Written by
Charlotte Turner Smith |
The unhappy exile, whom his fates confine
To the bleak coast of some unfriendly isle,
Cold, barren, desart, where no harvests smile,
But thirst and hunger on the rocks repine;
When, from some promontory's fearful brow,
Sun after sun he hopeless sees decline
In the broad shipless sea—perhaps may know
Such heartless pain, such blank despair as mine;
And, if a flattering cloud appears to show
The fancied semblance of a distant sail,
Then melts away—anew his spirits fail,
While the lost hope but aggravates his woe!
Ah! so for me delusive Fancy toils,
Then, from contrasted truth—my feeble soul recoils.
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Written by
Francesco Petrarch |
SONNET CC. Amor, io fallo e veggio il mio fallire. HE PRAYS LOVE, WHO IS THE CAUSE OF HIS OFFENCES, TO OBTAIN PARDON FOR HIM. O Love, I err, and I mine error own,As one who burns, whose fire within him liesAnd aggravates his grief, while reason dies,With its own martyrdom almost o'erthrown.I strove mine ardent longing to restrain,Her fair calm face that I might ne'er disturb:I can no more; falls from my hand the curb,And my despairing soul is bold again;Wherefore if higher than her wont she aim,The act is thine, who firest and spur'st her so,No way too rough or steep for her to go:But the rare heavenly gifts are most to blameShrined in herself: let her at least feel this,Lest of my faults her pardon I should miss. Macgregor.
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