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Poem	SONNET XLI. L' alto e novo miracol ch' a dì nostri. IT IS IMPOSSIBLE FOR HIM TO DESCRIBE HER EXCELLENCES. The wonder, high and new, that, in our days,Dawn'd on the world, yet would not there remain,Which heaven but show'd to us to snatch againBetter to blazon its own starry ways;That to far times I her should paint and praiseLove wills, who prompted first my passionate strain;But now wit, leisure, pen, page, ink in vainTo the fond task a thousand times he sways.My slow rhymes struggle not to life the while;I feel it, and whoe'er to-day below,Or speak or write of love will prove it so.Who justly deems the truth beyond all style,Here silent let him muse, and sighing say,Blessèd the eyes who saw her living day! Macgregor.
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