Though long the time has been since first I tried;
And ever since, so wearisome or high,
No place has been where strong will has not hied,
Her shunning, at whose sight my senses die,
And, cold as marble, I am laid aside:
Wherefore if I return to see you late,
Sure 'tis no fault, unworthy of excuse,
That from my death awhile I held aloof:
At all to turn to what men shun, their fate,
And from such fear my harass'd heart to loose,
Of its true faith are ample pledge and proof.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET XXXII.

_S' amore o morte non da qualche stroppio._

HE ASKS FROM A FRIEND THE LOAN OF THE WORKS OF ST. AUGUSTIN.

If Love or Death no obstacle entwine
With the new web which here my fingers fold,
And if I 'scape from beauty's tyrant hold
While natural truth with truth reveal'd I join,
Perchance a work so double will be mine
Between our modern style and language old,
That (timidly I speak, with hope though bold)
Even to Rome its growing fame may shine:
But, since, our labour to perfect at last
Some of the blessed threads are absent yet
Which our dear father plentifully met,
Wherefore to me thy hands so close and fast
Against their use? Be prompt of aid and free,
And rich our harvest of fair things shall be.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET XXXIII

_Quando dal proprio sito si rimove._

WHEN LAURA DEPARTS, THE HEAVENS GROW DARK WITH STORMS.

When from its proper soil the tree is moved
Which Phoebus loved erewhile in human form,
Grim Vulcan at his labour sighs and sweats,
Renewing ever the dread bolts of Jove,
Who thunders now, now speaks in snow and rain,
Nor Julius honoureth than Janus more:
Earth moans, and far from us the sun retires
Since his dear mistress here no more is seen.
Then Mars and Saturn, cruel stars, resume
Their hostile rage: Orion arm'd with clouds
The helm and sails of storm-tost seamen breaks.
To Neptune and to Juno and to us
Vext AEolus proves his power, and makes us feel
How parts the fair face angels long expect.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET XXXIV.

_Ma poi che 'l dolce riso umile e piano._

HER RETURN GLADDENS THE EARTH AND CALMS THE SKY.

But when her sweet smile, modest and benign,
No longer hides from us its beauties rare,
At the spent forge his stout and sinewy arms
Plieth that old Sicilian