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Hear, Shepherd!- thou who for thy flock art dying, 0, wash away these scarlet sins, for thou Rejoicest at the contrite sinner's vow. 0, 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,“ To

morrow."

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, sentineled 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 dwelling

be.

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