I remember the whole of the sonnet
because it cost me two days' labor in the railway between Avignon and
Nice. It runs like this:--
'For my lost life lamenting now I go,
Which I have placed in loving mortal thing,
Soaring to no high flight, although the wing
Had strength to rise and loftier sweep to show.
Oh! Thou that seest my mean life and low!
Invisible! Immortal! Heaven's king!
To this weak, pathless spirit, succor bring,
And on its earthly faults thy grace bestow!
That I, who lived in tempest and in fear,
May die in port and peace; and if it be
That life was vain, at least let death be dear!
In these few days that yet remain to me,
And in death's terrors, may thy hand be near!
Thou knowest that I have no hope but thee!'
In the Italian this is very great poetry, Miss Brooke, and if you don't
think it so in my English, try and see if you can do better."
"Very well," said Catherine, coolly. "I've no doubt we can do it just as
well as you and Mr. Wharton. Can't we, Esther?"
"You are impudent enough to make St. Cecilia blush," said Esther, who
happened to be wondering whether she might dare to put a little blush
into the cheeks of the figure on which she was painting. "You never read
a word of Italian in your little life."
"No! But you have!" replied Catherine, as though this were final.
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