Full of their fragrance, that it is a joy
To have it round us, and her silver voice
Is the rich music of a summer bird,

Heard in the still night, with its passionate cadence

BURIAL OF THE MINNISINK.

ON sunny slope and beechen swell,
The shadowy light of evening fell:
And, where the maple's leaf was brown,
With soft and silent lapse came down
The glory, that the wood receives,
At Sunset, in its brazen leaves.

Far upward in the mellow light

Rose the blue hills. One cloud of white,
Around a far uplifted cone,

In the warm blush of evening shone;
An image of the silver lakes,

By which the Indian's soul awakes.
But soon a funeral hymn was heard
Where the soft breath of evening stirred
The tall, grey forest; and a band
Of stern heart, and strong in hand,
Came winding down beside the wave,
To lay the red chief in his grave.
They sang, that by his native bowers
He stood, in the last moon of flowers,

And thirty snows had not yet shed
Their glory on the warrior's head;
But, as the summer fruit decays,
So died he in those naked days.

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:
The cuirass, woven of plaited reeds.
And the broad belt of shells and beads
Before, a dark-haired virgin train
Chanted the death-dirge of the slain;
Behind, the long procession came
Of hoary men and chiefs of fame,
With heavy hearts, and eyes of grief,
Leading the war-horse of their chief.
Stripped of his proud and martial dress,
Uncurbed, unreined, and riderless,
With darting eye, and nostril spread,
And heavy and impatient tread.
He came and oft that eye so proud
Asked for his rider in the crowd.
They buried the dark chief, they freed
Beside the grave his battle steed:
And swift an arrow cleaved its way
To his stern heart! One piercing neigh
Arose, and, on the dead man's plain,
The rider grasps his steed again.

COPLAS DE MANRIQUE

FROM THE SPANISH.

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. Mariana, in his "History of Spain," makes honourable mention of him, as being present at the siege of Uclès; and speaks of him as a youth of estimable qualities, who in this war, gave brilliant proofs of his valour. 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 skirmish near Canavete, in the year 1479.

The name of Rodrigo Manrique, the father of the poet, Conde de Predes and Maestre de Santiago, is well known in Spanish history and song. He died in 1479; according to Mariana, in the town of Uclès; but, according to the poem of his son, in Ocana. It was his death which called forth the poem upon which rests 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 embellishments of genius, and high moral reflections, mourned the death of his father as with a funeral hymn." This praise is not exaggeration. The poem is a model in its kind. Its conception is solemn and beautiful; and, in accordance with it, the style moves on-calm, dignified, and majestic.

O LET the soul her slumbers break,

Let the thought be quickened, and awake
Awake to see

How soon this life is past and gone,
How death comes softly stealing on,
How silently!

Swiftly our pleasures glide away,
Our hearts recall the distant day
With many sighs;

The moments that are speeding fast

We heed not, but the past,-the past,-
More highly prize.

Onward its course the present keeps,

Onward the constant currents sweeps,
Till life is done:

And, did we judge of time aright,
The past and future in their flight
Would be as one.

Let no one fondly dream again,

That Hope and all her shadowy train
Will not decay;

Fleeting as were the dreams of old,
Remembered like a tale that's told
They pass away.

Our lives are rivers, gliding free,

To that unfathomed, boundless sea,
The silent grave!

Thither all earthly pomp and boast
Roll, to be swallowed up and lost
In one dark wave

Thither the mighty torrents stray,
Thither the brook pursues its way,
And tinkling rill.

There all are equal. Side by side
The poor man and the son of pride
Lie calm and still.

I will not here invoke the throng
Of orators and sons of song,
The deathless few;
Fiction entices and deceives,
And, sprinkled o'er her fragrant leaves,
Lies poisonous dew.

To One alone my thoughts arise,
The Eternal Truth, the Good and Wiss,--
To Him I cry,

Who shared on earth our common lot,
But the world comprehended not
His deity.

This world is but the rugged road
Which leads us to the bright abode
Of peace above;

So let us choose that narrow way,
Which leads no traveller's foot astray
From realms of love.

Our cradle is the starting place,
In life we run the onward race,
And reach the goal;

When, in the mansions of the blest,
Death leaves to its eternal rest

The weary soul.

Did we but use it as we ought,

This world would school each wandering thought

To its high state.

Faith wings the soul beyond the sky,

Up to that better world on high

For which we wait.

Yes, the glad messenger of love,

To guide us to our home above,
The Saviour came;

Born amid mortal cares and fears,
He suffered in this vale of tears
A death of shame.

Behold of what delusive worth

The bubbles we pursue on earth.

The shapes we case,

Amid a world of treachery!

They vanish cre death shuts the eye,
And leave no trace.

Time steals them from us,-chances strange,
Disastrous accidents, and change,

That come to all;

Even in the most exalted state.

Relentless sweeps the stroke of fate;

The strongest fall.

Tell me,-the charms that lovers seek

In the clear eye, and blushing cheek, The hues that play

O'er rosy lip and brow of snow,
When hoary age approaches slow,
Ali, where are they?

The cunning skill, the curious arts,

The glorious strength that youth imparts
In life's first stage;

These shall become a heavy weight,
When Time swings wide his outward gate
To weary age.

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

How, in the onward course of time,
The landmarks of that race sublime
Were swept away!

Some, the degraded slaves of lust,
Prostrate and trampled in the dust,
Shall rise no more:

Others, by guilt and crime, maintain

The scutcheon, that, without 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 found;
Her swift revolving wheel turns round,
And they are gone!

No rest the inconstant goddess knows
But changing, and without repose,
Still hurries on.

Even could the hand of avarice save
Its gilded baubles, till the grave
Reclaimed its prey.

Let none on such poor hopes rely;
Life, like an empty dream, flits by
And where are they?

Earthly desires and sensual lust

Are passions springing from the dust,-
They fade and die;

But, in the life beyond the tomb,
They seal the immortal spirit's doom
Eternally!

The pleasures and delights, which mask
In treacherous smiles life's serious task,
What are they, all,

But the fleet coursers of the chase,
And death an ambush in the race,
Wherein we fall?

No foe, no dangerous pass, we heed,
Brook no delay,-but onward speed
With loosened rein;

And, when the fatal snare is near,
We strive to check our mad career,
But strive in vain.

Could we new charms to age impart,
And fashion with a cunning art
The human face,

As we can clothe the soul with light,
And make the glorious spirit bright
With heavenly grace,-

How busily each passing hour
Should we exert that magic power
What ardour show,

To deck the sensual slave of sin,

Yet leave the freeborn soul within,
In weeds of woe!

Monarchs, the powerful and the strong
Famous in history and in song

Of olden time,

Saw, by the stern decrees of fate, Their kingdoms lost, and desolate Their race sublime.

いん

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,
Neither its glory nor its shame
Has met our eyes;

Nor of Rome's great and glorious dead,
Though 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.

Tourney and joust that charmed the ey,
And scarf, and gorgeous panoply,

And nodding plume,

What were they but a pageant scene?

What but the garlands, gay and green,
That deck the tomb?

Where are the high-born dames, and whea

Their gay attire, and jewelled hair,

And odours 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 Troubadour?

Where are the lute and gay tambour

They loved of yore?

Where is the mazy dance of old,

The flowing robes, inwrought with gold,
The dancers wore?

And he who next the sceptre swayed,
Henry, whose royal court displayed
Such power and pride;

Oh, in what winning smiles arrayed,
The world its various treasures laid
His throne beside!

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

She, that had been his friend before.
Now from the fated monarch tore

Her charms away.

The countless gifts, the stalely walls, The royal palaces, and halls,

All filled with gold;

Plate with armorial bearings wrought,
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 factious zeal
Usurped the sceptre of Castile,
Unskilled to reign;

What a gay, brilliant court had he,
When all the flower of chivalry
Was in his train!

But he was mortal, and the breath

That flamed from the hot forge of Death, Blasted his years

Judgment of God! that flame by thee,
When raging fierce and fearfully,
Was quenched in tears!

Spain's haughty Constable,--the true
And gallant Master, whom we knew
Most loved of all

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

The countless treasures of his care
His hamlets green, and cities fair,
His mighty power,-

What were they all but grief and shame,
Tears and a broken heart, when came
The parting hour?

His other brothers, proud 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 prosperous estate,
When high exalted and elate
With power and pride?

What, but a transient gleam of light,

A flame, which, glaring at its height,
Grew dim and died?

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

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

Their deeds of mercy and of arms,
In peaceful days, or war's alarms,
When thou dost show,

O Death! thy stern and angry face,
One stroke of thy all-powerful mace
Can overthrow

Unnumbered hosts, that threaten nigh,
Pennon and standard flaunting high,
And flag displayed;

High battlements entrenched around,
Bastion, and moated wall, and mound,
And palisade,

And covered trench, secure and deep,-
All these cannot one victim keep,
O Death! from thee.

When thou dost battle in thy wrath,
And thy stron afts pursue their path

Unerringly.

Ilis was a Trajan's goodness,-his
A Titus' noble charities

And righteous laws;

The arm of Hector, and the might
Of Tully, to maintain the right
In truth's just cause;

The clemency of Antonine,
Aurelius' countenance divine,
Firm, gentle, still:

The eloquence of Adrian,
And Theodosius' love to man,
And generous will;

In tented field and bloody fray
An Alexander's vigorous sway
And stern command;

The faith of Constantine; ay, more,
The fervent love Camillus bore
His native land.

He left no well-filled treasury,
He heaped no pile of riches high,
Nor massive plate;

He fought the Moors,-and, in their fall,
City and tower and castled wall
Were his estate.

Upon the hard-fought battle-ground,
Brave steeds and gallant riders found
A common grave;

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

And if, of old, his halls displayed

The honoured and exalted grade

His worth had gained,

So, in the dark, disastrous hour,
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,

Such noble leagues he made, that more

And fairer regions, than before,

His guerdon were.

These are the records, half effaced,

Which, with the hand of youth, he traced On history's page;

But with fresh victories he drew
Each fading character anew
In his old age.

By his unrivalled skill, by great
And veteran service to the state,
By worth adored,

He stood in his high dignity,
The proudest knight of chivalry,
Knight of the Sword.

He found his cities and domains
Beneath a tyrant's galling chains
And cruel power:

But, by fierce battle and blockade.
Soon his own banner was displayed
From every tower.

By the tried valour of his hand,
His monarch and his native land
Were nobly served:-

Let Portugal repeat the story,

And proud Castile, who shared the glory
His arms deserved.

And when so oft, for weal or woc,
His life upon the fatal throw
Had been cast down;

When he had served with patriot zeal,
Beneath the banner of Castile,
His sovereign's crown;

And done such deeds of valour strong,
That neither history nor song
Can count them all;

Then, on Ocana's castled rock,
Death at his portal came to knock,
With sudden call,-

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

Let thy strong heart of steel this day
Put on its armour for the fray,-
The closing scene.

"Since thou hast been, in battle-strife, So prodigal of health and life,

For earthly fame,

Let virtue nerve thy heart again; Loud on the last stern 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 glorious fame to leave

On earth below.

"A life of honour and of worth

Has no eternity on earth,

"Tis 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, the 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.

"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."

"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 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 'tis God's sovereign w!!! 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 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,
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.*

*This poem of Manrique is a great favourite in Spain. No less than four poetic Glosses, or running commentaries upon ít, have been published; no one of which, however, possesses great poetic merit. That of the Carthusian monk, Rodrigo de Valdepenas, is the best. It is known as Glosa del Cartujo. There is also a prose Commentary by Luis de Aranda.

The following stanzas of the poem were found in the authors pocket 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 this 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

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.

"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 slow Its form departs."