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O'er rosy lip and brow of suow,

When hoary age approaches slow,

Ah, where are they?

The cuuning skill, the curions arts,

The glorions strength that yonth imparts

In life's first stage;

These shall become a heavy weight,

When Time swings wide his ontward gate

To weary age.

The noble blood of Gothic name.
Heroes emblazoned high to fame,
In high array;

How, in the onward conrse of time,
The landmarks of that race sublime
Were swept away I

Some, the degraded slaves of lust,
Prostrate and trampled in the dust,
Shall rise no more;
Others, by guilt and crime, maintain
The scntcheon, that, withont a stain.
Their fathers bore.

Wealth and the high estate of pride.

With what untimely speed they glide,

How soon depart!

Bid not the shadowy phantoms stay,

The vassals of a mistress they,

Of fickle heart.

These gifts in Fortune's hands are fonnd;
Her swift revolving wheel turus ronnd,
And they are gone!
No rest the incoustant goddess knows
Bnt changing, and withont repose,
Still hurries on.

Even conld the hand of avarice save
Its gilded baubles, till the grave
Reclaimed its prey.
Let none on snch poor hopes rely;
Life, like an empty dream, flits by
And where are they?

Earthiy desires and seusual lust

Are passious springing from the dust,—

They fade and die;

Bnt, in the life beyond the tomb.

They seal the immortal spirit's doom

Eternally 1

The pleasures and delights, which mask
In treacherons smiles life's serions task,
What are they, all,
Bnt the fleet conrsers of the chase,
And death an ambusli in the race,
Wherein we fall?

No foe, no dangerons pass, we heed,
Brook no delay,—bnt onward speed
With loosened rein;
And, when the fatal suare is near.
We strive to check onr mad career,
Bnt strive in vain.

Conld we new charms to age impart,
And fashion with a cuuning art
The human face.

As we can clothe the son! with light.
And make the glorions spirit bright
With heaveuly grace,—

How busily each passing honr
Shonld we exert that magic power
What ardonr show.
To dock the seusual slave of sin.
Yet leave the Freeborn sonl within,
In weeds of woe!

Monarehs, the powerful and the strong

Famons in history and in song

Of olden time,

Saw, by the stern decrees of fate.

Their kingdoms lost, and desolate

'Their race sublime.

Who is the champion? who the strong?

Pontiff and priest, and sceptred throng?

On these shall fall

As heavily the hand of Death.

As when it stays the shepherd's breath

Beside his stall.

I speak not of the Trojan name,

Ncither its glory nor its shame

Has met onr eyes;

Nor of Rome's great and glorions dead,

Thongh we have heard so oft, and read,

Their histories.

Little avails it now to know
Of ages passed so long ago,
Nor how they rolled;
Our theme shall be of yesterday,
Which to oblivion sweeps away,
Like days of old.

Where is the King, Don Juan? Where
Each prince and noble royal heir,
OfAragon? . -

Where are the conrtly gallantries?
The deeds of love and high emprise,
In battle done?

Tonrney and jonst that charmed the eye,
And scarf, and gorgeons panoply,
And nodding plume,—
What were they bnt a pageant scene?
What bnt the garlands, gay and green,
That deck the tomb?

Where are the high-born dames, and where

Their gay attire, and jewelled hair,

And odonrs sweet?

Where are the gentle knights, that came

To kneel, and breathe love's ardent flame.

Low at their feet?

Where is the song of Tronbadonr?

Where are the lnte and gay tambonr

Thev loved of yore?

Where is the mazy dance of old.

The flowing robes, inwronght with gold,

The dancers wore?

And he who next the sceptre swayed,
Heury, whose royal conrt displayed
Snch power and pride;
Oh, in what wiuning smiles arrayed,
The world its various treasures laid
His throne beside!

Bnt ah! how false and full of guile
That world, which wore so soft a smile
Bnt to betray!

She, that had been his friend before.
Now from the fated monareh tore
Her charms away.

The conntless gifts, the stalely walls,

The royal palaces, and halls,

All filled with gold;

Plate with armorial bearings wronght,

Chambers with ample treasures fraught.

Of wealth untold;

The noble steeds, and harness bright.
And gallant lord, and stalwart knight.
In rich array,—

Where shall we seek them now? Alas!
Like the bright dewdrops on the grass,
They passed away.

His brother, too, whose faetions zeal
Usurped the sceptre of Castile,
Uuskilled to reigu;
What a gay, brilliant conrt had he.
When all the flower of chivairy
Was in his train!

Bnt he was mortal, and the breath
That flamed from the hot forge of Death,
Blasted his years;

Jndgment of God! that flame by thee,
When raging fieree and fearfully,
Was quenched in tears I

Spain's haughty Coustable,—the trua
And gallant Master, whom we knew
Most loved of all.

Breathe not a whisper of his pride,—
He on the gloomy scaffold died,
Iguoble fall!

The countless Treasures of his caro
His hamlets green, and cities fair,
His mighty power,—
What were they all bnt grief and shame,
Tears and a broken heart, when came
The parting honr?

His other brothers, prond and high,
Masters, who, in prosperity,
Mighty rival kings;
Who made the bravest and the best
The bondsmen of their high behest,
Their underlings:

What was their prosperons estate,
When high exalted and elate
With power and pride?
What, but a trausient gleam of light,
A flame, which, glaring at its height,
Grew dim and died?

So many a duke of royal name,
Marquis and connt of spotless fame.
And baron brave,

That might the sword of empire wield.
All these, O Death, hast thon concealed
In the dark grave!

Their deeds of merey and of arms,
In peaceful days, or war's alarms,
When thon dost show,
O Death I thy stern and angry face.
One stroke of thy all-powerful maco
Can overthrow

Uunumbered hosts, that threaten nigh,
Peunon and standard flaunting high,
And flag displayed;
High battlements entrenched aronnd.
Bastion, and moated wall, and monnd,
And palisade,

And covered trench, secure and deep,—

All these caunot one vietim keep,

O Death ! from thee.

When thon dost battle in thy wrath,

And thy stron afts pursne their path

Unerringly.

O World! so few the years we live.

Wonld that the life which thon dost give

Were life indeed!

Alas! thy sorrows fall so fast.

Our happiest honr is when at last

The sonl is freed.

Our days are covered o'er with grief,
And sorrows neither few nor brief
Veil all in gloom;
Left desolate of real good.
Within this cheerless solitndo
No pleasures bloom.

Thy pilgrimage begius in tears.
And ends in bitter donbts and fears,
Or dark despair;
Midway so many toils appear.
That he who lingers longest here
Knows most of care.

Thy goods are bonght witli many a groan,

Bv the hot sweat of toil alone,

And weary hearts:

Fleet-footed is the approach of woe,

Bnt with a lingering step and slow

Its form departs.

And he, the good man's shield and shade,
To whom all hearts their homage paid,
As Virtne's son,—

Roderic Maurlqnc,—he whose name
Is written on the scroll of Fame,
Spain's champion;

His sigual deeds and prowess high

Demand no pompons eulogy,—

Ye saw his deeds!

Why shonld their praise in verse be sung

The name, that dwells on every tongne

No miustrel needs.

To friends a friend;—how kind to all
The vassals of this ancient hall
And fendal fief!
To foes how stern a foe was he!
And to the valiant and the free
How brave a chief!

What prndence with the old and wise

What grace in yonthful gaieties;

In all how sage!

Beniguant to the serf and slave.

He showed the base and falsely brave

A lion's rage.

His was Oetavian's prosperons star.

The rush of Caesar's conqnering car

At battle's call;

His, Scipio's virtne; his. the skill

And the indomitable will

Of Haunibal.

His was a Trajan's gooduess,—his.

A Titus' noble charities

And righteons laws;

The arm of Heetor, and the might

Of Tuliy, to maintain the right

In trnth's just cause;

The clemeney of Antoulne,
Aarellus' conntenance divine,
Flrin, gentle, still;
The eloqnence of Adrian,
And Theodosins' love to man,
And generons will;

In tented field and bloody fray
An Alexander's vigorons sway
And stern command;
The faith of Coustantine; ay, more.
The fervent love Camillus bore
His native land.

He left no well-fllted treasury,

He heaped no pile of riches high,

Nor massive plate;

He fonght the Moors,—and. in their fall,

City and tower and castled wall

Were his estate.

Upon the hard-fonght battle-gronnd,
Brave steeds and gallant riders fonnd
A common grave;

And there the warrior's hand did gain
The rents, and the long vassal train,
That conqnest gave.

And if. of old, his halls displayed
The hononred and exalted grade
His worth had gained.
So, in the dark, disastrons honr.
Brothers and bondsmen of his power
His hand sustained.

After high deeds, not left untold,

In the stern warfare, which of old

'Twas his to share.

Snch noble leagnes he made, that moro

And fairer regious, than before,

His gnerdon were.

These are the records, half effaced, Which, with the hand of yonth, he traced On history's page;

Bnt with fresh vietories he drew
Each fading charaeter anew
In his old age.

By his uurivalled skill, by great
And veteran service to the state,
By worth adored,
He stood in his high dignity,
The prondest knight of chivairy,
Knight of the Sword.

He fonnd his cities and domaius
Beneath a tyrant's gulling chains
And crnel power;
Bnt, by flcree battle and blockade,
Soon his own bauner was displayed
From every tower.

By the tried valonr of his hand,

His monareh and bis native land

Were nobly served;—

Let Portugal repeat the story.

And prond Castile, who shared the glory

His arms deserved.

And when so oft. for weal or woe,

Ilis life upon the fatal throw

Had been cast down;

When he had served with patriot zeal,

Beneath the bauner of Castile,

His sovereigu's crown;

And done snch deeds of valonr strong,

That neither history nor song

Can connt them all;

Then, on Oca mi's castled rock,

Death at his portal came to knock,

With sndden call,—

Saying, "Good Cavalier, prepare
To leave this world of toil and caro
With joyful mien;

Let thy strong heart of steel this day
Pnt on its armonr for the fray,—
The closing scene.

"Since thon hast been, in battle-strife,

So prodigal of health and life,

Tor earthiy fame.

Let virtne nerve thy heart again;

Lond on the last ster n battle-plain

They call thy name.

"Think not the struggle that draws near

Too terrible for man,—

To meet the foe;

Nor let thy noble spirit grieve.

Its life of glorions fame to leave

On earth below.

"A life of hononr and of worth

Has no eternity on earth,—

'Tis bnt a name;

And yet its glory far exceeds

That base and seusual life, which leads

To want and shame.

"The eternal life, beyond the sky,
Wealth caunot purehase, nor the high
And prond estate:

The sonl in dalliance laid,—the spirit .
Corrupt with sin,—shall not inherit
A joy so great.

"Bnt the good monk, the cloistered cell,

Shall gain it by his book and bell,

His prayers and tears;

And the brave knight, whose arm endures

Fleree battle, and agaiust the Moors

His standard rears.

"And thon, brave knight, whose hand has

ponred
The life-blood of the Pagan horde
O'er all the land:

In heaven shalt thon receive, at length,
The gnerdon of thine earthiy strength
And dauntless hand.

"Cheered onward by this promise sure,
Strong in the faith entire and pure
Thon dost profess.
Depart,—thy hope is certainty,—
The third—the better life on high
Shalt thon possess."

"O Death! no more, no more delay;

My spirit longs to flee away,

And be at rest;

The will of Heaven my will shall be,

I bow to the divine decree,

To God's behest.

My sonl is ready to depart,

No thonght rebels, the obedient heart

Breathes forth no sigh;

The wish on earth to linger still

Were vain, when 'tis God's sovereign, will

That we shall die.

"O Thon, that for onr sius didst take
A human form, and humbly make
Thy home on earth;
Thon, that to thy divinity
A human nature didst ally
By mortal birth.

And in that form didst suffer hero
Torment an agony, and fear.
So patiently;

By thy redeeming grace alone,
And not for merits of my own,
Oh, pardon me!"

As thus the dying warrior prayed.
Withont one gathering mist or sluido
Upon his mind:
Encireled by his family.
Watched by Affeetion's gentle eye
So soft and kind;

His sonl to Him, who gave it, rose;

God lead it to its long repose,

Its glorions rest!

And, thongh the warrior's sun has set.

Its light shall linger ronnd us yet,

Bright, radiant, blest.*

* This poem of Mauriquo is a great favonrite in Spain. No less than fonr jmetic Glosses, or ruuning commentaries upon it. have been published; no one of which, however, possesses great poetic merit. That of the Carthusian monk, itodrigo de Valdepenus, is the best. II is known as Olosa del Cartujo. There is also n prose Commentary by Luis de Aranda.

The following stanzas of the poem were fonnd in the anthors pocket after his death on the field of battle :—

"O World! so few the years we live,
Wonld that the life which thon dost give
Were life indeed!
Alas! thy sorrows fall so fast.
Our happiest honr is when at last
The sonl is freed.

"Our days are covered o'er with grief,
And sorrows neither few nor brief
Veil all in gloom;
Left desolate of real good.
Within this cheerless solitnde
No pleasures bloom.
"Thy pilgrimage begius in tears.
And ends hi bitter donbts and fears,
Or dark despair;
Midway so many toils appear.
That he who lingers longest here
Knows most of care.

"Thy goods are bonght with many a groan,
By the hot sweat of toll alone,
And weary hearts;
Fleet,footed is the approach of woe,
Bnt with a lingering step and slow
Its form departs."'

THfi GOOD SHEPHERD.

FROM THE SPANISH OF LOPA DE VEGA.

Shepheed! that with thine amorons sylvan

son? Hast broken the slumber which encompassed

me.— Thou mad'st thy craok from the aecursed tree, Ou which thy powerful arms were stretched so

long! Lead uie to merey's ever-flowing fonntaius; For thou my shepherd, guard, and guide shult

be; I will obey thy voice, and wait to see Thy feet all beantiful upon the monntaius. Hear, Shepherd! thon who for thy flock art

dying. Oh, wash away these scarlet sius, for thou Kejoicest at the contrite siuner's vow. Oh. wait!—to thee my weary sonl is crying,— Wait for me !—Yet why ask it, when I see, With feet nailed to tne cross, thon'rt waiting

still for me!

TO-MORROW.

FROM THE SPANISH OF LOPA DE VEGA.

Loed, what am I, that, with unceasing care.
Thou didst seek after me,—that thon didst wait,
Wet with unhealthy dews, before my sate.
And pass the gloomy nights of winter there?
O strange delusion !—that I did not greet
Thy blest approach, and ob, to Heaven how

lost. If my ingratitnde's unkindly frost Has chilled the bleeding wrmnds upon thy feet. How oft my guardian angel gently cried. "Sonl, from thy casement look, and thon shalt

see How he persists to knock and wait for thee!" And, oh f how often to that voice of sorrow, -To-morrow we will open," I replied, And when the morrow came I auswered still,

"To-morrow."

THE NATIVE LAXD.

FROM THE SPANISH OF FRANCISCO DE ALDANA.

Cleae fonnt of light! my native land on high,
Bright with a glory that shall never fade!
Mausion of trnth! withont a veil or shade,
Thv holy quiet meets the spirit's eye.
There dwells the sonl in its ethereal essence,
Gasping no longer for life's feeble breath:
Hnt, sentineled in heaven, its glorions presence
With pitying eye beholds, yet fears not death.
Beloved conntry I banished from thy shore,
A stranger in his prison-honse of clay,
The exiled spirit sighs and weeps for thee!
Heavenward the bright perfeetious I adore
Direet, and the sure promise cheers the way.
That whither love aspires, there shall my
dwelling be.

THE IMAGE OF GOD.

FROM THE SPANISH OF FRANCISCO DE ALDANA.

0 Lonn! that seest, from yon starry height,
Centred in one the fnture and the past.
Fashioned in thine own image, see how fast
The v orld obscures'in me what once was

bright! Eternal Sun! the warmth which thon hast

given. To cheer life's flowery April, fast decays; Yet, in the hoary winter of my days. For ever green shall be iny trust in heaven, Celestial King! Oh, let thy presence pass Before my spirit, and an image fair Shall meet that look of merey from on high, As the refleeted image in a glass Doth meet the look of him who seeks it there. And owes its being to the gazer's eye.

THE BROOK.

FKOM THE SPANISH.

Lauoh of the monntain !—lyre of bird and tree!
Pomp of the meadow! mirror of the morn!
The sonl of April, unto whom are born
The rose and jessamine, leaps wild in thee!
Althongh, where'er thy devions current strays,
The lap of earth with gold and silver teems,"
To me thy clear proceeding brighter seems
Than golden sands, that charm each shepherd's

gaze.
How withont guile thy bosom, all trausparent
As the pure crystal, lets the curions eye
Thy secrets scan, thy smooth, ronnd pebbles

connt! How, withont malice umrumring, glides thy

current!

O sweet simplicity of days gone by!

Thon shun'st the haunts of man, to dwell in limpid fonnt!

THE CELESTIAL PILOT.

PROM DANTE. PUBGATORIA, II.

And now, behold! as at the approach of morning

Throngh the gross vaponrs, Mars grows fiery red

Down in the west upon the ocean floor.

Appeared to me,—may I again behold it!—
A light along the sea, so swiftly coming.
Its motion by no flight of wing is equalled.

And when therefrom I had withdrawn a little
Mine eyes, that I might qnestion ray conduetor,
Again 1 saw i t brighter grown and larger.

Thereafter, on all sides of it, appeared

1 knew net of white, and underneath. Little by little, there came forth another.

My master yet had nttered not a word,

While the first brightness into wings unfolded;

Bnt, when he clearly recoguised the pilot,

He cried alond: "Quick, quick, and bow the

knee! Behold the Angel of God! fold up thy hands! Henceforward shalt thon see snch officers!

"See, how he scorus all human arguments,

So that no oar he wants, nor other sail

Than his own wings, between so distant shores!

"See. how he holds them, pointed straight to

heaven. Fauning the air with the eternal pinious. That do not monlt themselves like mortal hair!''

And then, as nearer and more near us came
The Bird of Heaven, more glorions he appeared,
So that the eye conld not sustain his presence,

Bnt down I cast it; and he came to shore
With a small vessel, gliding swift and light.
So that the water swallowed nonght thereof

Upon the stern stood the Celestial Pilot!

Beatitnde seemed written in ids face!

And more than a hundred spirits sat within.

'. In exitu Israel ont of Egypt!"
Thus sang they all together in one voice,
With whatso in that Psaim is after written.
Then made he sigu of holy rood upon them,
Whereat all cast themselves upon the shore,
And he departed swiftly as he came.

THE TERRESTRIAL PARADISE.

FROM DANTE. PUEGATORIO, XXVIII.

Lonoino aiready to seareh in and ronnd
The heaveuly forest, deuse and living green,
Which to the eyes tempered the new-bora day.

Withonten more delay I left the bank.
Crossing tlie level Conntry slowly, slowly.
Over the soil, that everywhere breathed fra-

A gently-breathing air. that no mntation Had in itself, smote me upon the forehead. No heavier blow, than of a pleasant breeze.

Even snch 1 was, withont a sigh or teal'.
Before the song of those who clmne for ever
After the chiming of the eternal spheres;

Bnt. when I heard in those sweet melodies
Compassion for me, more than they had said,
"O wherefore, lady, dost thun thus consume
him?"

Whereat the treumlons branches readily

Did all of them bow downward towards that

side Where its first shadow casts the Holy Monntain;

Yet not from their upright direetion bent
So that the little birds upon their tops
Shonld cease the praetice of their tuneful art;

Bnt with full-throated joy, the honrs of prime
Singing received they in the midst of foliage
That made monotonons burden to their rhymes,

Even as from branch to branch it gathering

swells, Throngh the pine forests on the shore of Chiassi, When Jeoius uniooses the Siroeco.

Aiready my slow steps had led me on
Into the ancient wood so far, that I
Conld sec no more the place where I had
entered.

And lo! my farther conrse cnt off a river,
Which, towards the left hand, with its little

waves, Bent down the grass that on its margin sprang.

All waters that on earth most limpid are,
Wonld seem to have within themselves some

mixture, Compared with that, which nothing doth conceal.

Althongh it moves on with a brown, brown

current, Under the shade perpetual, that never Ray of the sun lets in, nor of the moon.

BEATRICE.

FROM DANTE. PURGATORIO, XXX. XXXI.

Even as the Blessed, in the new covenant,
Shall rise up quickened, each one from his

grave,
Wearing again the garments of the flesh,

So, upon that celestial chariot,

A hundred rose ad vocem tanti senis.

Ministers and messengers of life eternal.

They all were saying; "Benediet us qai rents,'" And scattering flowers above and ronnd abont, ^ M ambus O! dateliha plems."

I once beheld, nt the approach of day,

The orient sky all stained with roseate hnes,

And the other heaven with light serene adorned,

And the sun's face uprising, overshadowed,
So that, by temperate infinence of vaponrs.
The eye sustained his aspeet for long while;

Thus in the bosom of a clond of flowers.

Which from those hands angelic were thrown

up.
And down descended iuside and withont,

With Crown of olive o'er a suow-white veil,
Appeared a lady, under a green mantle,
Vested in colonrs of the living flame.

******
Even as the suow, among the living rafters
Upon the back ot Italy, congeals.
Blown on and beaten by Sclavoniau winds,

And then, dissolving, filters throngh itself,
Whene'er the land, that loses shadow, breathes,
Like as a taper melts before a fire,

The ice, that was abont my heart congealed.
To air and water changed, and, in my anguish.
Throngh lips and eyes came gushing from my
breast,
******

Confusion and dismay, together mingled.
Foreed snch a feeble ''Yes!" ont of my inuntli.
To understand it one had need of sight.

Even as a cross-bow breaks, when 'tis dis-
charged.
Too teusely drawn the bow-string and the bow,
And with less foree the arrow hits the mark;

So 1 gave way under this heavy burden,
Gushing forth into bitter tears and sighs.
And the voice, fainting, flagged upon its passage

.SPRING.

FROM THE FRENCH OF CHARLES D'ORLEAXS XV. CENTURY.

Gentle Spring!—in suushine clad.

Well dost thon thy power display! For Winter maketh the light heart sad.

And thon—thon makest the sad heart gay. He sees thee, and calls to his gloomy train. The sleet, and the suow, and the wind, and the

rain: And they shrink away, and they flee in fear.

When thy merry step draws near.

Winter giveth the fields and the trees, so old.

Their beards of icicles and suow:
And the rain, it raineth so fast and cold,

We umst cower over the embers low:
And, suugly honsed from the wind and weather,
Mope like birds that are changing feather.
Bnt the storm retires, and the sky grows clear.

When thy merry step draws near.

Winter maketh the sun in the gloomy sky
Wrap him ronnd with a mantle of clond;
Bnt, Heaven be praised, thy step is nigh;

Thon tearest away the monrnful shrond.
And the earth looks bright, and Winter surly.
Who has toiled for nonght both lnte and early.
Is banished afar by the new-born year,
When thy merry step draws near.

THE CHILD ASLEEP.

FROM THE FRENCH.

Sweet babe! trne portrait of thy father's face. Sleep on the bosom, that thy lips have pressed!.

Sleep, little one; and closely, gently place
Thy drowsy eyelid on thy mother's breast.

Upon that tender eye. my little friend,
Soft sleep shall come, that cometh not to me!

I watch to see thee, nonrish thee, defend.—
'Tis sweet to watch for thee,—alone for thee!

His arms fall down; sleep sits upon his brow;
His eye is closed; he sleeps, nor dreams of
harm.
Wore not his cheek the apple's rnddy glow.
Wonld yon not say he slept on Death's cold
arm.

Awake, ray boy!—I tremble with affright!

Awake, and chase this fatal thonght ?—Unclose Thine eye bnt for one moment on the light!

Even at the price of thine, give me repose I

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