To Laura In Death. Sonnet LII.

Sente l' aura mia antica, e i dolci colli.     HE REVISITS VAUCLUSE.         I feel the well-known gale; the hills I spy     So pleasant, whence my fair her being drew,     Which made these eyes, while Heaven was willing, shew     Wishful, and gay; now sad, and never dry.     O feeble hopes! O thoughts of vanity!     Wither'd the grass, the rills of turbid hue;     And void and cheerless is that dwelling too,     In which I live, in which I wish'd to die;     Hoping its mistress might at length afford     Some respite to my woes by plaintive sighs,     And sorrows pour'd from her once-burning eyes.     I've served a cruel and ungrateful lord:     While lived my beauteous flame, my heart be fired;     And o'er its ashes now I weep expired.     NOTT.         Once more, ye balmy gales, I feel you blow;     Again, sweet hills, I mark the morning beams     Gild your green summits; while your silver streams     Through vales of fragrance undulating flow.     But you, ye dreams of bliss, no longer here     Give life and beauty to the glowing scene:     For stern remembrance stands where you have been,     And blasts the verdure of the blooming year.     O Laura! Laura! in the dust with thee,     Would I could find a refuge from despair!     Is this thy boasted triumph. Love, to tear     A heart thy coward malice dares not free;     And bid it live, while every hope is fled,     To weep, among the ashes of the dead?     ANNE BANNERMAN.