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

Let Portugal repeat the story,

And proud Castile, who shared the glory
His arms deserved.

And when so oft, for weal or woe,
His life upon the fatal throw

Had been cast down;

When he had served, with patriot zeal,
Beneath the banner of Castile,

His sovereign's crown;

And done such deeds of valour strong,

That neither history nor song

Can count them all;

Then, on Ocana's castled rock,

Death at his portal came to knock,

With sudden call,

Saying, "Good Cavalier, prepare

To leave this world of toil and care
With joyful mien;

Let thy strong heart of steel this day
Put on its armour for the fray,—
The closing scene.

"Since thou hast been, in battle-strife,

So prodigal of health and life,

For earthly fame,

Let virtue nerve thy heart again;

Loud on the last stern battle-plain

They call thy name.

"Think not the struggle that draws near

Too terrible for man,-nor fear

To meet the foe;

Nor let thy noble spirit grieve,

Its life of glorious fame to leave

On earth below.

"A life of honour and of worth

Has no eternity on earth,

'Tis but a name;

And yet its glory far exceeds

That base and sensual life, which leads

To want and shame.

"The eternal life, beyond the sky, Wealth cannot purchase, nor the high

And proud estate :

The soul in dalliance laid, the spirit
Corrupt with sin,-shall not inherit
A joy so great.

"But the good monk, the cloistered cell,
Shall gain it by his book and bell,
His prayers and tears;

And the brave knight, whose arm endures
Fierce battle, and against the Moors

His standard rears.

"And thou, brave knight, whose hand has poured The life-blood of the Pagan hords

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 'tis 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,
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.*

THE GOOD SHEPHERD.

FROM THE SPANISH OF LOPE DE VEGA.

SHEPHERD! that with thine amorous sylvan song
Hast broken the slumber which encompassed me,--
Thou 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,

No less than

*This poem of Manrique is a great favourite in Spain. 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 :

"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."

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 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 his prison-house of clay,
The exiled spirit sighs and weeps 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

Shall 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.

THE BROOK.

FROM THE SPANISH.

LAUGH of the mountain !-lyre of bird and tree!
Pomp of the meadow! mirror of the morn!
The soul of April, unto whom are born
The rose and jessamine, leaps wild in thee!
Although, where'er thy devious current strays,
The lap of earth with gold and silver teems,
To me thy clear proceeding brighter seems
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 shun'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,

Appeared to me,-may I again behold it!-
A light along the sea, so swiftly coming,
Its motion by no flight of wing is equalled.
And when therefrom I had withdrawn a little
Mine eyes, that I might question my conductor,
Again I saw it brighter grown and larger.

Thereafter, on all sides of it, appeared
I knew not what of white, and underneath,
Little by little, there came forth another.

My master yet had uttered not a word,
While the first brightness into wings unfolded;
But, when he clearly recognised the pilot,

He cried aloud; "Quick, quick, and bow the knee!
Behold the Angel of God! fold up thy hands!
Henceforward shalt thou see such officers!