SONNET LIX.

If, of this fourteenth year wherein I sigh, The end and middle with its opening vie, Nor air nor shade can give me now release, I feel mine ardent passion so increase: For Love, with whom my thought no medium knows, Beneath whose yoke I never find repose, So rules me through these eyes, on mine own ill Too often turn'd, but half remains to kill. Thus, day by day, I feel me sink apace, And yet so secretly none else may trace, Save she whose glances my fond bosom tear. Scarcely till now this load of life I bear Nor know how long with me will be her stay, For death draws near, and hastens life away. Macgregor.