"My soul is ready to depart, No thought rebels, the obedient heart The wish on earth to linger still Were vain, when 't is God's sovereign will "O thou, that for our sins didst take Thou, that to thy divinity "And in that form didst suffer here By thy redeeming grace alone, As thus the dying warrior prayed, 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 favorite in Spain. No less than four poetic Glosses, or running commentaries, upon it have been published, no one of which, however, possesses great poetic merit. That of the Carthusian monk, Rodrigo de Valdepeñas, is the best. It is known THE GOOD SHEPHERD. FROM THE SPANISH OF LOPE DE VEGA. SHEPHERD! that with thine amorous, sylvan song For thou my shepherd, guard, and guide shalt be; Thy feet all beautiful upon the mountains. as the Glosa de Cartujo. There is also a prose Commentary by Luis de Aranda. The following stanzas of the poem were found in the author's pocket, after his death on the field of battle. "Thy goods are bought with many a groan, And weary hearts; Fleet-footed is the approach of woe, But with a lingering step and slow Its form departs." Hear, Shepherd! - thou who for thy flock art dying, 0, wait! to thee my weary soul is crying, 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, Thy blest approach, and O, to Heaven how lost, Has chilled the bleeding wounds upon thy feet. How oft my guardian angel gently cried, "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 LANĎ. FROM THE SPANISH OF FRANCISCO DE ALDANA. CLEAR fount of light! my native land on high, Bright with a glory that shall never fade! There dwells the soul in its ethereal essence, THE IMAGE OF GOD. FROM THE SPANISH OF FRANCISCO DE ALDANA. O LORD! that seest, from yon starry height, As the reflected image in a glass Doth meet the look of him who seeks it there, THE BROOK. FROM THE SPANISH. LAUGH of the mountain! - lyre of bird and tree! Although, where'er thy devious current strays, Than golden sands, that charm each shepherd's gaze. As the pure crystal, lets the curious eye Thy secrets scan, thy smooth, round pebbles count! Thou shun'st the haunts of man, to dwell in limpid fount! AND now, behold! as at the approach of morning, Through the gross vapors, Mars grows fiery red Down in the west upon the ocean floor, Appeared to me, may I again behold it! — And when therefrom I had withdrawn a little Thereafter, on all sides of it, appeared My master yet had uttered not a word, He cried aloud; "Quick, quick, and bow the knee! 66 24 147 ! |