe my sufferings with an angel's tear.

ANNE BANNERMAN.




SONNET XV.

_Discolorato hai, Morte, il piu bel volto. _

HER PRESENCE IN VISIONS IS HIS ONLY CONSOLATION.