"Sun never rose so beautiful and bright When skies above most clear and cloudless showed, Nor, after rain, the bow of heaven e'er glowed With tints so varied, delicate, and light, As in rare beauty flash'd upon my sight, The day I first took up this am'rous load, That face whose fellow ne'er on earth abode-- Even my praise to paint it seems a slight! Then saw I Love, who did her fine eyes bend So sweetly, every other face obscure Has from that hour till now appeared to me. The boy-god and his bow, I saw them, friend, From whom life since has never been secure, Whom still I madly yearn again to see." Macgregor. Yet Laura is not only beautiful, but good; she unites in herself the highest excellencies of virtue as well as of beauty: "High birth in humble life, reserved yet kind, On youth's gay flower ripe fruits of age and rare, A virtuous heart, therewith a lofty mind, A happy spirit in a pensive air; Her planet, nay, heaven's king, has fitly shrined All gifts and graces in this lady fair, True honor, purest praises, worth refined, Above what rapt dreams of best poets are. Virtue and Love so rich in her unite, With natural beauty dignified address. Gestures that still a silent grace express, And in her eyes I know not what strange light, That makes the noonday dark, the dusk night clear, Bitter the sweet, and e'en sad absence dear." Macgregor. Petrarch not only gives general descriptions of the beauty of his lady and of its effect, as his predecessors had done, but he gives over and over again details thereof, especially her eyes and hair: "Say, from what vein did Love procure the gold To make those sunny tresses? From what thorn Stole he the rose, and whence the dew of morn, Bidding them breathe and live in Beauty's mold? What depth of ocean gave the pearls that told Those gentle accents sweet, though rarely born? Whence came so many graces to adorn That brow more fair than summer skies unfold? Oh! say what angels lead, what spheres control The song divine which wastes my life away? (Who can with trifles now my senses move?) What sun gave birth unto the lofty soul Of those enchanting eyes, whose glances stray To burn and freeze my heart--the sport of Love?" Wrottesley. He is especially fond of describing the scenes where she is, thus combining with her own charms those of lovely nature. Thus he sees her on the banks of clear streams, sitting on the green grass, with blossoms falling upon her from the trees in springtime, as in the following lines from one of his most beautiful songs: