tempt at rhyme; but to
follow the strict order of the original in this respect is a part of the
pleasant problem which one cannot bear to leave out. And there seems a
kind of deity who presides over this union of languages, and who
sometimes silently lays the words in order, after all one's own poor
attempts have failed.

SONNET 128.

"_O passi sparsi; o pensier vaghi e pronti._"

O wandering steps! O vague and busy dreams!
O changeless memory! O fierce desire!
O passion strong! heart weak with its own fire;
O eyes of mine! not eyes, but living streams;
O laurel boughs! whose lovely garland seems
The sole reward that glory's deeds require;
O haunted life! delusion sweet and dire,
That all my days from slothful rest redeems;
O beauteous face! where Love has treasured well
His whip and spur, the sluggish heart to move
At his least will; nor can it find relief.
O souls of love and passion! if ye dwell
Yet on this earth, and ye, great Shades of Love!
Linger, and see my passion and my grief.

Yonder flies a kingfisher, and pauses, fluttering like a butterfly in
the air, then dives toward a fish, and, failing, perches on the
projecting wall. Doves from neighboring dove-cotes alight on the parapet
of the fort, fearless of the quiet cattle who find there a breezy
pasture. These doves, in taking flight, do not rise from the ground at
once, but, edging themselves closer to the brink, with a caution almost
ludicrous in such airy things, trust themselves upon the breeze with a
shy little hop, and at the next moment are securely on the wing.

How the abundant sunlight inundates everything! The great clumps of
grass and clover are imbedded in it to the roots; it flows in among
their stalks, like water; the lilac-bushes bask in it eagerly; the
topmost leaves of the birches are burnished. A vessel sails by with
plash and roar, and all the white spray along her keel is sparkling with
sunlight. Yet there is sorrow in the world, and it reached Petrarch even
before Laura died,--when it reached her. This exquisite sonnet shows
it:--

SONNET 123.

"_I' vidi in terra angelici costumi._"

I once beheld on earth celestial graces,
And heavenly beauties scarce to mortals known,
Whose memory lends nor joy nor grief alone,
But all things else bewilders and effaces.
I saw how tears had left their weary traces
Within those eyes that once li