TO  LAURA  IN   DEATH.  253

SONNET  XXIV.  I

OU  occhi  di  cli'  io  parlai  li  raWiwnen'e.  '

The  eyea.  the  face,  the  limba  of  heavenly  mould.
So  long  the  theme  of  my  impassion'd  lay,
Charms  which  so  stole  me  from  myself  away,
That  strange  to  other  men  the  course  I  hold;  I

The  crisped  locks  of  pure  and  lucid  gold,  I

The  lightning  of  the  angelic  smile,  whose  ray  I

To  earth  could  all  of  paradise  convey,  I

A  little  dust  are  now  ! — to  feeling  cold !  '

And  yet  I  live  ! — but  that  I  live  bewiul,  |

Sunk  the  loved  light  that  through  the  tempeat  led  '

My  shatter'd  hark,  hereft  of  mast  and  sail :
Hush'd  be  for  aye  the  song  that  breathed  love's  fire !
Lost  is  the  theme  on  which  my  fancy  fed,
And  tum'd  to  mourning  my  once  tuneful  lyre.  Backk

The  eyes,  the  arms,  the  hands,  the  feet,  the  face.
Which  made  my  thoughts  and  words  so  warm  and  wild,
That  I  was  almost  from  myself  exiled.
And  render'd  strange  to  all  the  human  race ;
The  lucid  locks  that  currd  in  golden  grace,  i

The  hghtening  beam  that,  when  my  angel  smiled.
Diffused  o'er  earth  an  Eden  heavenly  mild ;  \

What  are  they  now  ?     Dust,  lifeless  dust,  alas  I  j

And  I  live  on,  a  melancholy  slave,  I

Toss'd  by  the  tempest  in  a  shatter'd  bark,  I

Reft  of  the  lovely  light  that  cheer'd  the  wave.
The  flame  of  genius,  too,  extinct  and  dark.
Here  let  my  lays  of  love  conclusion  have  ;
Mute  be  the  lyre  :  tears  best  my  sorrows  mark.
