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Poem	SONNET XCVII. Dicesett' anni ha già rivolto il cielo. E'EN IN OUR ASHES LIVE OUR WONTED FIRES. The seventeenth summer now, alas! is gone,And still with ardour unconsumed I glow;Yet find, whene'er myself I seek to know,Amidst the fire a frosty chill come on.Truly 'tis said, 'Ere Habit quits her throne,Years bleach the hair.' The senses feel life's snow,But not less hot the tides of passion flow:Such is our earthly nature's malison!Oh! come the happy day, when doom'd to smartNo more, from flames and lingering sorrows free,Calm I may note how fast youth's minutes flew!Ah! will it e'er be mine the hour to see,When with delight, nor duty nor my heartCan blame, these eyes once more that angel face may view? Wrangham. For seventeen summers heaven has o'er me roll'dSince first I burn'd, nor e'er found respite thence,But when to weigh our state my thoughts commenceI feel amidst the flames a frosty cold.We change the form, not nature, is an oldAnd truthful proverb: thus, to dull the senseMakes not the human feelings less intense;The dark shades of our painful veil still hold.Alas! alas! will e'er that day appearWhen, my life's flight beholding, I may findIssue from endless fire and lingering pain,—The day which, crowning all my wishes here,Of that fair face the angel air and kindShall to my longing eyes restore again? Macgregor.
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