SONNET CLII.

This wondrous Phœnix with the golden plumes Forms without art so rare a ring to deck That beautiful and soft and snowy neck, That every heart it melts, and mine consumes: Forms, too, a natural diadem which lights The air around, whence Love with silent steel Draws liquid subtle fire, which still I feel Fierce burning me though sharpest winter bites; Border'd with azure, a rich purple vest, Sprinkled with roses, veils her shoulders fair: Rare garment hers, as grace unique, alone! Fame, in the opulent and odorous breast Of Arab mountains, buries her sole lair, Who in our heaven so high a pitch has flown. Macgregor.