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For them there was an eloquent voice in all
The sylvan pomp of woods, the golden sun.
The flowers, the leaves, the river on its way,
Blue skies, and silver clouds, and gentle winds, -—
Their old poetic legends to the wind.
And this is the sweet spirit, that doth fill The world; and, in these wayward days of youth, My busy fancy oft embodies it, As a bright image of the light and beauty That dwell in nature , — of the heavenly forms We worship in our dreams, and the soft hues That stain the wild bird’s wing, and flush the clouds When the sun sets. Within her eye The heaven of April, with its changing light, And when it wears the blue of May, is hung, And on her lip the rich, red rose. Her hair Is like the summer tresses of the trees , When twilight makes them brown, and on her cheek Blushes the richness of an autumn sky, With ever-shifting beauty. Then her breath, It is so like the gentle air of Spring, As, from the morning’s dewy flowers, it comes 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 stillnight, with its passionate cadence.
BURIAL OF THE MINNISINK.
ON sunny slope and beechen swell,
The shadowed light of evening fell;
And , where the maplc'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, gray forest; and a band Of stern in 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
But, as the summer fruit decays,
A dark cloak of the roebuck’s skin
Before, a dark-haired virgin train
Stripped of his ‘proud and martial dress,
He came; and oft that eye so proud
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.
[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 honorable mention of him, as being present at the siege of Uclés; and speaks of him as “a youth of estimable qualities, who in this war gave brilliant proofs of his valor. lie 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 Cafiavete, in the year 1479.
'The name of Rodrigo Manrique, the father of the poet, Conde de Paredes and Maestro de Santiago, is well known in Spanish history and song. He died in 1476; according to Mariana, in the town of Uclés; but, according to the poem of his son , in Ocafia. it was his death that 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 exaggerated. 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.]
COPLAS DE MAN RIQUE.
FROM THE SPANISH.
0 mar the soul her slumbers break ,
How soon this life is past and gone ,
Swiftly our pleasures glide away,
The moments that are speeding fast
Onward its course the present keeps,
And, did we judge of time aright,
Let no one fondly dream again ,
Fleeting as were the dreams of old,
Our lives are rivers, gliding free '
Thither all earthly pomp and boast
Thither the mighty torrents stray,
There all are equal. Side by side
I will not here invoke the throng
Of orators and sons of song,
The deathless few;
Fiction entices and deceive,
And, sprinkled o’er her fragrant leaves, Lies poisonous dew.