Translated from the Spanish of LUIS PONCE DE LEON.
REGION of life and light!
Land of the good whose earthly toils are o'er! Nor frost nor heat may blight
Thy vernal beauty, fertile shore, Yielding thy blessed fruits for evermore!
There, without crook or sling,
Walks the good shepherd; blossoms white and red Round his meek temples cling;
And to sweet pastures led,
His own loved flock beneath his eye is fed.
He guides, and near him they Follow delighted, for he makes them go Where dwells eternal May,
And heavenly roses blow, Deathless, and gather'd but again to grow.
He leads them to the height Named of the infinite and long-sought Good, And fountains of delight;
And where his feet have stood
Springs up, along the way, their tender food.
And when, in the mid skies,
The climbing sun has reach'd his highest bound, Reposing as he lies,
With all his flock around,
He witches the still air with numerous sound.
From his sweet lute flow forth Immortal harmonies, of power to still All passions born of earth,
And draw the ardent will Its destiny of goodness to fulfil.
Might but a little part,
A wandering breath of that high melody, Descend into my heart,
And change it till it be
Transform'd and swallow'd up, O love! in thee.
Ah! then my soul should know, Beloved! where thou liest at noon of day, And from this place of woe
Released, should take its way
To mingle with thy flock and never stray.
By FRANCIS DAVIS, a living poet of Ireland, having great promise in him.
I LOOK'D upon the ocean,
And I look'd upon the strand;
I look'd upon the heaven
That o'erhung the stranger's land; But the brilliant blue was wanting, And the robe of many dyes, That each sea-sprung vale displayeth Where my native mountains rise. And the waves, like warlike spirits, In their darkly-glistening shrouds, Rose and flung their silvery helmets In the pathway of the clouds: But the breeze of bracing freshness, That my fevered frame did seek, In an icy odour only
Wanton'd o'er my wasted cheek.
But a soothing angel hover'd By that darkly-writhing main, And on dreamy pinions bore me Το my native isle again.
Oh, the sweetness and the brightness Of her meadows and her rills, And the rainbow tinge of beauty That was sleeping on her hills, As the rosy lip of morning, In the ripeness of its sheen, Burst, and roll'd a golden current O'er the glistening glancing green; Where the little shamrock shaded Stem and leaf from human sight, Underneath the hoary crystal Of a chasten'd autumn night: While the breezes
Woo'd the daisies,
With a heaven in their tone;
And the fountains
On the mountains
All in ruddied silver shone.
How I leap'd upon those mountains! How I gazed upon that sky! Till my very spirit revell'd
Through a galaxy of joy:
But the beauteous vision's fading To a scene of darker hue; And an ocean strand of strangers Bursts again upon my view;
And the mountain billows marshall'd In their merry might advance: How I trembled as they gamboll'd In their fearful foamy dance!
By the Rev. CHARLES KINGSLEY, author of Yeast, &c.
THREE fishers went sailing out into the West,
Out into the West as the sun went down,
Each thought of the woman who loved him the best, And the children stood watching them out of the town; For men must work, and women must weep,
And there's little to earn, and many to keep,
Though the harbour-bar be moaning.
Three wives sat up in the lighthouse tower,
And trimm'd the lamps as the sun went down,
And they look'd at the squall, and they look'd at the shower, And the rack it came rolling up, ragged and brown;
But men must work, and women must weep,
Though storms be sudden, and waters deep,
And the harbour-bar be moaning.
Three corpses lay out on the shining sands,
In the morning gleam, as the tide went down,
And the women are watching and wringing their hands, For those that will never come back to the town;
For men must work, and women must weep,
And the sooner it 's over, the sooner to sleep, And good-bye to the bar and its moaning.
Two Sonnets by ALEXANDER SMITH.
ΜΕΝ say, Columbia, we shall hear thy guns. But in what tongue shall be thy battle-cry? Not that our sires did love in years gone by, When all the Pilgrim fathers were little sons In merrie homes of England! Back and see Thy satchel'd ancestor! Behold, he runs To mine, and, clasp'd, they tread the equal lea To the same village-school, where side by side They spell "Our Father." Hard by, the twin-pride Of that gray hall whose ancient oriel gleams Through yon baronial pines, with looks of light Our sister-mothers sit beneath one tree. Meanwhile our Shakspere wanders past and dreams His Helena and Hermia. Shall we fight?
Nor force nor fraud shall sunder us! Oh ye Who north or south, on east or western land, Native to noble sounds, say truth for truth, Freedom for freedom, love for love, and God For God; ye, who in eternal youth Speak with a living and creative blood This universal English, and do stand Its breathing book; live worthy of that grand Heroic utterance-parted, yet a whole, Far yet unsever'd-children brave and free Of the great Mother-tongue; and ye shall be Lords of an empire wide as Shakspere's soul, Sublime as Milton's immemorial theme,
And rich as Chaucer's speech, and fair as Spenser's dream.
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