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Poem	SONNET CXLI. Fera stella (se 'l cielo ha forza in noi). TO PINE FOR HER IS BETTER THAN TO ENJOY HAPPINESS WITH ANY OTHER. Ill-omen'd was that star's malignant gleamThat ruled my hapless birth; and dim the mornThat darted on my infant eyes the beam;And harsh the wail, that told a man was born;And hard the sterile earth, which first was wornBeneath my infant feet; but harder far,And harsher still, the tyrant maid, whose scorn,In league with savage Love, inflamed the warOf all my passions.—Love himself more tame,With pity soothes my ills; while that cold heart,Insensible to the devouring flameWhich wastes my vitals, triumphs in my smart.One thought is comfort—that her scorn to bear,Excels e'er prosperous love, with other earthly fair. Woodhouselee. [Pg 163] An evil star usher'd my natal morn(If heaven have o'er us power, as some have said),Hard was the cradle where I lay when born,And hard the earth where first my young feet play'd;Cruel the lady who, with eyes of scornAnd fatal bow, whose mark I still was made,Dealt me the wound, O Love, which since I mournWhose cure thou only, with those arms, canst aid.But, ah! to thee my torments pleasure bring:She, too, severer would have wished the blow,A spear-head thrust, and not an arrow-sting.One comfort rests—better to suffer soFor her, than others to enjoy: and I,Sworn on thy golden dart, on this for death rely. Macgregor.
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