"And in that form didst suffer here Torment, and agony, and fear, So patiently; By thy redeeming grace alone, As thus the dying warrior prayed, Encircled by his family, Watched by Affection's gentle eye His soul to Him. who gave it, rose; Its glorious rest! And, though the warrior's sun has set, * 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. "Our days are covered o'er with grief, And sorrows neither few nor brief THE GOOD SHEPHERD. FROM THE SPANISH OF LOPE DE VEGA. SHEPHERD! that with thine amorous, sylvan song 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! "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." 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. 66 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, 66 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, Beloved country! banished from thy shore, 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! 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 current! O sweet simplicity of days gone by! 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 Through the gross vapours, Mars grows fiery red Down in the west upon the ocean floor, |