"My soul is ready to depart,

No thought rebels, the obedient heart
Breathes forth no sigh;

The wish on earth to linger still

Were vain, when 't is God's sovereign will

That we shall die.

"O Thou, that for our sins didst take

A human form, and humbly make

Thy home on earth;

Thou, that to thy divinity

A human nature didst ally

By mortal birth,

"And in that form didst suffer here

Torment, and agony, and fear,

So patiently;

By thy redeeming grace alone,

And not for merits of my own,

O, pardon me!"

As thus the dying warrior prayed,

Without one gathering mist or shade

Upon his mind,

Encircled by his family,

Watched by affection's gentle eye

So soft and kind,—

His soul to Him who

gave

it rose;

God lead it to its long repose,

Its glorious rest!

And, though the warrior's sun has set,

Its light shall linger round us yet,

Bright, radiant, blest.

THE GOOD SHEPHERD.

FROM LOPE DE VEGA.

SHEPHERD! that with thine amorous, sylvan song
Hast broken the slumber which encompassed me,-
That mad'st thy crook from the accursed tree,
On which thy powerful arms were stretched so long!
Lead me to mercy's ever-flowing fountains;
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,
O, wash away these scarlet sins, for thou
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 LOPE DE VEGA.

LORD, what am I, that, with unceasing care,
Thou didst seek after me,-that thou didst wait,
Wet with unhealthy dews, before my gate,
And

pass the gloomy nights of winter there?
O strange delusion!-that I did not greet
Thy blest approach, and O, to Heaven how lost,

If my ingratitude's unkindly frost

Has chilled the bleeding wounds upon thy feet.

How oft my guardian angel gently cried,

"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.

FROM FRANCISCO DE ALDANA.

CLEAR fount of light! my native land on high,
Bright with a glory that shall never fade!
Mansion of truth! without a veil or shade,
Thy holy quiet meets the spirit's eye.

There dwells the soul in its ethereal essence,
Gasping no longer for life's feeble breath;
But, sentineled in heaven, its glorious presence
With pitying eye beholds, yet fears not, death.
Beloved country! banished from thy shore,
A stranger in this prison-house of clay,

The exiled spirit weeps and sighs for thee!
Heavenward the bright perfections I adore
Direct, and the sure promise cheers the way,
That, whither love aspires, there shall my dwelling be