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Poem	SONNET CXVIII. Nom d' atra e tempestosa onda marina. HE IS LED BY LOVE TO REASON. No wearied mariner to port e'er fledFrom the dark billow, when some tempest's nigh,As from tumultuous gloomy thoughts I fly—Thoughts by the force of goading passion bred:Nor wrathful glance of heaven so surely spedDestruction to man's sight, as does that eyeWithin whose bright black orb Love's DeitySharpens each dart, and tips with gold its head.Enthroned in radiance there he sits, not blind,Quiver'd, and naked, or by shame just veil'd,A live, not fabled boy, with changeful wing;Thence unto me he lends instruction kind,And arts of verse from meaner bards conceal'd,Thus am I taught whate'er of love I write or sing. Nott. [Pg 148] Ne'er from the black and tempest-troubled brineThe weary mariner fair haven sought,As shelter I from the dark restless thoughtWhereto hot wishes spur me and incline:Nor mortal vision ever light divineDazzled, as mine, in their rare splendour caughtThose matchless orbs, with pride and passion fraught,Where Love aye haunts his darts to gild and fine.Him, blind no more, but quiver'd, there I view,Naked, except so far as shame conceals,A winged boy—no fable—quick and true.What few perceive he thence to me reveals;So read I clearly in her eyes' dear lightWhate'er of love I speak, whate'er I write. Macgregor.
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