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 curious 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 spec 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 ardor 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,

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
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 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,
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 villages and villas fair,

His mighty power,

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
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,

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, 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!

His was Octavian's prosperous star,

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.

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 castled 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 honored and exalted grade
His worth had 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
"T was his to share,

Such noble leagues he made, that more
And fairer regions, 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 valor 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 valor 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 armor 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 honor 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;

dures

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 '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
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!

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