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“And thou, brave knight, whose hand has pourei

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.'

66

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.

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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 alonc,
And not for merits of my own,
Oh, 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, blest.*

* This poem of Manrique is a great favourite in Spain. No less than four poetic Glosses, or running commentaries, upon it have been publisked, 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 de 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
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
Vell all in gloom;

THE GOOD SHEPHERD.

FROM THE SPANISH OF LOPE DE VEGA.

SHEPHERD! that with thine amorous, sylvan soug
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,
Oh, wash away these scarlet sins, for thou
Rejoicest at the contrite sinner's vow.
Oh, 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

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me!

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 lingurs 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."

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 oh, 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, oh! 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, 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! 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,
For ever green shall be my trust in Heaven
Celestial King! Oh, let thy presence pass
Before my spirit, and an image fair
Shail 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.

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