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Poem	SONNET LXX. Deh qual pietà, qual angel fu sì presto. HIS PRAYER IS HEARD. What angel of compassion, hovering near,Heard, and to heaven my heart grief instant bore,Whence now I feel descending as of yoreMy lady, in that bearing chaste and dear,My lone and melancholy heart to cheer,So free from pride, of humbleness such store,In fine, so perfect, though at death's own door,I live, and life no more is dull and drear.Blessèd is she who so can others blessWith her fair sight, or with that tender speechTo whose full meaning love alone can reach."Dear friend," she says, "thy pangs my soul distress;But for our good I did thy homage shun"—In sweetest tones which might arrest the sun. Macgregor.
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