h travel, see the way!
Hopeless of other refuge, come to me."
What grace, what kindness, or what destiny
Will give me wings, as the fair-feather'd dove,
To raise me hence and seek my rest above?

BASIL KENNET.

So weary am I 'neath the constant thrall
Of mine own vile heart, and the false world's taint,
That much I fear while on the way to faint,
And in the hands of my worst foe to fall.
Well came, ineffably, supremely kind,
A friend to free me from the guilty bond,
But too soon upward flew my sight beyond,
So that in vain I strive his track to find;
But still his words stamp'd on my heart remain,
All ye who labour, lo! the way in me;
Come unto me, nor let the world detain!
Oh! that to me, by grace divine, were given
Wings like a dove, then I away would flee,
And be at rest, up, up from earth to heaven!

MACGREGOR.

SONNET LXI.

_Io non fu' d' amar voi lassato unquanco._

UNLESS LAURA RELENT, HE IS RESOLVED TO ABANDON HER.

Yet was I never of your love aggrieved,
Nor never shall while that my life doth last:
But of hating myself, that date is past;
And tears continual sore have me wearied:
I will not yet in my grave be buried;
Nor on my tomb your name have fixed fast,
As cruel cause, that did the spirit soon haste
From the unhappy bones, by great sighs stirr'd.
Then if a heart of amorous faith and will
Content your mind withouten doing grief;
Please it you so to this to do relief:
If otherwise you seek for to fulfil
Your wrath, you err, and shall not as you ween;
And you yourself the cause thereof have been.

WYATT.

Weary I never was, nor can be e'er,
Lady, while life shall last, of loving you,
But brought, alas! myself in hate to view,
Perpetual tears have bred a blank despair:
I wish a tomb, whose marble fine and fair,
When this tired spirit and frail flesh are two,
May show your name, to which my death is due,
If e'en our names at last one stone may share;
Wherefore, if full of faith and love, a heart
Can, of worst torture short, suffice your hate,
Mercy at length may visit e'en my smart.
If otherwise your wrath itself would sate,
It is deceived: and none will credit show;
To Love and to myself my thanks for this I owe.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET LXII.

_Se bianche non son