Tell me, the charms that lovers seek O'er rosy lip and brow of snow, The cunning skill, the curious arts, These shall become a heavy weight, The noble blood of Gothic name, How, in the onward course of time, Some, the degraded slaves of lust, Others, by guilt and crime, maintain Wealth and the high estate of pride, With what untimely spec they glide, How soon depart ! Bid not the shadowy phantoms stay, 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 But, in the life beyond the tomb, The pleasures and delights, which mask But the fleet coursers of the chase, 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, As we can clothe the soul with light, How busily each passing hour To deck the sensual slave of sin, Monarchs, the powerful and the strong, Where is the song of Troubadour? Where are the lute and gay tambour They loved of yore? Where is the mazy dance of old, O, in what winning smiles arrayed, The world its various pleasures laid His throne beside! But O how false and full of guile She, that had been his friend before, The countless gifts, the stately walls, Plate with armorial bearings wrought, 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 dewdrops 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, Judgment of God! that flame by thee, Spain's haughty Constable, the true Breathe not a whisper of his pride, The countless treasures of his care, His villages and villas fair, His mighty power, What were they all but grief and shame, The flowing robes, inwrought with gold, Tears and a broken heart, when came The dancers wore ? And he who next the sceptre swayed, Henry, whose royal court displayed Such power and pride; The parting hour? His other brothers, proud and high, Masters, who, in prosperity, Might rival kings; Who made the bravest and the best What was their prosperous estate, What, but a transient gleam of light, So many a duke of royal name, That might the sword of empire wield, Their deeds of mercy and of arms, O Death, thy stern and angry face, Unnumbered hosts, that threaten nigh, High battlements intrenched around, And covered trench, secure and deep, When thou dost battle in thy wrath, O World! so few the years we live, Thy goods are bought with many a groan, Fleet-footed is the approach of woe, And he, the good man's shield and shade, Roderic Manrique, he whose name His signal deeds and prowess high 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 To foes how stern a foe was he! What prudence with the old and wise: Benignant to the serf and slave, His was Octavian's prosperous star, Would that the life which thou dost give The rush of Caesar's conquering car Were life indeed! Alas! thy sorrows fall so fast, Our days are covered o'er with grief, And sorrows neither few nor brief Left desolate of real good, Within this cheerless solitude No pleasures bloom. Thy pilgrimage begins in tears, And ends in bitter doubts and fears, 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 The clemency of Antonine, In tented field and bloody fray, The faith of Constantine; ay, more, The fervent love Camillus bore His native land. He left no well-filled treasury, He fought the Moors, and, in their fall, Upon the hard-fought battle-ground, And there the warrior's hand did gain And if, of old, his halls displayed So, in the dark, disastrous hour, After high deeds, not left untold, Such noble leagues he made, that more These are the records, half effaced, But with fresh victories he drew By his unrivalled skill, by great He stood, in his high dignity, He found his cities and domains But, by fierce battle and blockade, By the tried valor of his hand, Let Portugal repeat the story, And proud Castile, who shared the glory His arms deserved. And when so oft, for weal or woe, Had been cast down; When he had served, with patriot zeal, And done such deeds of valor strong, Then, on Ocaña's castled rock, Saying, "Good Cavalier, prepare Let thy strong heart of steel this day "Since thou hast been, in battle-strife, Let virtue nerve thy heart again; "Think not the struggle that draws near Too terrible for man, nor fear Nor let thy noble spirit grieve, "A life of honor and of worth And yet its glory far exceeds "The eternal life, beyond the sky, Wealth cannot purchase, nor the high And proud estate; The soul in dalliance laid, the spirit "But the good monk, in cloistered cell, And the brave knight, whose arm en- | And, though the warrior's sun has set, dures Fierce battle, and against the Moors "And thou, brave knight, whose hand has poured The life-blood of the Pagan horde In heaven shalt thou receive, at length, "Cheered onward by this promise sure, Strong in the faith entire and pure Thou dost profess, Depart, thy hope is certainty, "O Death, no more, no more delay; The will of Heaven my will shall be, "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 't is 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 "And in that form didst suffer here By thy redeeming grace alone, As thus the dying warrior prayed, Encircled by his family, Watched by affection's gentle eye His soul to Him, who gave it, rose; Its light shall linger round us yet, Bright, radiant, blest. THE GOOD SHEPHERD. FROM THE SPANISH OF LOPE DE VEGA. SHEPHERD! who with thine amorous, sylvan song Hast broken the slumber that encompassed me, Who 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 |