Sonnet LXXIX.

Quella fenestra, ove l' un sol si vede.     RECOLLECTIONS OF LOVE.         That window where my sun is often seen     Refulgent, and the world's at morning's hours;     And that, where Boreas blows, when winter lowers,     And the short days reveal a clouded scene;     That bench of stone where, with a pensive mien,     My Laura sits, forgetting beauty's powers;     Haunts where her shadow strikes the walls or flowers,     And her feet press the paths or herbage green:     The place where Love assail'd me with success;     And spring, the fatal time that, first observed,     Revives the keen remembrance every year;     With looks and words, that o'er me have preserved     A power no length of time can render less,     Call to my eyes the sadly-soothing tear.     PENN.         That window where my sun is ever seen,     Dazzling and bright, and Nature's at the none;     And that where still, when Boreas rude has blown     In the short days, the air thrills cold and keen:     The stone where, at high noon, her seat has been,     Pensive and parleying with herself alone:     Haunts where her bright form has its shadow thrown,     Or trod her fairy foot the carpet green:     The cruel spot where first Love spoil'd my rest,     And the new season which, from year to year,     Opes, on this day, the old wound in my breast:     The seraph face, the sweet words, chaste and dear,     Which in my suffering heart are deep impress'd,     All melt my fond eyes to the frequent tear.     MACGREGOR.