And of the stars which up in Heav’n abide. O words, alas! ye lack the skill to tell The dire confusion that upon me fell, Whilst love thus wracked me; nor can ye disclose My love’s immensity, its pains and woes. Yet, though, for all, your powers be too weak, Perchance, some little, ye are fit to speak-- Say to her thus: “Twas fear lest thou shouldst chide That drove me, e’en so long, my love to hide, And yet, forsooth, it might have openly Been told to God in Heaven, as unto thee, Based as it is upon thy virtue--thought That to my torments frequent balm hath brought, For who, indeed, could ever deem it sin To seek the owner of all worth to win? Deserving rather of our blame were he Who having seen thee undisturbed could be.’ None such was I, for, straightway stricken sore, My heart bowed low to Love, the conqueror. And ah! no false and fleeting love is mine, Such as for painted beauty feigns to pine; Nor doth my passion, although deep and strong, Seek its own wicked pleasure in thy wrong. Nay; on this journey I would rather die Than know that thou hadst fallen, and that I Had wrought thy shame and foully brought to harm The virtue which thy heart wraps round thy form. ‘Tis thy perfection that I love in thee, Nought that might lessen it could ever be Desire of mine--indeed, the nobler thou, The greater were the love I to thee vow. I do not seek an ardent flame to quench In lustful dalliance with some merry wench, Pure is my heart, ‘neath reason’s calm control Set on a lady of such lofty soul, That neither God above nor angel bright, But seeing her, would echo my delight. And if of thee I may not be beloved, What matter, shouldst thou deem that I have proved The truest lover that did ever live? And this I know thou wilt, one day, believe, For time, in rolling by, shall show to thee No change in my heart’s faith and loyalty. And though for this thou mayst make no return, Yet pleased am I with love for thee to burn, And seek no recompense, pursue no end, Save, that to thee, I meekly recommend My soul and body, which I here consign In sacrifice to Love’s consuming shrine. If then in safety I sail back the main To thee, still artless, I’ll return again; And if I die, then there will die with me A lover such as none again shall see. So Ocean now doth carry far away The truest lover seen for many a day; His body ‘tis that journeys o’er the wave, But not his heart, for that is now thy slave, And from thy side can never wrested be, Nor of its own accord return to me. Ah! could I with me o’er the treach’rous brine Take aught of that pure, guileless heart of thine, No doubt should I then feel of victory, Whereof the glory would belong to thee.