Sonnet XIV

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SONNET XIV.
 
Alma felice, che sovente torni.
 
HE THANKS HER THAT FROM TIME TO TIME SHE RETURNS TO CONSOLE HIM WITH HER PRESENCE.
 
 
O blessed spirit! who dost oft return,Ministering comfort to my nights of woe,From eyes which Death, relenting in his blow,Has lit with all the lustres of the morn:How am I gladden'd, that thou dost not scornO'er my dark days thy radiant beam to throw!Thus do I seem again to trace belowThy beauties, hovering o'er their loved sojourn.There now, thou seest, where long of thee had beenMy sprightlier strain, of thee my plaint I swell—Of thee!—oh, no! of mine own sorrows keen.One only solace cheers the wretched scene:By many a sign I know thy coming well—Thy step, thy voice and look, and robe of favour'd green.
 
Wrangham. 
 
When welcome slumber locks my torpid frame,I see thy spirit in the midnight dream;Thine eyes that still in living lustre beam:In all but frail mortality the same.Ah! then, from earth and all its sorrows free,Methinks I meet thee in each former scene:Once the sweet shelter of a heart serene;Now vocal only while I weep for thee.For thee!—ah, no! From human ills secure.Thy hallow'd soul exults in endless day;'Tis I who linger on the toilsome way:No balm relieves the anguish I endure;Save the fond feeble hope that thou art nearTo soothe my sufferings with an angel's tear.
 
Anne Bannerman.

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