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Poem	SONNET XLVIII. Tempo era omai da trovar pace o tregua. HE CONSOLES HIMSELF WITH THE BELIEF THAT SHE NOW AT LAST SYMPATHISES WITH HIM. 'Twas time at last from so long war to findSome peace or truce, and, haply, both were nigh,But Death their welcome feet has turn'd behind,Who levels all distinctions, low as high;And as a cloud dissolves before the wind,So she, who led me with her lustrous eye,Whom ever I pursue with faithful mind,Her fair life briefly ending, sought the sky.Had she but stay'd, as I grew changed and oldHer tone had changed, and no distrust had beenTo parley with me on my cherish'd ill:With what frank sighs and fond I then had toldMy lifelong toils, which now from heaven, I ween,She sees, and with me sympathises still. Macgregor. My life's long warfare seem'd about to cease,Peace had my spirit's contest well nigh freed;But levelling Death, who doth to all concedeAn equal doom, clipp'd Time's blest wings of peace:As zephyrs chase the clouds of gathering fleece,So did her life from this world's breath recede,Their vision'd light could once my footsteps lead,But now my all, save thought, she doth release.Oh! would that she her flight awhile had stay'd,For Time had stamp'd on me his warning hand,And calmer I had told my storied love:To her in virtue's tone I had convey'dMy heart's long grief—now, she doth understand,And sympathises with that grief above. Wollaston.
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