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Loud on the last stern battle-plain
They call thy name.

“ Think not the struggle that draws near

Too terrible for man,-nor fear
To meet the foe;
Nor let thy noble spirit grieve,
Its life of glorious fame to leave
On earth below.

66 A life of honor and of worth
Has no eternity on earth,—
'T is but a name ;
And yet its glory far exceeds
That base and sensual life, which leads
To want and shame.

“ The eternal life, beyond the sky,
Wealth cannot purchase, nor the high
And proud estate;
The soul in dalliance laid,--the spirit
Corrupt with sin,--shall not inherit
A joy so great.

“ But the good monk, in cloistered cell,

Shall gain it by his book and bell,
His prayers and tears;
And the brave knight, whose arm endures
Fierce battle, and against the Moors
His standard rears.

16 And thou, brave knight, whose hand has poured
The life-blood of the Pagan horde
O'er all the land,
In heaven shalt thou receive, at length,
The guerdon of thine earthly strength
And dauntless hand.

“ Cheered onward by this promise sure,

Strong in the faith entire and pure

Thou dost profess,
Depart,--thy hope is certainty,--
The third--the better life on high
Shalt thou possess.”

« () Death, no more, no more delay :
My spirit longs to flee away,
And be at rest;
The will of Heaven my will shall be, no
I bow to the divine decree,
To God's behest.

56 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,
0, 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;

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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.*

* This poem of Manrique is a great favorite in Spain. No lo than four poetic Glosses, or running commentaries, upon it hare been published, no one of which, however, possesses great poetio merit. That of the Carthusian monk, Rodrigo de Valdepeñas la the best. It is known as the Glosa del Cartujo. There is also a prose Commentary by Luis de Aranda.

The following stanzas of the poem were found in the author's packet, after his death on the field of battle.

"O World! so few the years we live,
Would that the life which thou dost give
Were life indeed!
Alas! thy sorrows fall so fast,
Our happiest hour is when at last
The soul 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 his cheerless solitude
No pleasures bloom.

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

" 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 blow
Its form departs."

THE GOOD SHEPHERD.

FROM THE SPANISH OF 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. 0, 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,
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 0, 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,

s 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 THE SPANISH OF 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, sentinelled 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.

THE IMAGE OF GOD.

FROM THE SPANISH OF FRANCISCO DE ALDANA.

O Lord! that seest, from yon starry height,
Centred in one the future and the past,
Fashioned in thine own image, see how fast
The world obscures in me what once was bright!

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