Canzone III.

Verdi panni, sanguigni, oscuri o persi.     WHETHER OR NOT HE SHOULD CEASE TO LOVE LAURA.         Green robes and red, purple, or brown, or gray     No lady ever wore,     Nor hair of gold in sunny tresses twined,     So beautiful as she, who spoils my mind     Of judgment, and from freedom's lofty path     So draws me with her that I may not bear     Any less heavy yoke.     And if indeed at times--for wisdom fails     Where martyrdom breeds doubt--     The soul should ever arm it to complain     Suddenly from each reinless rude desire     Her smile recalls, and razes from my heart     Every rash enterprise, while all disdain     Is soften'd in her sight.     For all that I have ever borne for love,     And still am doom'd to bear,     Till she who wounded it shall heal my heart,     Rejecting homage e'en while she invites,     Be vengeance done! but let not pride nor ire     'Gainst my humility the lovely pass     By which I enter'd bar.     The hour and day wherein I oped my eyes     On the bright black and white,     Which drive me thence where eager love impell'd     Where of that life which now my sorrow makes     New roots, and she in whom our age is proud,     Whom to behold without a tender awe     Needs heart of lead or wood.     The tear then from these eyes that frequent falls--     HE thus my pale cheek bathes     Who planted first within my fenceless flank     Love's shaft--diverts me not from my desire;     And in just part the proper sentence falls;     For her my spirit sighs, and worthy she     To staunch its secret wounds.     Spring from within me these conflicting thoughts,     To weary, wound myself,     Each a sure sword against its master turn'd:     Nor do I pray her to be therefore freed,     For less direct to heaven all other paths,     And to that glorious kingdom none can soar     Certes in sounder bark.     Benignant stars their bright companionship     Gave to the fortunate side     When came that fair birth on our nether world,     Its sole star since, who, as the laurel leaf,     The worth of honour fresh and fragrant keeps,     Where lightnings play not, nor ungrateful winds     Ever o'ersway its head.     Well know I that the hope to paint in verse     Her praises would but tire     The worthiest hand that e'er put forth its pen:     Who, in all Memory's richest cells, e'er saw     Such angel virtue so rare beauty shrined,     As in those eyes, twin symbols of all worth,     Sweet keys of my gone heart?     Lady, wherever shines the sun, than you     Love has no dearer pledge.     MACGREGOR.