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FROM THE SPANISH OF VILLEGAS.
'Tis sweet, in the green Spring,
To gaze upon the wakening fields around;
Birds in the thicket sing,
Winds whisper, waters prattle from the ground; A thousand odours rise,
Breathed up from blossoms of a thousand dyes.
Shadowy, and close, and cool,
The pine and poplar keep their quiet nook;
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 away.
It makes me sad to see the earth so gay;
Of leaves, and flowers, and zephyrs go again.
FROM THE SPANISH OF BARTOLOME LEONARDO DE ARGENSOLA.
BLESSED, yet sinful one, and broken-hearted!
Thou weepest days of innocence departed;
Thou weepest, and thy tears have power to move
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
The ragged brier should change; the bitter fir
Nor that, upon the wintry desert's bosom,
The harvest should rise plenteous, and the swain
But come and see the bleak and barren mountains Thick to their tops with roses: come and see Leaves on the dry dead tree:
The perished plant, set out by living fountains, Grows fruitful, and its beauteous branches rise, For ever, towards the skies.
THE LIFE OF THE BLESSED.
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
And heavenly roses blow,
Deathless, and gathered but again to grow.
He leads them to the height
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, Reposing as he lies,
With all his flock around,
He witches the still air with numerous sound.
From his sweet lute flow forth
Its destiny of goodness to fulfil.
Might but a little part,
A wandering breath of that high melody,
Descend into my heart,
And change it till it be
Transformed and swallowed up, oh love! in thee.
Ah! then my soul should know,
And from this place of woe
To mingle with thy flock and never stray.