TRANSLATIONS. [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 died on the field of battle. Marana, in his History of Spain, makes honorable mention of him, as being present at the siege of Uclés; and speaks of him as a youth of estimable qualities, who in this war gave brilliant proofs of his valor. He died young; and was thus cut off from long exercising his great virtues, and exhibiting to the world the light of his genius, which was already known to fame." He was mortally wounded in a skirinish near Cañavete, in the year 1479. 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 Mariuna, in the town of Uclés; but, according to the poem of his son, in Ocaña. It was his death that called forth the poem upon which re-ts 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 einbellishments of genius, and high moral reflections, mourned the death of his father as with a funeral hymn." This praise is not exaggerated. Taз pɔën is a molel in its kind. Its conception is solemn and beautiful; and, in accordance with it the style moves on,-calm, dignified, and majestic.] COPLAS DE MANRIQUE. FROM THE SPANISH. O LET the soul her slumbers break, How soon this life is past and gone, Swiftly our pleasures glide away, The moments that are speeding fast Onward its course the present keeps, And, did we judge of time aright, So many a duke of royal name, That might the sword of empire wield, Their dee 3 of mercy and of arms, O Death, the stern and angry face, Unnumbered hosts, that threaten nigh, High battlements intrenched around, And covered trench, secure and deep, When thou dost battle in thy wrath, O World! so few the years we live, Alas! thy sorrows fall so fast, Our days are covered o'er with grief, And sorrows neither few nor brief Veil all in gloom; Left desolate of real good, No pleasures bloom. Thy pilgrimage begins in tears, And ends in bitter doubts and fears, 21 On which thy powerful arms were stretched so Celestial King! O let thy presence pass Lead me to mercy's ever-dowing 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. O, wash away these scarlet sins, for thou THE NATIVE LAND. FROM THE SPANISH OF FRANCISCO DE ALDANA. CLEAR fount of light! my native land on high, A stranger in this prison-house of clay, THE IMAGE OF GOD. Before my spirit, and an image fair As the reflected image in a glass 23 Doth meet the look of him who seeks it there, THE BROOK. FROM THE SPANISH. LAUGH of the mountain !-lyre of bird and tree How without guile thy bosom, all transparent How, without malice murmuring, glides thy cur- O sweet simplicity of days gone by! Thou shun'st the haunts of man, to dwell in limpid fount! AND now, behold! as at the approach of morn- My master yet had uttered not a word, While the first whiteness into wings unfolded; See, how he scorns all human arguments, So that no oar he wants, nor other sail Fanning the air with the eternal pinions, FROM THE SPANISH OF FRANCISCO DE ALDANA. And then, as nearer and more near us came O LORD! who seest, from yon starry height, was Eternal Sun! the warmth which thou hast given, The Bird of Heaven, more glorious he ap peared, So that the eye could not sustain his presence, Beatitude seemed written in his face! |