Sonnet LXXVI.

Ahi bella libert, come tu m' hai.     HE DEPLORES HIS LOST LIBERTY AND THE UNHAPPINESS OF HIS PRESENT STATE.         Alas! fair Liberty, thus left by thee,     Well hast thou taught my discontented heart     To mourn the peace it felt, ere yet Love's dart     Dealt me the wound which heal'd can never be;     Mine eyes so charm'd with their own weakness grow     That my dull mind of reason spurns the chain;     All worldly occupation they disdain,     Ah! that I should myself have train'd them so.     Naught, save of her who is my death, mine ear     Consents to learn; and from my tongue there flows     No accent save the name to me so dear;     Love to no other chase my spirit spurs,     No other path my feet pursue; nor knows     My hand to write in other praise but hers.     MACGREGOR.         Alas, sweet Liberty! in speeding hence,     Too well didst thou reveal unto my heart     Its careless joy, ere Love ensheathed his dart,     Of whose dread wound I ne'er can lose the sense     My eyes, enamour'd of their grief intense,     Did in that hour from Reason's bridle start,     Thus used to woe, they have no wish to part;     Each other mortal work is an offence.     No other theme will now my soul content     Than she who plants my death, with whose blest name     I make the air resound in echoes sweet:     Love spurs me to her as his only bent,     My hand can trace nought other but her fame,     No other spot attracts my willing feet.     WOLLASTON.