n che la mia Fenice._

THE SIGHT OF LAURA'S HOUSE REMINDS HIM OF HIS MISERY.

Is this the nest in which my phoenix first
Her plumage donn'd of purple and of gold,
Beneath her wings who knew my heart to hold,
For whom e'en yet its sighs and wishes burst?
Prime root in which my cherish'd ill had birth,
Where is the fair face whence that bright light came.
Alive and glad which kept me in my flame?
Now bless'd in heaven as then alone on earth;
Wretched and lonely thou hast left me here,
Fond lingering by the scenes, with sorrows drown'd,
To thee which consecrate I still revere.
Watching the hills as dark night gathers round,
Whence its last flight to heaven thy soul did take,
And where my day those bright eyes wont to make.

MACGREGOR.

Is this the nest in which her wings of gold,
Of gold and purple plume, my phoenix laid?
How flutter'd my fond heart beneath their shade!
But now its sighs proclaim that dwelling cold:
Sweet source! from which my bliss, my bane, have roll'd,
Where is that face, in living light array'd,
That burn'd me, yet my sole enjoyment made?
Unparallel'd on earth, the heavens now hold
Thee bless'd!--but I am left wretched, alone!
Yet ever in my grief return to see
And honour this sweet place, though thou art gone.
A black night veils the hills, whence rising free
Thou took'st thy heavenward flight! Ah! when they shone
In morning radiance, it was all from thee!

MOREHEAD.

SONNET LIV.

_Mai non vedranno le mie luci asciutte._

TO THE MEMORY OF GIACOMO COLONNA, WHO DIED BEFORE PETRARCH COULD REPLY
TO A LETTER OF HIS.

Ne'er shall I see again with eyes unwet,
Or with the sure powers of a tranquil mind,
Those characters where Love so brightly shined,
And his own hand affection seem'd to set;
Spirit! amid earth's strifes unconquer'd yet,
Breathing such sweets from heaven which now has shrined,
As once more to my wandering verse has join'd
The style which Death had led me to forget.
Another work, than my young leaves more bright,
I thought to show: what envying evil star
Snatch'd thee, my noble treasure, thus from me?
So soon who hides thee from my fond heart's sight,
And from thy praise my loving tongue would bar?
My soul has rest, sweet sigh! alone in thee.

MACGREGOR.

Oh! ne'er sh