THE GOOD SHEPHERD.

FROM THE SPANISH OF LOPE DE VEGA.

SHEPHERD! that with thine amorous, sylvan

song

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,

O, wash away these scarlet sins, for thou
Rejoicest at the contrite sinner's vow.

O, 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 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.