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V.

HER PERSONAL APPEARANCE.

BLESSED be that bitter, yet thrice hallowed time,
When Laura's image brought into my heart
A bliss that genius never can impart,

And filled my soul with joy and grief sublime.
Her mien was gentle, and adorned with grace.
Her plaintive lamentations rapt my ear,
And made me doubt if mortal I did hear,

Or some fair one of Heaven's angelic race.

Her locks were gold, her cheeks were living snow,
Her brows were black, her eyes two stars that glowed,
Where love concealed, for ever bent his bow.

Her teeth were pearls, her lips vermillion hues,
Through which her voice like heavenly music flowed.
Her sighs were flame. her tears were crystal dews.

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VI.

THE TORTURE OF LOVING.

IF 'tis not love, what is it that I feel?

But if 'tis love, whence these consuming pangs ?
If good, why goad me with these festering fangs?
If ill, why with sweet torment do I reel ?

If bliss be mine, whence this eternal strife?
When Laura frowns, lament and tears are vain.
O, living death! O, sweet, delicious pain!
Without consent, why dost thou rule my life?
If I should yield, me torture would o'erwhelm.
Alas! mid adverse winds my fragile bark
Drifts down the doubtful sea without a helm !
No beams from wisdom's star a port proclaim,
But, ignorant of my fate, I brave the dark,
Trembling amid the winter of my flame.

VII.

LAURA'S SCORN.

SENNUCCIO, I would that thou didst know
How I am used. What, is my life accursed?
I struggle with my burning love as erst-
Still Laura guides my steps where'er I go.

Now seems she humble, now with haughty mien,

Now stern, now soft, now cold, displeased, now pleased,

Now clothed in candor, now by kindness seized,
Now fierce, disdainful, smiling, sweet, serene.
Here once she sweetly sang, and here she sate,
Here gazed on me, here melancholy stood,
And with her beauteous eyes transfixed my heart.
Here once she spake, here wept, here smiled elate,
Here changed expression. In this pensive mood,
Day, night, Love holds me with his ruthless dart.

VIII.

BEAUTY'S ARROW.

It was the day that Phoebus draped the skies
In memory of his god, that Beauty blessed
First sheathed her barbèd arrow in my breast,
And chained my soul with beatific eyes.
My bosom then had never known a shield,
Nor dreamed of erring shaft-unconsciously
I chased the entrancing spell, till woe is me!
Too late I woke to find my fate was sealed.
Love, finding me disarmed against the foe,

Oped, through mine eyes, a channel to the heart,
Through which the tide of tears might ebb and flow;
And thence, all honor, duty did forego

To pierce me with his unrelenting dart

To arm my lady-and to show not me his bow.

IX.

THE MYSTIC POWER OF LAURA'S EYES.

BLESSED be the day, the week, the month, the year,

The happy season, time, the moment, hour,
The lovely land, the place, where mystic power
Of two bright eyes enchained me in their sphere.
Blessed be the grief that did the tear-drops start,
When I was wedded to eternal Love—
The bow, the arrow that my bosom clove-
The wounds that burn for ever in my heart.

Blessed be the voice with which so often I
Have called that name, I've most on earth adored.

The rapturous wish, the silent tears, the sigh.

Blessed be all paper whereon I have traced

Her beauty's fame, the breathing thoughts I've poured, From which her image had all else effaced.

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