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 't is God's sovereign will
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 here

Torment, and agony, and fear,

So patiently;

By thy redeeming grace alone,
And not for merits of my own,
O, 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, Ålest.*

*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 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' 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.

"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."

THE GOOD SHEPHERD.

FROM THE SPANISH OF LOPE DE VEGA.

SHEPHERD! that with thine amorous, sylvan song
Hast broken the slumber which encompassed me,-
That mad'st thy crook from the accursed tree,
On which thy powerful arms were stretched so
long!

Lead me to mercy's ever-flowing fountains;

For thou my shepherd, guard, and guide shalt be I will obey thy voice, and wait to see

Thy feet all beautiful upon the mountains.

Hear, Shepherd!-thou who for thy flock art dying,

O, wash away these scarlet sins, for thou
Rejoicest at the contrite sinner's vow.

O, wait!-to thee my weary soul is crying,-
Wait for me!-Yet why ask it, when I see,

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,
And pass the gloomy nights of winter there?
O strange delusion !—that I did not greet
Thy blest approach, and O, to Heaven how lost,
If my ingratitude's unkindly frost

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, “Tomorrow."

THE NATIVE LAND.

FROM THE SPANISH OF FRANCISCO DE ALDANA.

CLEAR fount of light! my native land on high,
Bright with a glory that shall never fade!
Mansion of truth! without a veil or shade,
Thy holy quiet meets the spirit's eye.
There dwells the soul in its ethereal essence,
Gasping no longer for life's feeble breath;
But, sentinelled in heaven, its glorious presence
With pitying eye beholds, yet fears not, death.
Beloved country! banished from thy shore,
A stranger in this prison-house of clay,
The exiled spirit weeps and sighs for thee!
Heavenward the bright perfections I adore
Direct, and the sure promise cheers the way,
That, whither love aspires, there shall my
be.

dwelling

THE IMAGE OF GOD.

FROM THE SPANISH OF FRANCISCO DE ALDANA.

O LORD! that seest, from yon starry height,
Centred in one the future and the past,
Fashioned in thine own image, see how fast
The world obscures in me what once was bright!

Eternal Sun! the warmth which thou hast given,
To cheer life's flowery April, fast decays;
Yet, in the hoary winter of my days,
Forever green shall be my trust in Heaven.
Celestial King! O let thy presence pass
Before my spirit, and an image fair
Shall meet that look of mercy from on high,
As the reflected image in a glass

Doth meet the look of him who seeks it there,
And owes its being to the gazer's eye.

THE BROOK.

FROM THE SPANISH.

LAUGH of the mountain !-lyre of bird and tree!
Pomp of the meadow! mirror of the morn!
The soul of April, unto whom are born
The rose and jessamine, leaps wild in thee!
Although, where'er thy devious current strays,
The lap of earth with gold and silver teems,
To me thy clear proceeding brighter seems
Than golden sands, that charm each shepherd's
gaze.

How without guile thy bosom, all transparent

As the pure crystal, lets the curious eye

Thy secrets scan, thy smooth, round pebbles count! How, without malice murmuring, glides thy cur

rent!

O sweet simplicity of days gone by!

Thou shun'st the haunts of man, to dwell in limpid fount!