But soon a funeral hymn was heard Where the soft breath of evening stirred The tall, gray forest; and a band They sang, that by his native bowers A dark cloak of the roebuck's skin Before, a dark-haired virgin train Stripped of his proud and martial They buried the dark chief-they Beside the grave his battle-steed; THE SPIRIT OF POETRY. THERE is a quiet spirit in these woods, That dwells where'er the gentle south wind blows; Slips down through moss-grown stones with endless laughter. And here, amid Its feet go forth, when it doth wrap itself Aslant the wooded slope, at evening, goes,- And this is the sweet spirit, that doth fill 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 The heaven of April, with its changing light, And when it wears the blue of May, is hung, Her hair Is like the summer tresses of the trees, When twilight makes them brown, and on her cheek 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 To have it round us,-and her silver voice Is the rich music of a summer bird, Heard in the still night with its passionate cadence. TRANSLATIONS. 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; 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, 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, Ohow 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, COPLAS DE MANRIQUE. FROM THE SPANISH. 66 [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 Mariana, in his "History of Spain," makes honourable mention of him, as being present at the siege of Uclès; he speaks of him as 'a youth of estimable qualities, who in this war gave brilliant proofs of his valour. He died young-having been mortally wounded in a skirmish near Cunavette, in the year 1479-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." The name of Rodrigo Manrique, the father of the poet, Conde de Paredes and Maestre de Santiago, is well known in Spanish history and song. He died in 1476; according to Mariana, in the town of Ucles; but according to the poem of his son, in the town of Ocana. 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. It is a great favourite in Spain; and no less than four poetic Glosses, or running commentaries, upon it have been published. 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 that thou dost give Alas! thy sorrows fall so fast, Our happiest hour is when at last The soul is freed. Our days are covered o'er with grief, And sorrows neither few nor brief Veil all in gloom; Left desolate of real good, Within this cheerless solitude No pleasures bloom. Thy pilgrimage begins in tears, And ends in bitter doubts and fears, Or dark despair; Midway so many toils appear, That he who lingers longest here Knows most of care. 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, COPLAS DE MANRIQUE. O LET 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 Fiction entices and deceives, And, sprinkled o'er her fragrant leaves, To One alone my thoughts arise, To its high state. Faith wings the soul beyond the sky, Yes, the glad messenger of love, Born amid mortal cares and fears, Behold of what delusive worth The shapes we chase, Amid a world of treachery! They vanish ere death shuts the eye, And leave no trace. Time steals them from us,-chances strange, Disastrous accidents, and change, Even in the most exalted state, Tell me, the charms that lovers seek O'er rosy lip and brow of snow, The cunning skill, the curious arts, These shall become a heavy weight, |