Sonnet XLIII.

Se col cieco desir che 'l cor distrugge.     BLIGHTED HOPE.         Either that blind desire, which life destroys     Counting the hours, deceives my misery,     Or, even while yet I speak, the moment flies,     Promised at once to pity and to me.     Alas! what baneful shade o'erhangs and dries     The seed so near its full maturity?     'Twixt me and hope what brazen walls arise?     From murderous wolves not even my fold is free.     Ah, woe is me! Too clearly now I find     That felon Love, to aggravate my pain,     Mine easy heart hath thus to hope inclined;     And now the maxim sage I call to mind,     That mortal bliss must doubtful still remain     Till death from earthly bonds the soul unbind.     CHARLEMONT.         Counting the hours, lest I myself mislead     By blind desire wherewith my heart is torn,     E'en while I speak away the moments speed,     To me and pity which alike were sworn.     What shade so cruel as to blight the seed     Whence the wish'd fruitage should so soon be born?     What beast within my fold has leap'd to feed?     What wall is built between the hand and corn?     Alas! I know not, but, if right I guess,     Love to such joyful hope has only led     To plunge my weary life in worse distress;     And I remember now what once I read,     Until the moment of his full release     Man's bliss begins not, nor his troubles cease.     MACGREGOR.