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Chill airs and wintry winds! my car
Then o'er the vale, with gentle swell, Ilas grown familiar with your song;
The music of the village bell I hear it in the opening year,
Caine sweetly to the echo-giving hills: I listen, and it cheers me long.
And the wild horn, whose voice the woodland
Was ringing to the merry shout, HYMN OF THE MORAVIAN NUYS OF That faint and far the glen sent out, BETHLEHEM,
Where, answering to the sudden shot, thin
sinoke, AT THE CONSECRATION OF PULASKI'S BANNER.
Through thick-leaved branches, from the dingle WHEN the dying flame of day
broke. Through the chancel shot its ray, Far the glimmering tapers shed
If thou art worn and hard beset Faint light on the cowled head;
With sorrows that thou wouldst forget, And the censer burning swung,
If thou wouldst read a lesson that will keep Where, before the altar, hung
Thy heart from fainting and thy soul from sleep, The blood-red banner, that with prayer
Go to the woods and hills! No tears
Dim the sweet look that Nature wcars,
THE SPIRIT OF POETRY.
THERE is a quiet spirit in these woods, When the battle's distant wail
That dwells where'er the gentle south wind Breaks the Sabbath of our vale,
blows; When the clarion's music thrills
Where, underneath the white-thorn in the glade, To the hearts of these lone hills,
The wild flowers bloom, or, kissing the soft air, When the spear in conflict shakes,
The leaves above their sunny palms outspread. And the strong lance shivering breaks. With what a tender and impassioned voice "Take thy banner! and, beneath
It fills the nice and delicate ear of thought The battle-cloud's encircling wreath,
When the fast-ushering star of morning comes
O'er-riding the grey hills with golden scarf:
Or when the cowled and dusky-sandalled Eve
In mourning weeds, from out the western gate, In the dark and trying hour, In the breaking forth of power,
Departs with silent pace! That spirit moves,
In the green valley, where the silver brook In the rush of steeds and men,
From its full laver, pours the white cascade; His right hand will shield thee then.
And, babbling low amid the tangled woods, “ Take thy banner! But when night
Slips down through moss-grown stone with end. Closes round the ghastly fight,
less laughter. If the vanquished warrior bow,
And frequent, on the everlasting hills, Spare him!-By our holy vow,
Its feet go forth, when it doth wrap itself By our prayers and many tears,
| In all the dark embroidery of the storm, By the mercy that endears,
And shouts the stern, strong wind. And here, Spare him!-he our love hath shared!
amid Spare him!-as thou wouldst be spared! The silent majesty of these deep woods,
Its presence shall uplift thy thoughts from "Take thy banner!-and if e'er
earth, Thou shouldst press the soldier's bier,
As to the sunshine and the pure, bright air And the muffled drum should beat
Their tops the green trees lift. Hence gifted To the tread of mournful feet,
bards Then this crimson flag shall be
Ilave ever loved the calm and quiet shades. Martial cloak and shroud for thee."
For them there was an eloquent voice in all The warrior took that banner proud,
The sylvan pomp of woods, the golden sun, And it was his martial cloak and shroud
The flowers, the leaves, the river on its way,
Blue skies, and silver clouds, and gentle winds,SUNRISE ON THE HILLS.
The swelling upland, where the sidelong sun
Aslant the wooded slope, at evening goes,I STOOD upon the hills, when heaven's wide arch Groves, through whose broken roof the sky Was glorious with the sun's returning march,
looks in And woods were brightened, and soft gales Mountain, and shattered cliff, and sunny vale, Went forth to kiss the sun-clad vales.
The distant lake, fountains,-and miglity trees, The clouds were far beneath me;- bathed in In many a lazy syllable, repeating light
Their old poetic legends to the wind. They gathered mid-way round the wooded height,
And this is the sweet spirit, that doth fill And, in their fading-glory, shone
The world; and in these wayward days of Like hosts in battle overthrown.
youth, As many a pinnacle, with shifting glance,
My busy fancy oft embodies it, Through the grey mist thrust up its shattered
As a bright image of the light and beauty
That dwell in nature,-of the heavenly forms lance, And rocking on the cliff was left
We worship in our dreams, and the soft hues The dark pine blasted, bare, and cleft,
That stain the wild bird's wing, and flush the The veil of cloud was lifted, and below
clouds Glowed the rich valley, and the river's flow
When the sun sets. Within her eye Was darkened by the forest's shade,
The heaven of April, with its changing light, Or glistened in the white cascade;
And when it wears the blue of May, is hung, Where, upward, in the mellow blush of day,
And on her lip the rich, red rose. Her hair The noisy bittern wheeled his spiral way.
Is like the summer tresses of the trees,
When twilight makes them brown, and on her I heard the distant waters dash,
Blushes the richness of an autumn sky, I saw the current whirl and flash,
With ever-shifting beauty. Then her breath, And richly, by the blue lake's silver beach
It is so like the gentle air of Spring, The woods were bending with a silent reach, As, from the morning's dewy flowers, it comes
Full of their fragrance, that it is a joy
And thirty snows had not yet shed To have it round us,--and her silver voice
Their glory on the warrior's head; Is the rich music of a summer bird,
But, as the summer fruit decays, Heard in the still night, with its passionate ca So died he in those naked days. dence
A dark cloak of the roebuck's skin
Covered the warrior, from within
Its heavy folds the weapons, made
For the hard toils of war, were laid: On sunny slope and beechen swell,
The cuirass, woven of plaited reeds The shadowy light of evening fell:
And the broad belt of shells and beads And, where the maple's leaf was brown,
Before, a dark-haired virgin train
Chanted the death-dirge of the slain ; At Sunset, in its brazen leaves.
Behind, the long procession came
Of hoary men and chiefs of fame, Far upward in the mellow light
With heavy hearts, and eyes of grief, Rose the blue hills. One cloud of white,
Leading the war-horse of their chief. Around a far uplifted cone, In the warm blush of evening shone;
Stripped of his proud and martial dress, An image of the silver lakes,
Uncurbed, unreined, and riderless, By which the Indian's soul awakes.
With darting eye, and nostril spread,
And heavy and impatient tread, But soon a funeral hymn was heard
He came, and oft that eye so proud Where the soft breath of evening stirred
Asked for his rider in the crowd. The tall, grey forest; and a band
They buried the dark chief, they freed Of stern in heart, and strong in hand, Came winding down beside the wave,
Beside the grave his battle steed; To lay the red chief in his grave.
And swift an arrow cleaved its way
To his stern heart! One piercing neigh They sang, that by his native bowers
A rose,--and, on the dead man's plain, He stood, in the last moon of flowers,
The rider grasps his steed again.
was in the year.drigo Manriq Waestre d
forth the poethe younger Don Jorge Manrich
COPLAS DE MANRIQUE
Thither all earthly pomp and boast
Roll, to be swallowed up and lost
In one dark wave.
Thither the mighty torrents stray, ing poem, flourished in the last half of the fif
Thither the brook pursues its way, teenth century. He followed the profession of
And tinkling rill. arms, and died on the field of battle. Mariana, in
There all are equal. Side by side his History of Spain," makes honourable men
The poor man and the son of pride tion of him, as being present at the siege of
Lie calm and still. Velès; and speaks of him as "a youth of estimable qualities, who in this war, gave brilliant I will not here invoke the throng proofs of his valour. He died young; and was of orators and sons of song, thus cut off from long exercising his great vir- | The deathless few : tues, and exhibiting to the world the light of his Fiction entices and deceives, genius, which was already known to fame." He And, sprinkled o'er her fragrant leaves, was mortally wounded in a skirmish near Cana Lies poisonous dew.
To One alone my thoughts arise, The name of Rodrigo Manrique, the father of
The Eternal Truth,--the Good and Wisc, the poet, Conde de Predcs and Maestre de San.
To Him I cry, tiago, is well known in Spanish history and
Who shared on earth our common lot, song. He died in 1479 ; according to Mariana, in
But the world comprehended not the town of Uclés; but, according to the poem of
His deity. his son, in Ocana. It was his death which called forth the poem upon which rests the literary re This world is but the rugged road putation of the younger Manrique. In the lan Which leads us to the bright abodo guage of his historian, “Don Jorge Manrique, in Of peace above; an elegant Ode, full of poetic beauties, rich em So let us choose that narrow way, bellishments of genius, and high moral reflec- | Which leads no traveller's foot astray tions, mourned the death of his father as with a | From realms of love. funeral hymn." This praise is not exaggeration. The poem is a model in its kind. Its conception
Our cradle is the starting place, is solemn and beautiful; and, in accordance with
In life we run the onward race, it, the style moves on-calm, dignified, and ma
And reach the goal:
When, in the mansions of the blest, jestic.
Death leaves to its eternal rest
The weary soul. OLET the soul her slumbers break,
Did we but use it as we ought, Let the thought be quickened, and awake
This world would school each wandering thought Awake to see
To its high state. How soon this life is past and gone,
Faith wings the soul beyond the sky, How death comes softly stealing on,
Up to that better world on high, How silently!
For which we wait. Swiftly our pleasures glide away,
Yes, the glad messenger of love, Our hearts recall the distant day
To guide us to our home above, With many sighs;
The Saviour came ; The moments that are speeding fast
Born amid mortal cares and fears, We heed not, but the past,--the past,
He suffered in this vale of tears More highly prize.
A death of shame. Onward its course the present keeps,
Behold of what delusive worth Onward the constant currents sweeps,
The bubbles we pursue on earth. Till life is done :
The shapes we case, And, did we judge of time aright,
Amid a world of treachery ! The past and future in their flight
They vanish ere death shuts the eye, Would be as one.
And leave no trace. Let no one fondly dream again,
Time steals them from us,-chances strange, That Hope and all her shadowy train
Disastrous accidents, and change, Will not decay;
That come to all; Fleeting as were the dreams of old,
Even in the most exalted state, Remembered like a tale that's told
Relentless sweeps the stroke of fate; They pass away.
The strongest fall, Our lives are rivers, gliding free,
Tell me,-the charms that lovers seek To that unfathomed, boundless sea,
In the clear eye, and blushing cheek, The silent grave!
| The hues that play
O'cr rosy lip and brow of snow,
Who is the champion ? who the strong? When hoary age approaches slow,
Pontiff and priest, and sceptred throng ? Ah, where are they?
On these shall fall
As heavily the hand of Death, The cunning skill, the curious arts,
As when it stays the shepherd's breath The glorious strength that youth imparts
Beside his stall.
I speak not of the Trojan name,
Neither its glory nor its shame To weary age.
Has met our eyes; The noble blood of Gothic name,
Nor of Rome's great and glorious dead, Heroes emblazoned high to fame,
Though we have heard so oft, and read, In high array;
Their histories. Ilow, in the onward course of time,
Little avails it now to know The landmarks of that race sublime
Of ages passed so long ago, Were swept away!
Nor how they rolled; Some, the degraded slaves of lust,
Our theme shall be of yesterday, Prostrate and trampled in the dust,
Which to oblivion sweeps away,
Like days of old.
Where is the King, Don Juan? Where Their fathers bore.
Each prince and noble royal heir,
of Aragon? Wealth and the high estate of pride,
Where are the courtly gallantries? With what untimely speed they glide,
The deeds of love and high emprise,
In battle done?
Tourney and joust that charmed the eye, Of fickle heart.
And scarf, and gorgeous panoply,
And nodding plume, These gifts in Fortune's hands are found;
What were they but a pageant scene? Her swift revolving wheel turns round,
What but the garlands, guy and green, And they are gone! No rest the inconstant goddess knows
That deck the tomb? But changing, and without repose,
Where are the high-born dames, and where Still hurries on.
Their gay attire, and jewelled hair,
And odours sweet?
Where are the gentle knights, that came
To kneel, and breathe love's ardent flame, Reclaimed its prey.
Low at their feet?
Where is the song of Troubadour?
Where are the lute and gay tambour Earthly desires and sensual lust
They loved of yorc ?
Where is the mazy dance of old,
The flowing robes, inwrought with gold, But, in the life beyond the tomb,
The dancers wore? They seal the immortal spirit's doom
And he who next the sceptre swayed, Eternally!
Henry, whose royal court displayed The pleasures and delights, which mask
Such power and pride; In treacherous smiles life's serious task,
Oh, in what winning smiles arrayed, What are they, all,
The world its various treasures laid But the fleet coursers of the chase,
His throne beside! And death an ambush in the race,
But ah! how false and full of guile Wherein we fall?
That world, which woré so soft a smile No foe, no dangerous pass, we heed,
But to betray! Brook no delay,but onward speed
She, that had been his friend before,
Now from the fated monarch toro
Her charms away.
The countless gifts, the stalely walls, But strive in vain.
The royal palaces, and halls,
All filled with gold; Could we new charms to age impart,
Plate with armorial bearings wrought, And fashion with a cunning art
Chambers with ample treasures fraught. The human face,
Of wealth untold ;
The noble steeds, and harness bright,
And gallant lord, and stalwart knight,
In rich array, How busily each passing hour
Where shall we seek them now? Alas! Should we exert that magic power
Like the bright dewdrops on the grass, What ardour show,
They passed away.
His brother, too, whose factious zeal
Usurped the sceptre of Castile, In weeds of woe!
Unskilled to reign; Monarchs, the powerful and the strong
What a gay, brilliant court had he, Famous in history and in song
When all the flower of chivalry Of olden time,
Was in his train! Saw, by the stern decrees of fate,
But he was mortal, and the breath Their kingdoms lost, and desolate
That flamed from the hot forge of Death, Their race sublime.
| Blasted his years;
Judgment of God! that flame by thee,
And he, the good man's shield and shade. When raging fierce and fearfully.
To whom all hearts their homage paid, Was quenched in tears!
As Virtue's son, Spain's haughty Constable,-the true
Roderic Manrique,-he whose name
Is written on the scroll of Fame,
His signal deeds and prowess high He on the gloomy scaffold died,
Demand no pompous eulogy, Ignoble fall!
Ye saw his deeds! The countless treasures of his care
Why should their praise in verse be sung
The name, that dwells on every tongue His hamlets green, and cities fair, His mighty power,
No minstrel needs. What were they all but grief and shame,
To friends a friend :-how kind to all Tears and a broken heart, when came
The vassals of this ancient hall The parting hour?
And feudal fief! His other brothers, proud and high,
To foes how stern a foe was he! Masters, who, in prosperity,
And to the valiant and the free Mighty rival kings;
How brave a chief! Who made the bravest and the best
What prudence with the old and wise The bondsmen of their high behest,
What grace in youthful gaieties; Their underlings:
In all how sage! What was their prosperous estate,
Benignant to the serf and slave, When high exalted and elate
He showed the base and falsely brave
A lion's rage.
His was Octavian's prosperous star,
The rush of Cæsar's conquering car Grew dim and died ?
At battle's call; So many a duke of royal name,
His, Scipio's virtue; his, the skill
And the indomitable will
His was a Trajan's goodness,-his
A Titus' noble charities In the dark grave!
And righteous laws;
The arm of Hector, and the might Their deeds of mercy and of arms,
Of Tully, to maintain the right
In truth's just cause;
The clemency of Antonine,
Aurelius' countenance divine, Can overthrow
Firm, gentle, still;
The eloquence of Adrian,
And Theodosius' love to man,
And generous will;
In tented field and bloody fray Bastion, and moated wall, and mound,
An Alexander's vigorous sway And palisade,
And steru command;
The faith of Constantine; ay, more, And covered trench, secure and deep,
The fervent love Camillus bore
His native land.
He left no well-filled treasury,
He heaped no pile of riches high, Unerringly.
Nor massive plate;
He fought the Moors, and, in their fall, O World ! so few the years we live,
City and tower and castled wall
Were his estate.
Upon the hard-fought battle-ground, Our happiest hour is when at last
Brave steeds and gallant riders found The soul is freed.
A common grave:
And there the warrior's hand did gain Our days are covered o'er with grief,
The rents, and the long vassal train, And sorrows neither few nor brief
That conquest gave.
And if, of old, his halls displayed
The honoured and exalted grade No pleasures bloom.
His worth had gained,
So, in the dark, disastrous hour, Thy pilgrimage begins in tears,
Brothers and bondsmen of his power And ends in bitter doubts and fears,
His hand sustained.
After high deeds, not left untold,
In the stern warfare, which of old Knows most of care.
'Twas his to share,
Such noble leagues he made, that more Thy goods are bought with many a groan,
And fairer regions, than before,
His guerdon were.
These are the records, half effaced,
Which, with the hand of youth, he traced Its form departs.
On history's page;