Stream on his deeds of love, that shunned the sight Of all but heaven, and in the book of fame The glorious record of his virtues write
And hold it up to men, and bid them claim
A palm like his, and catch from him the hallowed flame.
But oh, despair not of their fate who rise
To dwell upon the earth when we withdraw!
Lo! the same shaft by which the righteous dies,
Strikes through the wretch that scoffed at mercy's law And trode his brethren down, and felt no awe Of Him who will avenge them. Stainless worth, Such as the sternest age of virtue saw,
Ripens, meanwhile, till time shall call it forth From the low modest shade, to light and bless the earth.
Has Nature, in her calm, majestic march,
Faltered with age at last? does the bright sun Grow dim in heaven? or, in their far blue arch, Sparkle the crowd of stars, when day is done, Less brightly? when the dew-lipped Spring comes on, Breathes she with airs less soft, or scents the sky With flowers less fair than when her reign begun? Does prodigal Autumn, to our age, deny
The plenty that once swelled beneath his sober eye?
Look on this beautiful world, and read the truth In her fair page; see, every season brings New change, to her, of everlasting youth; Still the green soil, with joyous living things, Swarms, the wide air is full of joyous wings, And myriads, still, are happy in the sleep Of ocean's azure gulfs, and where be flings The restless surge. Eternal Love doth keep, In his complacent arms, the earth, the air, the deep.
Will then the merciful One, who stamped our race With his own image, and who gave them sway O'er earth, and the glad dwellers on her face, Now that our swarming nations far away
Are spread, where'er the moist earth drinks the day, Forget the ancient care that taught and nursed His latest offspring? will he quench the ray Infused by his own forming smile at first, And leave a work so fair all blighted and accursed?
Oh, no! a thousand cheerful omens give Hope of yet happier days, whose dawn is nigh. He who has tamed the elements, shall not live The slave of his own passions; he whose eye Unwinds the eternal dances of the sky, And in the abyss of brightness dares to span The sun's broad circle, rising yet more high,
In God's magnificent works his will shall scan- And love and peace shall make their paradise with man.
Sit at the feet of History-through the night Of years the steps of virtue she shall trace, And show the earlier ages, where her sight
Can pierce the eternal shadows o'er their face ;— When, from the genial cradle of our race,
Went forth the tribes of men, their pleasant lot
To choose, where palm-groves cooled their dwelling-place, Or freshening rivers ran; and there forgot
The truth of heaven, and kneeled to gods that heard them not,
Then waited not the murderer for the night, But smote his brother down in the bright day, And he who felt the wrong, and had the might, His own avenger, girt himself to slay;
The Lost Bird. (From the Spanish of Carolina Coronado de Perry) 236
The Ruins of Italica. (From the Spanish of Rioja)
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