Chapter XXIX: Introduction (14)

Most beautiful, most gentle! Yet how lost
To all that gladdens the fair earth; the eye
That watched her being; the maternal care
That kept and nourished her; and the calm light
That steals from our own thoughts, and softly rests
On youth’s green valleys and smooth-sliding waters.
Alas! few suns of life, and fewer winds,
Had withered or had wasted the fresh rose
That bloomed upon her cheek; but one chill frost
Came in that early Autumn, when ripe thought
Is rich and beautiful,—and blighted it;
And the fair stalk grew languid day by day,
And drooped,—and drooped, and shed its many leaves.
’Tis said that some have died of love, and some,
That once from beauty’s high romance had caught
Love’s passionate feelings and heart-wasting cares,
Have spurned life’s threshold with a desperate foot:
And others have gone mad,—and she was one!—
Her lover died at sea; and they had felt
A coldness for each other when they parted;
But love returned again, and to her ear
Came tidings, that the ship which bore her lover
Had suddenly gone down at sea, and all were lost.
I saw her in her native vale, when high
The aspiring lark up from the reedy river
Mounted, on cheerful pinion; and she sat
Casting smooth pebbles into a clear fountain,
And marking how they sank; and oft she sighed
For him that perished thus in the vast deep.
She had a sea-shell, that her lover brought
From the far-distant ocean, and she pressed
Its smooth cold lips unto her ear, and thought
It whispered tidings of the dark blue sea;
And sad, she cried: “The tides are out!—and now
I see his corse upon the stormy beach!”
Around her neck a string of rose-lipped shells,
And coral, and white pearl, was loosely hung,
And close beside her lay a delicate fan,
Made of the halcyon’s blue wing; and when
She looked upon it, it would calm her thoughts
As that bird calms the ocean,—for it gave
Mournful, yet pleasant memory. Once I marked,
When through the mountain hollows and green woods,
That bent beneath its footsteps, the loud wind
Came with a voice as of the restless deep,
She raised her head, and on her pale cold cheek
A beauty of diviner seeming came:
And then she spread her hands, and smiled, as if
She welcomed a long-absent friend,—and then
Shrank timorously back again, and wept.
I turned away: a multitude of thoughts,
Mournful and dark, were crowding on my mind;
And as I left that lost and ruined one,
A living monument that still on earth
There is warm love and deep sincerity,—
She gazed upon the west, where the blue sky
Held, like an ocean, in its wide embrace
Those fairy islands of bright cloud, that lay
So calm and quietly in the thin ether.
And then she pointed where, alone and high,
One little cloud sailed onward, like a lost
And wandering bark, and fainter grew, and fainter,
And soon was swallowed up in the blue depths.
And when it sank away, she turned again
With sad despondency and tears to earth.
Three long and weary months,—yet not a whisper
Of stern reproach for that cold parting! Then
She sat no longer by her favourite fountain!—
She was at rest for ever.

THE VENETIAN GONDOLIER.

Here rest the weary oar!—soft airs
Breathe out in the o’erarching sky;
And Night!—sweet Night—serenely wears
A smile of peace;—her noon is nigh.

Where the tall fir in quiet stands,
And waves, embracing the chaste shores,
Move over sea-shells and bright sands,—
Is heard the sound of dipping oars.

Swift o’er the wave the light bark springs,
Love’s midnight hour draws lingering near:
And list!—his tuneful viol strings
The young Venetian Gondolier.

Lo! on the silver-mirrored deep,
On earth, and her embosomed lakes,
And where the silent rivers swept,—
From the thin cloud fair moonlight breaks.

Soft music breathes around, and dies
On the calm bosom of the sea;
Whilst in her cell the novice sighs
Her vespers to her rosary.

At their dim altars bow fair forms,
In tender charity for those,
That, helpless left to life’s rude storms,
Have never found this calm repose.

The bell swings to its midnight chime,
Relieved against the deep blue sky!
Haste!—dip the oar again!—’tis time
To seek Genevra’s balcony.

DIRGE OVER A NAMELESS GRAVE.

By yon still river, where the wave
Is winding slow at evening’s close,
The beech, upon a nameless grave,
Its sadly-moving shadow throws.

O’er the fair woods the sun looks down
Upon the many-twinkling leaves,
And twilight’s mellow shades are brown,
Where darkly the green turf upheaves.

The river glides in silence there,
And hardly waves the sapling tree:
Sweet flowers are springing, and the air
Is full of balm,—but where is she!

They bade her wed a son of pride,
And leave the hopes she cherished long:
She loved but one,—and would not hide
A love which knew no wrong.

And months went sadly on,—and years:—
And she was wasting day by day:
At length she died,—and many tears
Were shed, that she should pass away.

Then came a grey old man, and knelt
With bitter weeping by her tomb:—
And others mourned for him, who felt
That he had sealed a daughter’s doom.

The funeral train has long passed on,
And time wiped dry the father’s tear!
Farewell,—lost maiden!—there is one
That mourns thee yet,—and he is here.

A SONG OF SAVOY.

As the dim twilight shrouds
The mountain’s purple crest,
And summer’s white and folded clouds
Are glowing in the west,
Loud shouts come up the rocky dell,
And voices hail the evening-bell.

Faint is the goatherd’s song,
And sighing comes the breeze:
The silent river sweeps along,
Amid its bended trees,—
And the full moon shines faintly there,
And music fills the evening air.

Beneath the waving firs
The tinkling cymbals sound;
And as the wind the foliage stirs,
I see the dancers bound
Where the green branches, arched above,
Bend over this fair scene of love.

And he is there, that sought
My young heart long ago!
But he has left me,—though I thought
He ne’er could leave me so.
Ah! lovers’ vows—how frail are they!
And his—were made but yesterday.

Why comes he not? I call
In tears upon him yet;—
’Twere better ne’er to love at all,
Than love and then forget!
Why comes he not? Alas! I should
Reclaim him still, if weeping could.

But see,—he leaves the glade,
And beckons me away:
He comes to seek his mountain maid!—
I cannot chide his stay.
Glad sounds along the valley swell,
And voices hail the evening-bell.

JECKOYVA.

The Indian chief, Jeckoyva, as tradition says, perished alone on the mountain which now bears his name. Night overtook him whilst hunting among the cliffs, and he was not heard of till after a long time, when his corpse was found at the foot of a high rock, over which he must have fallen. Mount Jeckoyva is near the White Hills.

They made the warrior’s grave beside
The dashing of his native tide:
And there was mourning in the glen—
The strong wail of a thousand men—
O’er him thus fallen in his pride,
Ere mist of age—or blight or blast
Had o’er his mighty spirit past.

They made the warrior’s grave beneath
The bending of the wild elm’s wreath,
When the dark hunter’s piercing eye
Had found that mountain rest on high,
Where, scattered by the sharp wind’s breath,
Beneath the rugged cliff were thrown
The strong belt and the mouldering bone.

Where was the warrior’s foot, when first
The red sun on the mountain burst?—
Where—when the sultry noon-time came
On the green vales with scorching flame,
And made the woodlands faint with thirst?
’Twas where the wind is keen and loud,
And the grey eagle breasts the cloud.

Where was the warrior’s foot, when night
Veiled in thick cloud the mountain-height?
None heard the loud and sudden crash,—
None saw the fallen warrior dash
Down the bare rock so high and white!—
But he that drooped not in the chase
Made on the hills his burial-place.

They found him there, when the long day
Of cold desertion passed away,
And traces on that barren cleft
Of struggling hard with death were left—
Deep marks and footprints in the clay!
And they have laid his feathery helm
By the dark river and green elm.

MUSINGS.

I sat by my window one night,
And watched how the stars grew high;
And the earth and skies were a splendid sight
To a sober and musing eye.

From heaven the silver moon shone down
With gentle and mellow ray,
And beneath the crowded roofs of the town
In broad light and shadow lay.

A glory was on the silent sea,
And mainland and island too,
Till a haze came over the lowland lea,
And shrouded that beautiful blue.

Bright in the moon the autumn wood
Its crimson scarf unrolled,
And the trees like a splendid army stood
In a panoply of gold!

I saw them waving their banners high,
As their crests to the night wind bowed,
And a distant sound on the air went by,
Like the whispering of a crowd.

Then I watched from my window how fast
The lights all around me fled,
As the wearied man to his slumber passed,
And the sick one to his bed.

All faded save one, that burned
With distant and steady light;
But that, too, went out,—and I turned
Where my own lamp within shone bright!

Thus, thought I, our joys must die,
Yes—the brightest from earth we win:
Till each turns away, with a sigh,
To the lamp that burns brightly within.

SONG.

Where, from the eye of day,
The dark and silent river
Pursues through tangled woods a way
O’er which the tall trees quiver;

The silver mist, that breaks
From out that woodland cover,
Betrays the hidden path it takes
And hangs the current over!

So oft the thoughts that burst
From hidden springs of feeling,
Like silent streams, unseen at first,
From our cold hearts are stealing:

But soon the clouds that veil
The eye of Love, when glowing,
Betray the long unwhispered tale
Of thoughts in darkness flowing.

_Translations._

TRANSLATIONS FROM THE SPANISH AND PORTUGUESE.

COPLAS DE MANRIQUE.[64]

O let the soul her slumbers break,
Let thought be quickened, and awake;
Awake to see
How soon this life is past and gone,
And death comes softly stealing on,
How silently!

Swiftly our pleasures glide away,
Our hearts recall the distant day
With many sighs;
The moments that are speeding fast
We heed not, but the past,—the past,—
More highly prize.

Onward its course the present keeps,
Onward the constant current sweeps,
Till life is done;
And, did we judge of time aright,
The past and future in their flight
Would be as one.

Let no one fondly dream again,
That Hope and all her shadowy train
Will not decay;
Fleeting as were the dreams of old,
Remembered like a tale that’s told,
They pass away.

Our lives are rivers, gliding free
To that unfathomed, boundless sea,
The silent grave!
Thither all earthly pomp and boast
Roll, to be swallowed up and lost
In one dark wave.

Thither the mighty torrents stray,
Thither the brook pursues its way,
And tinkling rill.
There all are equal. Side by side
The poor man and the son of pride
Lie calm and still.

I will not here invoke the throng
Of orators and sons of song,
The deathless few;
Fiction entices and deceives,
And, sprinkled o’er her fragrant leaves,
Lies poisonous dew.

To One alone my thoughts arise,
The Eternal Truth,—the Good and Wise,—
To him I cry,
Who shared on earth our common lot,
But the world comprehended not
His Deity.

This world is but the rugged road
Which leads us to the bright abode
Of peace above;
So let us choose that narrow way,
Which leads no traveller’s foot astray
From realms of love.

Our Cradle is the starting-place,
Life is the running of the race,
We reach the goal
When, in the mansions of the blest,
Death leaves to its eternal rest
The weary soul.

Did we but use it as we ought,
This world would school each wandering thought
To its high state.
Faith wings the soul beyond the sky,
Up to that better world on high,
For which we wait.

Yes,—the glad messenger of love,
To guide us to our home above,
The Saviour came;
Born amid mortal cares and fears,
He suffered in this vale of tears
A death of shame.

Behold of what delusive worth
The bubbles we pursue on earth,
The shapes we chase;
Amid a world of treachery;
They vanish ere death shuts the eye,
And leave no trace.

Time steals them from us,—chances strange,
Disastrous accidents, and change,
That come to all;
Even in the most exalted state,
Relentless sweeps the stroke of fate;
The strongest fall.

Tell me,—the charms that lovers seek
In the clear eye and blushing cheek,
The hues that play
O’er rosy lip and brow of snow,
When hoary age approaches slow,
Ah, where are they?

The cunning skill, the cunning arts,
The glorious strength that youth imparts
In life’s first stage;
These shall become a heavy weight,
When Time swings wide his outward gate
To weary age.

The noble blood of Gothic name,
Heroes emblazoned high to fame,
In long array;
How, in the onward course of time,
The landmarks of that race sublime
Were swept away!

Some, the degraded slaves of lust,
Prostrate and trampled in the dust,
Shall rise no more;
Others, by guilt and crime, maintain
The scutcheon, that, without a stain,
Their fathers bore.

Wealth and the high estate of pride,
With what untimely speed they glide,
How soon depart!
Bid not the shadowy phantoms stay,
The vassals of a mistress they,
Of fickle heart.

These gifts in Fortune’s hands are found;
Her swift revolving wheel turns round,
And they are gone!
No rest the inconstant goddess knows,
But changing, and without repose,
Still hurries on.

Even could the hand of avarice save
Its gilded baubles, till the grave
Reclaimed its prey,
Let none on such poor hopes rely;
Life, like an empty dream, flits by,
And where are they?

Earthly desires and sensual lust
Are passions springing from the dust,—
They fade and die;
But, in the life beyond the tomb,
They seal the immortal spirit’s doom
Eternally!

The pleasures and delights, which mask
In treacherous smiles life’s serious task,
What are they, all,
But the fleet coursers of the chase,
And death an ambush in the race,
Wherein we fall?

No foe, no dangerous pass, we heed,
Brook no delay—but onward speed
With loosened rein;
And, when the fatal snare is near,
We strive to check our mad career,
But strive in vain.

Could we new charms to age impart,
And fashion with a cunning art
The human face,
As we can clothe the soul with light,
And make the glorious spirit bright
With heavenly grace,—

How busily each passing hour
Should we exert that magic power!
What ardour show,
To deck the sensual slave of sin,
Yet leave the freeborn soul within,
In weeds of woe!

Monarchs, the powerful and the strong,
Famous in history and in song
Of olden time,
Saw, by the stern decrees of fate,
Their kingdoms lost, and desolate
Their race sublime.

Who is the champion? who the strong?
Pontiff and priest, and sceptred throng?
On these shall fall
As heavily the hand of Death,
As when it stays the shepherd’s breath
Beside his stall.

I speak not of the Trojan name,
Neither its glory nor its shame
Has met our eyes;
Nor of Rome’s great and glorious dead,
Though we have heard so oft, and read,
Their histories.

Little avails it now to know
Of ages past so long ago,
Nor how they rolled;
Our theme shall be of yesterday,
Which to oblivion sweeps away
Like days of old.

Where is the King, Don Juan? Where
Each royal prince and noble heir
Of Aragon?
Where are the courtly gallantries?
Their deeds of love and high emprise,
In battle done?

Tourney and joust, that charmed the eye,
And scarf, and gorgeous panoply,
And nodding plume,—
What were they but a pageant scene?
What but the garlands, gay and green,
That deck the tomb?

Where are the high-born dames, and where
Their gay attire, and jewelled hair,
And odours sweet?
Where are the gentle knights that came
To kneel and breathe love’s ardent flame,
Low at their feet?

Where is the song of Troubadour?
Where are the lute and gay tambour
They loved of yore?
Where is the mazy dance of old,
The flowing robes, inwrought with gold,
The dancers wore?

And he who next the sceptre swayed,
Henry, whose royal court displayed
Such power and pride;
O, in what winning smiles arrayed,
The world its various pleasures laid
His throne beside!

But O, how false and full of guile
That world which wore so soft a smile,
But to betray!
She, that had been his friend before,
Now from the fated monarch tore
Her charms away.

The countless gifts,—the stately walls,—
The royal palaces, and halls
All filled with gold;
Plate with armorial bearings wrought,
Chambers with ample treasures fraught
Of wealth untold;

The noble steeds and harness bright,
And gallant lord, and stalwart knight,
In rich array,—
Where shall we seek them now? Alas!
Like the bright dew-drops on the grass
They passed away.

His brother, too, whose factious zeal
Usurped the sceptre of Castile,
Unskilled to reign;
What a gay, brilliant court had he,
When all the flower of chivalry
Was in his train!

But he was mortal; and the breath,
That flamed from the hot forge of Death,
Blasted his years;
Judgment of God! that flame by thee,
When raging fierce and fearfully,
Was quenched in tears!

Spain’s haughty Constable,—the true
And gallant Master, whom we knew
Most loved of all.
Breathe not a whisper of his pride,—
He on the gloomy scaffold died,
Ignoble fall!

The countless treasures of his care,
His hamlets green and cities fair,
His mighty power,—
What were they all but grief and shame,
Tears and a broken heart, when came
The parting hour?

His other brothers, proud and high,
Masters, who, in prosperity,
Might rival kings;
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,[65]—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!

What prudence with the old and wise!
What grace in youthful gaieties!
In all how sage!
Benignant to the serf and slave,
He showed the base and falsely brave
A lion’s rage.

His was Octavian’s prosperous star,
The rush of Cæsar’s conquering car
At battle’s call;
His, Scipio’s virtue; his, the skill
And the indomitable will
Of Hannibal.

His was a Trajan’s goodness,—his
A Titus’ noble charities
And righteous laws;
The arm of Hector, and the might
Of Tully, to maintain the right
In truth’s just cause:

The clemency of Antonine,
Aurelius’ countenance divine,
Firm, gentle, still;
The eloquence of Adrian,
And Theodosius’ love to man,
And generous will:

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 castle 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 honoured and exalted grade
His worth hath 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
’Twas his to share,
Such noble leagues he made, that more
And fairer legions 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 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 Ocaña’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, in 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 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 ’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,
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!
And though the warrior’s sun has set,
Its light shall linger round us yet,
Bright, radiant, blest.

[64] Don Jorge Manrique lived in the last half of the fifteenth century. He was a soldier, and died on the field of battle. See Appendix.

[65] The Poet’s father; he died 1476.

THE GOOD SHEPHERD.

FROM LOPE DE VEGA.

Shepherd! who with thine amorous, sylvan song
Hast broken the slumber that encompassed me,—
That madest thy crook from the accursèd 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!

THE BROOK.

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!

SANTA TERESA’S BOOK-MARK.

FROM SANTA TERESA.

Let nothing disturb thee,
Nothing affright thee;
All things are passing;
God never changeth;
Patient endurance
Attaineth to all things;
Who God possesseth
In nothing is wanting;
Alone God sufficeth.

TO-MORROW.

FROM 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 O, 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 O! 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 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.
Belovèd 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 FRANCISCO DE ALDANA.

O Lord! that seest, from yonder 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! O 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.

TWO SONNETS FROM FRANCISCO DE MEDRANO.

I.

ART AND NATURE.

The works of human artifice soon tire
The curious eye; the fountain’s sparkling rill,
And gardens, when adorned by human skill,
Reproach the feeble hand, the vain desire.
But, O! the free and wild magnificence
Of Nature, in her lavish hours, doth steal,
In admiration silent and intense,
The soul of him, who hath a soul to feel.
The river moving on its ceaseless way,
The verdant reach of meadows fair and green,
And the blue hills, that bound the sylvan scene,
These speak of grandeur, that defies decay,—
Proclaim the Eternal Architect on high,
Who stamps on all his works his own eternity.

II.

THE TWO HARVESTS.

But yesterday these few and hoary sheaves
Waved in the golden harvest; from the plain
I saw the blade shoot upward, and the grain
Put forth the unripe ear and tender leaves.
Then the glad upland smiled upon the view,
And to the air the broad green leaves unrolled,
A peerless emerald in each silken fold,
And on each palm a pearl of morning dew.
And thus sprang up and ripened in brief space
All that beneath the reaper’s sickle died,
All that smiled beauteous in the summer-tide.
And what are we? a copy of that race,
The later harvest of a longer year!
And, O! how many fall before the ripened ear.

TRANSLATIONS FROM THE ITALIAN.

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!
See how he scorns all human arguments,
So that no oar he wants, nor other sail
Than his own wings, between so distant shores!
See how he holds them, pointed straight to heaven,
Fanning the air with the eternal pinions,
That do not moult themselves like mortal hair!”
And then, as nearer and more near us came
The Bird of Heaven, more glorious he appeared,
So that the eye could not sustain his presence.
But down I cast it; and he came to shore
With a small vessel, gliding swift and light,
So that the water swallowed nought thereof.
Upon the stern stood the Celestial Pilot!
Beatitude seemed written in his face!
And more than a hundred spirits sat within.
“_In exitu Israel de Ægypto!_”
Thus sang they altogether in one voice,
With whatso in that Psalm is after written.
Then made he sign of holy rood upon them,
Whereat all cast themselves upon the shore,
And he departed swiftly as he came.

THE TERRESTRIAL PARADISE.

FROM DANTE. PURGATORIO, XXVIII.

Longing already to search in and round
The heavenly forest, dense and living green,
Which to the eyes tempered the new-born day,
Withouten more delay I left the bank,
Crossing the level country slowly, slowly,
Over the soil, that everywhere breathed fragrance.
A gently-breathing air, that no mutation
Had in itself, smote me upon the forehead,
No heavier blow, than of a pleasant breeze,
Whereat the tremulous branches readily
Did all of them bow downward towards that side
Where its first shadow casts the Holy Mountain;
Yet not from their upright direction bent
So that the little birds upon their tops
Should cease the practice of their tuneful art;
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 Æolus 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 farther course cut off a river
Which, towards the left hand, with its little waves,
Bent down the grass that on its margin sprang.
All waters that on earth most limpid are,
Would seem to have within themselves some mixture,
Compared with that, which nothing doth conceal,
Although it moves on with a brown, brown current,
Under the shade perpetual, that never
Ray of the sun lets in, nor of the moon.

BEATRICE.

FROM DANTE. PURGATORIO, XXX. XXXI.

Even as the Blessèd, at the final summons,
Shall rise up quickened, each one from his grave,
Wearing again the garments of the flesh;
So, upon that celestial chariot,
A hundred rose _ad vocem tanti senis_,
Ministers and messengers of life eternal.
They all were saying: “_Benedictus qui venis_,”
And scattering flowers above and round about,
“_Manibus o date lilia plenis_.”
Oft have I seen, at the approach of day,
The orient sky all stained with roseate hues,
And the other heaven with light serene adorned,
And the sun’s face uprising, overshadowed,
So that, by temperate influence of vapours,
The eye sustained his aspect for long while;
Thus in the bosom of a cloud of flowers,
Which from those hands angelic were thrown up,
And now descended inside and without
With crown of olive o’er a snow-white veil,
Appeared a lady, under a green mantle,
Vested in colours of the living flame.

* * * * *

Even as the snow, among the living rafters
Upon the back of Italy, congeals,
Blown on and beaten by Sclavonian winds,
And then dissolving, filters through itself,
Whene’er the land, that loses shadow, breathes,
Like as a taper melts before a fire,
Even such I was, without a sigh or tear,
Before the song of those who chime for ever
After the chiming of the eternal spheres;
But when I heard in those sweet melodies
Compassion for me, more than they had said,
“O wherefore, lady, dost thou thus consume him?”
The ice that was about my heart congealed,
To air and water changed, and, in my anguish,
Through lips and eyes came gushing from my breast.

* * * * *

Confusion and dismay, together mingled,
Forced such a feeble “Yes!” out of my mouth,
To understand it one had need of sight.
Even as a cross-bow breaks, when ’tis discharged,
Too tensely drawn the bow-string and the bow,
And with less force the arrow hits the mark;
So I gave way beneath this heavy burden,
Gushing forth into bitter tears and sighs,
And the voice, fainting, flagged upon its passage.

THREE CANTOS OF DANTE’S PARADISO.