FROM THE SPANISH OF VILLEGAS. 'Tis sweet, in the green Spring, Winds whisper, waters prattle from the ground; Breathed up from blossoms of a thousand dies. Shadowy, and close, and cool, The pine and poplar keep their quiet nook; For ever fresh and full, Shines, at their feet, the thirst-inviting brook; Spread for a place of banquets and of dreams. Thou, who alone art fair, And whom alone I love, art far Unless thy smile be there, away. It makes me sad to see the earth so gay; I care not if the train Of leaves, and flowers, and zephyrs go again. THE LIFE OF THE BLESSED. FE OF (FROM THE SPANISH OF LUIS PONCE DE LEON.) REGION of life and light! Land of the good whose earthly toils are o'er! Thy vernal beauty, fertile shore, There, without crook or sling, Walks the good shepherd; blossoms white and red Round his meek temples cling; And, to sweet pastures led, His own loved flock beneath his eye is fed. He guides, and near him they Follow delighted, for he makes them go Where dwells eternal May, And heavenly roses blow, He leads them to the height Named of the infinite and long-sought Good, 138 THE LIFE OF THE BLESSED. And where his feet have stood Springs up, along the way, their tender food. And when, in the mid skies, The climbing sun has reached his highest bound, With all his flock around, He witches the still air with numerous sound. From his sweet lute flow forth. Immortal harmonies, of power to still And draw the ardent will Its destiny of goodness to fulfil. Might but a little part, A wandering breath of that high melody, And change it till it be Transformed and swallowed up, oh love! in thee. Ah! then my soul should know, Released, should take its way To mingle with thy flock and never stray. MARY MAGDALEN. (FROM THE SPANISH OF BARTOLOME LEONARDO DE ARGENSOLA.) BLESSED, yet sinful one, and broken-hearted! Thou weepest days of innocence departed; The greatest of thy follies is forgiven, Even for the least of all the tears that shine On that pale cheek of thine. Thou didst kneel down, to Him who came from heaven, It is not much that to the fragrant blossom Distil Arabian myrrh; Nor that, upon the wintry desert's bosom, The harvest should rise plenteous, and the swain Bear home the abundant grain. |