Its glorious rest! And, though the warrior's sun has set, 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. Hear, Shepherd!-thou who for thy flock art dying, * This poem of Manrique is a great favourite 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 Valdepenas, is 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 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 Alas! thy sorrows fall so fast, Our happiest hour is when at last The soul is freed. "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, Rejoicest at the contrite sinner's vow. Oh, 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, Has chilled the bleeding wounds upon thy feet. "Soul, from thy casement look, and thou shalt see How he persists to knock and wait for thee!" And, oh! 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, THE IMAGE OF GOD. FROM THE SPANISH OF FRANCISCO DE ALDANA. O LORD! that seest, from yon starry height, For ever green shall be my trust in Heaven. Shall meet that look of mercy from on high, Doth meet the look of him who seeks it there, THE BROOK. FROM THE SPANISH. LAUGH of the mountain !-lyre of bird and tree: As the pure crystal, lets the curious eye Thy secrets scan, thy smooth, round pebbles count! Thou shunn'st the haunts of man, to dwell in limpid fount! THE CELESTIAL PILOT. FROM DANTE. PURGATORIO, II. AND now, behold! as at the approach of morning G Appeared to me,-may I again behold it!- And when therefrom I had withdrawn a little Thereafter, on all sides of it, appeared My master yet had uttered not a word, He cried aloud; "Quick, quick, and bow the knee! "See, how he scorns all human arguments, So that no oar he wants, nor other sail, Than his own wings, between so distant shores ! "See, how he holds them, pointed straight to heaven, Fanning the air with the eternal pinions, That do not moult themselves like mortal hair!" And then, as nearer and more near us came But down I cast it; and he came to shore Upon the stern stood the Celestial Pilot! "In exitu Israel out of Egypt!" Thus sang they all together in one voice, Then made he sign of holy rood upon them, THE TERRESTRIAL PARADISE. FROM DANTE. PURGATORIO, XXVIII. LONGING already to search in and round Withouten more delay I left the bank, A gently-breathing air, that no mutation Whereat the tremulous branches readily Yet not from their upright direction bent But, with full-throated joy, the hours of prime Even as from branch to branch it gathering swells, Already my slow steps had led me on Could see no more the place where I had entered. And lo! my farther course cut off a river, Which, towards the left hand, with its little waves, Bent down the grass, that on its margin sprang. All waters that on earth most limpid are, Would seem to have within themselves some mixture, Compared with that, which nothing doth conceal, Although it moves on with a brown, brown current, Under the shade perpetual, that never Ray of the sun lets in, nor of the moon. |