Removed her sight from its fixed contemplation,
Before or afterward, these words of hers.
Even as a man who gazes, and endeavours
To see the eclipsing of the sun a little,
And who, by seeing, sightless doth become,
So I became before that latest fire,*

While it was said, "Why dost thou daze thyself
To see a thing which here has no existence?
Earth upon earth my body is,† and shall be
With all the others there, until our number
With the eternal proposition tallies ;+
With the two garments§ in the blessed cloister
Are the two lights|| alone that have ascended:
And this shalt thou take back into your world."¶
And at this utterance the flaming circle

Grew quiet, with the dulcet intermingling
Of sound that by the trinal** breath was made,
As to escape from danger or fatigue,

The oars that erst were in the water beaten
Are all suspended at a whistle's sound.
Ah, how much in my mind was disturbed,
When I turned round to look on Beatrice,
At not beholding her, although I was
Close at her side and in the Happy World.

NOËL.

ENVOYÉ À M. Agassiz, la veILLE DE NOËL, 1864, AVEC UN PANIER DE VINS

* St John.

"If I will that he tarry till I come, what is that to thee?"

Till the predestined number of the elect is complete.

§ The two garments: the glorified spirit, and the glorified body. The two lights: Christ and the Virgin Mary.

Carry back these tidings.

**The sacred trio of St Peter, St James, and St John.

À l'envi se vantaient d'être
"Bons amis

De Jean Rudolphe Agassiz!"
Eil-de-Perdrix, grand farceur,
Sans reproche et sans pudeur,
Dans son patois de Bourgogne,
Bredouillait comme un ivrogne,
"Bons amis,

J'ai dansé chez Agassiz!"

Verzenay le Champenois,

Bon Français, point New-Yorquois,
Mais des environs d'Avize,
Fredonne à mainte reprise,
"Bons amis,

J'ai chanté chez Agassiz!"
À côté marchait un vieux
Hidalgo, mais non mousseux;
Dans le temps de Charlemagne
Fut son père Grand d'Espagne!
"Bons amis

J'ai dîné chez Agassiz!"
Derrière eux un Bordelais,
Gascon, s'il en fut jamais,
Parfumé de poésie

Riait, chantait, plein de vie,
"Bons amis,

J'ai soupé chez Agassiz!"

Avec ce beau cadet roux,
Bras dessus et bras dessous,
Mine altière et couleur terne,
Vint le Sire de Sauterne;
Bons amis,

J'ai couché chez Agassiz!"
Mais le dernier de ces preux,
Était un pauvre Chartreux,
Qui disait, d'un ton robuste,
"Bénédictions sur le Juste!
Bons amis,

Bénissons Père Agassiz!"
Ils arrivent trois à trois,
Montent l'escalier de bois
Clopin-clopant! quel gendarme
Peut permettre ce vacarme,
Bons amis,

À la porte d'Agassiz!

"Ouvrez donc, mon bon Seigneur,

Ouvrez vite et n'ayez peur;

Ouvrez, ouvrez, car nous sommes

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 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 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 eve.
There dwells the soul in its ethereal essence,
Gasping no longer for life's feeble breath;
But, sentinel'd 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! 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.

COPLAS DE MANRIQUE.

FROM THE SPANISH.

DON JORGE MANRIQUE, the author of the following poem, flourished in the last half of the fifteenth century. He followed the profession of arms; and Mariana, in his "History of Spain," makes honourable mention of him, as being present at the siege of Uclès; he speaks of him as "a youth of estimable qualities, who in this war gave brilliant proofs of his valour. He died young-

having been mortally wounded in a skirmish near Cunavette, in the year 1479and was thus cut off from long exercising his great virtues, and exhibiting to the world the light of his genius, which was already known to fame."

The name of Rodrigo Manrique, the father of the poet, Conde de Paredes and Maestre de Santiago, is well known in Spanish history and song. He died in 1476; according to Mariana, in the town of Uclès; but according to the poem of his son, in the town of Ocana. It was his death that called forth the poem upon which rests the literary reputation of the younger Manrique. In the language of his historian, "Don Jorge Manrique, in an elegant ode, full of poetic beauties, rich embellishments of genius and high moral reflections, mourned the death of his father, as with a funeral hymn." This praise is not exaggerated; the poem is a model in its kind. Its conception is solemn and beautiful, and, in accordance with it, the style moves on--calm, dignified, and majestic. It is a great favourite in Spain; and no less than four poetic Glosses, or running commentaries, upon it have been published.