Quella Fenestra, Ove L' Un Sol Si Vede. Recollections Of Love. That Window Where My Sun Is Often Seen Refulgent, And The World'S At Morning'S Hours; And That, Where Boreas Blows, When Winter Lowers, And The Short Days Reveal A Clouded Scene; That Bench Of Stone Where, With A Pensive Mien, My Laura Sits, Forgetting Beauty'S Powers; Haunts Where Her Shadow Strikes The Walls Or Flowers, And Her Feet Press The Paths Or Herbage Green: The Place Where Love Assail'D Me With Success; And Spring, The Fatal Time That, First Observed, Revives The Keen Remembrance Every Year; With Looks And Words, That O'Er Me Have Preserved A Power No Length Of Time Can Render Less, Call To My Eyes The Sadly-Soothing Tear. Penn. That Window Where My Sun Is Ever Seen, Dazzling And Bright, And Nature'S At The None; And That Where Still, When Boreas Rude Has Blown In The Short Days, The Air Thrills Cold And Keen: The Stone Where, At High Noon, Her Seat Has Been, Pensive And Parleying With Herself Alone: Haunts Where Her Bright Form Has Its Shadow Thrown, Or Trod Her Fairy Foot The Carpet Green: The Cruel Spot Where First Love Spoil'D My Rest, And The New Season Which, From Year To Year, Opes, On This Day, The Old Wound In My Breast: The Seraph Face, The Sweet Words, Chaste And Dear, Which In My Suffering Heart Are Deep Impress'D, All Melt My Fond Eyes To The Frequent Tear. Macgregor.