No More Learning

_H. _ From him, not her those orbs their movement learn.
_P. _ What's he to us, she sees it and is still.
_H. _ Sometimes, though mute the tongue, the heart laments
Fondly, and, though the face be calm and bright,
Bleeds inly, where no eye beholds its grief.
_P. _ 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.