Who made the bravest and the best
The bondsmen of their high behest,
Their underlings;

What was their prosperous estate,
When high exalted and elate
With power and pride?

What, but a transient gleam of light,
A flame, which, glaring at its height,
Grew dim and died?

So many a duke of royal name,
Marquis and count of spotless fame,
And baron brave,

That might the sword of empire wield,
All these, O Death, hast thou concealed
In the dark grave!.

Their deeds of mercy and of arms,
In peaceful days, or war's alarms,
When thou dost show,

O Death, thy stern and angry face,
One stroke of thy all-powerful mace
Can overthrow.

Unnumbered hosts, that threaten nigh,
Pennon and standard flaunting high,
And flag displayed;

High battlements intrenched around,
Bastion, and moated wall, and mound,
And palisade,

And covered trench, secure and deep,
All these cannot one victim keep,
O Death, from thee,

When thou dost battle in thy wrath,
And thy strong shafts pursue their path
Unerringly.

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.

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,
But with a lingering step and slow
Its form departs.

And he, the good man's shield and shade,
To whom all hearts their homage paid,
As Virtue's son,

Roderic Manrique, he whose name
Is written on the scroll of Fame,
Spain's champion ;

His signal deeds and prowess high
Demand no pompous eulogy,
Ye saw his deeds!

Why should their praise in verse be sung?

The name, that dwells on every tongue, No minstrel needs.

To friends a friend; how kind to all
The vassals of this ancient hall
And feudal fief!

To foes how stern a foe was he!
And to the valiant and the free
How brave a chief!

A lion's rage.

In tented field and bloody fray,
An Alexander's vigorous sway
And stern command;

The faith of Constantine; ay, more,

The fervent love Camillus bore

His native land.

He left no well-filled treasury,
He heaped no pile of riches high,
Nor massive plate;

He fought the Moors, and, in their fall,
City and tower and castled wall
Were his estate.

Upon the hard-fought battle-ground, Brave steeds and gallant riders found A common grave;

And there the warrior's hand did gain
The rents, and the long vassal train,
That conquest gave.

And if, of old, his halls displayed
The honored and exalted grade
His worth had gained,

So, in the dark, disastrous hour,
Brothers and bondsmen of his power
His hand sustained.

After high deeds, not left untold,
In the stern warfare, which of old
'T was his to share,

Such noble leagues he made, that more
And fairer regions, than before,
His guerdon were.

These are the records, half effaced,
Which, with the hand of youth, he traced
On history's page ;

But with fresh victories he drew
Each fading character anew
In his old age.

By his unrivalled skill, by great
And veteran service to the state,
By worth adored,

He stood, in his high dignity,
The proudest knight of chivalry,
Knight of the Sword.

He found his cities and domains
Beneath a tyrant's galling chains
And cruel power;

But, by fierce battle and blockade,
Soon his own banner was displayed
From every tower.

By the tried valor of his hand,
His monarch and his native land
Were nobly served;

dures

Fierce battle, and against the Moors
His standard rears.

"And thou, brave knight, whose hand has poured

The life-blood of the Pagan horde
O'er all the land,

In heaven shalt thou receive, at length,
The guerdon of thine earthly strength
And dauntless hand.

"Cheered onward by this promise sure, Strong in the faith entire and pure 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!

THE GOOD SHEPHERD.

FROM THE SPANISH OF LOPE DE VEGA.

SHEPHERD! who with thine amorous, sylvan song

Hast broken the slumber that encompassed me,

Who 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

How he persists to knock and wait for thee!"

And, O! how often to that voice of sorrow, "To-morrow we will ." I replied, open, 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, 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 dwelling be.

THE IMAGE OF GOD.

FROM THE SPANISH OF FRANCISCO DE ALDANA.

O LORD! who 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,

Through the gross vapors, Mars grows fiery red

Down in the west upon the ocean floor,

cays;

-

- may I again behold

ing,

Its motion by no flight of wing is

them,

Whereat all cast themselves upon the

But, with full-throated joy, the hours of prime

Singing received they in the midst of foliage

That made monotonous burden to their rhymes,

Even as from branch to branch it gathering swells,

Through the pine forests on the shore

of Chiassi,

When Eolus unlooses the Sirocco. Already my slow steps had led me on Into the ancient wood so far, that I Could see no more the place where I

had entered.

And lo! my further course cut off a river,

Which, tow'rds the left hand, with its little waves,

Bent down the grass, that on its mar

gin sprang.