Translations. - Part I. Sonnet Lix. (From Petrarch.)

I am so weary with the burden old Of foregone faults, and power of custom base, That much I fear to perish from the ways, And fall into my enemy’s grim fold. True, a high friend, to free me, not with gold, Came, of ineffable and utmost grace— Then straightway vanished from before my face, So that in vain I strive him to behold. But his voice yet comes echoing below: O ye that labour, the way open lies! Come unto me lest some one shut the gate! —What heavenly grace—what love will—or what fate— The pinions of a dove on me bestow That I may rest, and from the earth arise?