AUTUMN. WITH what a glory comes and goes the year! There is a beautiful spirit breathing now O what a glory doth this world put on To his long resting-place without a tear. HYMN OF THE MORAVIAN NUNS OF BETHLEHEM, AT THE CONSECRATION OF PULASKI'S BANNER. WHEN the dying flame of day The blood-red banner, that with prayer Had been consecrated there. And the nun's sweet hymn was heard the while, Sung low in the dim, mysterious aisle. "Take thy banner! May it wave Guard it!-till our homes are free! "Take thy banner! But, when night Spare him!-as thou wouldst be "Take thy banner!-and if e'er Thou shouldst press the soldier's bier, And the muffled drums should beat To the tread of mournful feet, Then this crimson flag shall be Martial cloak and shroud for thee." The warrior took that banner proud, And it was his martial cloak and shroud! SUNRISE ON THE HILLS. I STOOD upon the hills, when heaven's wide arch Was glorious with the sun's returning march, And woods were brightened, and soft gales Went forth to kiss the sun-clad vales. The clouds were far beneath me;bathed in light, They gathered mid-way round the wooded height, And, in their fading glory, shone Through the gray mist thrust up its shattered lance, And rocking on the cliff was left Was darkened by the forest's shade, The noisy bittern wheeled his spiral way. I heard the distant waters dash, I saw the current whirl and flash,And richly, by the blue lake's silver beach, The woods were bending with a silent reach. Then o'er the vale, with gentle swell, The music of the village bell Came sweetly to the echo-giving hills: And the wild horn, whose voice the woodland fills, Was ringing to the merry shout, Through thick-leaved branches, from the dingle broke. If thou art worn and hard beset Thy heart from fainting and thy soul from sleep, Go to the woods and hills !-No tears Dim the sweet look that Nature wears. BURIAL OF THE MINNISINK. Far upward in the mellow light Rose the blue hills. One cloud of white, Around a far uplifted cone, In the warm blush of evening shone ; TO-MORROW. FROM THE SPANISH OF LOPE DE VEGA. LORD, what am I, that, with unceasing care, Has chilled the bleeding wounds upon thy feet. "Soul, from thy casement look, and thou shalt see How he persists to knock and wait for thee!" And, O! how often to that voice of sorrow, "To-morrow we will open," I replied, And when the morrow came I answered still, "To-morrow." THE NATIVE LAND. FROM THE SPANISH OF FRANCISCO DE ALDANA. CLEAR fount of light! my native land on high, That, whither love aspires, there shall my dwelling be. THE IMAGE OF GOD. FROM THE SPANISH OF FRANCISCO DE ALDANA. O LORD! that seest, from yon starry height, For ever green shall be my trust in Heaven. Shall meet that look of mercy from on high, As the reflected image in a glass Doth meet the look of him who seeks it there, And owes its being to the gazer's eye. 13 COPLAS DE MANRIQUE. FROM THE SPANISH. [DON JORGE MANRIQUE, the author of the following poem, flourished in the last half of the fifteenth century. He followed the profession of arms; and Mariana, in his "History of Spain," makes honourable mention of him, as being present at the siege of Uclès; he speaks of him as "a youth of estimable qualities, who in this war gave brilliant proofs of his valour. He died young-having been mortally wounded in a skirmish near Cunavette, in the year 1479-and was thus cut off from long exercising his great virtues, and exhibiting to the world the light of his genius, which was already known to fame." The name of Rodrigo Manrique, the father of the poet, Conde de Paredes and Maestre de Santiago, is well known in Spanish history and song. He died in 1476; according to Mariana, in the town of Ucles; but according to the poem of his son, in the town of Ocana. It was his death that called forth the poem upon which rests the literary reputation of the younger Manrique. In the language of his historian, "Don Jorge Manrique, in an elegant ode, full of poetic beauties, rich embellishments of genius and high moral reflections, mourned the death of his father, as with a funeral hymn." This praise is not exaggerated; the poem is a model in its kind. Its conception is solemn and beautiful, and in accordance with it, the style moves on-calm, dignified, and majestic. It is a great favourite in Spain; and no less than four poetic Glosses, or running commentaries, upon it have been published. The following stanzas of the poem were found in the author's pocket, after his death on the field of battle: O world! so few the years we live, Would that the life that thou dost give 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. 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 COPLAS DE MANRIQUE. O LET the soul her slumbers break, How soon this life is past and gone, Swiftly our pleasures glide away, The moments that are speeding fast Onward its course the present keeps, And, did we judge of time aright, Let no one fondly dream again, Fleeting as were the dreams of old, Our lives are rivers, gliding free Thither all earthly pomp and boast Thither the mighty torrents stray, There all are equal. Side by side I will not here invoke the throng The deathless few; Fiction entices and deceives, And, sprinkled o'er her fragrant leaves, Lies poisonous dew. To One alone my thoughts arise, The Eternal Truth, the Good and Wise, To Him I cry, Who shared on earth our common lot, This world is but the rugged road So let us choose that narrow way, Our cradle is the starting-place, When, in the mansions of the blest, The weary soul. Did we but use it as we ought, This world would school each wandering thought To its high state. Faith wings the soul beyond the sky, Yes, the glad messenger of love, Born amid mortal cares and fears. Behold of what delusive worth Amid a world of treachery! They vanish ere death shuts the eye, Time steals them from us,-chances strange, Disastrous accidents, and change, Even in the most exalted state, 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, When Time swings wide his outward gate To weary age. |