As to the sunshine and the pure bright air, Their old poetic legends to the wind. And this is the sweet spirit, that doth fill The world; and, in these wayward days of youth, My busy fancy oft embodies it, As a bright image of the light and beauty That dwell in nature,-of the heavenly forms We worship in our dreams, and the soft hues That stain the wild bird's wing, and flush the clouds When the sun sets. Within her eye The heaven of April, with its changing light, And when it wears the blue of May, is hung, And on her lip the rich, red rose. Her hair Is like the summer tresses of the trees, When twilight makes them brown, and on her cheek Blushes the richness of an autumn sky, With ever-shifting beauty. Then her breath, It is so like the gentle air of Spring, As, from the morning's dewy flowers, it comes To have it round us,—and her silver voice Is the rich music of a summer bird, Heard in the still night, with its passionate cadence. Translations. THE GOOD SHEPHERD. FROM THE SPANISH OF LOPE DE VEGA. SHEPHERD! that with thine amorous, sylvan song For thou my shepherd, guard, and guide shalt be; I will obey thy voice, and wait to see Thy feet all beautiful upon the mountains. Hear, Shepherd !-Thou who for thy flock art dying, Rejoicest at the contrite sinner's vow. O, wait!—to thee my weary soul is crying,— Wait for me!-Yet why ask it when I see, With feet nailed to the cross, thou'rt waiting still for me! TO-MORROW. FROM THE SPANISH OF LOPE DE VEGA. LORD, what am I, that, with unceasing care, Has chilled the bleeding wounds upon thy feet. How oft my guardian angel gently cried, 66 Soul, from thy casement look, and thou shalt see How he persists to knock and wait for thee! And, O! how often to that voice of sorrow, "To-morrow we will open," I replied, And when the morrow came I answered still, "To-morrow." THE NATIVE LAND. FEOM THE SPANISH OF FRANCISCO DE ALDANA. CLEAR fount of light! my native land on high, Thy holy quiet meets the spirit's eve. There dwells the soul in its ethereal essence, THE IMAGE OF GOD. FROM THE SPANISH OF FRANCISCO DE ALDANA. O LORD! that seest, from yon starry height, Shall meet that look of mercy from on high, As the reflected image in a glass Doth meet the look of him who seeks it there, COPLAS DE MANRIQUE. FROM THE SPANISH. DON JORGE MANRIQUE, the author of the following poem, flourished in the last half of the fifteenth century. He followed the profession of arms; and Mariana, in his " History of Spain," makes honourable mention of him, as being present at the siege of Uclès; he speaks of him as "a youth of estimable qualities, who in this war gave brilliant proofs of his valour. He died younghaving been mortally wounded in a skirmish near Cunavette, in the year 1479and was thus cut off from long exercising his great virtues, and exhibiting to the world the light of his gerius, which was already known to fame." The name of Rodrigo Manrique, the father of the poet, Conde de Paredes and Maestre de Santiago, is well known in Spanish history and song. He died in 1476; according to Mariana, in the town of Uclès; but according to the poem of his son, in the town of Ocana. It was his death that called forth the poem upon which rests the literary reputation of the younger Manrique. In the language of his historian, "Don Jorge Manrique, in an elegant ode, full of poetic beauties, rich embellishments of genius and high moral reflections, mourned the death of his father, as with a funeral hymn." This praise is not exaggerated; the poem is a model in its kind. Its conception is solemn and beautiful, and, in accordance with it, the style moves on-calm, dignified, and majestic. It is a great favourite in Spain; and no less than four poetic Glosses, or running commentaries, upon it have been published. The following stanzas of the poem were found in the author's pocket, after his death on the field of battle : Thy goods are bought with many a groan, By the hot sweat of toil alone, And weary hearts; Fleet-footed is the approach of woe, But with a lingering step and slow O LET the soul her slumbers break, Let thought be quickened, and awake; Awake to see How soon this life is past and gone, And death comes softly stealing on, Swiftly our pleasures glide away, Our hearts recall the distant day With many sighs; The moments that are speeding fast We heed not, but the past,-the past,- Onward its course the present keeps, And, did we judge of time aright, Let no one fondly dream again, That Hope and all her shadowy train Will not decay; Fleeting as were the dreams of old, Our lives are rivers, gliding free Thither all earthly pomp and boast Thither the mighty torrents stray, There all are equal. Side by side I will not here invoke the throng The deathless few; Fiction entices and deceives, And, sprinkled o'er her fragrant leaves, To One alone my thoughts arise, The Eternal Truth,-the Good and Wise, To Him I cry, Who shared on earth our common lot, But the world comprehended not His deity. peace above; So let us choose that narrow way, From realms of love. Our cradle is the starting-place, In life we run the onward race, And reach the goal; When, in the mansions of the blest, Death leaves to its eternal rest The weary soul. Did we but use it as we ought, This world would school each wandering thought To its high state. Faith wings the soul beyond the sky, Up to that better world on high For which we wait. Yes, the glad messenger of love, |