Long years hath the pain increased:
Soon, oh soon! thy children gather
To the endless marriage-feast.



FROM PETRARCH.


PART I. SONNET LIX.

I am so weary with the burden old
Of foregone faults, and power of custom base,
That much I fear to perish from the ways,
And fall into my enemy's grim fold.
True, a high friend, to free me, not with gold,
Came, of ineffable and utmost grace--
Then straightway vanished from before my face,
So that in vain I strive him to behold.
But his voice yet comes echoing below:
O ye that labour, the way open lies!
Come unto me lest some one shut the gate!
--What heavenly grace--what love will--or what fate--
The pinions of a dove on me bestow
That I may rest, and from the earth arise?


PART II. SONNET LXXV.

The elect angels and the souls in bliss,