 | Sonnets and Other Poems |  |
29
XVII.
Not seldom, when in foreign lands we fare,We see in rudely-fashion'd wayside shrine
An image of the Mother-maid divine;
And thus we muse—‘not less the pious care
That such memorial shaped and placed it there,
Than moved the artist bent on high design—
Marvel of Roman skill or Florentine—
Destin'd to grace some glorious House of Prayer.’
So, a poor craftsman, to my lady's praise
I dedicate these all unworthy lays,
That tender souls may cherish the dear name.
Would Petrarch's lute were mine, and Petrarch's art!
Tuneless my voice to his; but in his heart
For his lost love glow'd no intenser flame.
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