And done such deeds of valour 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 Let thy strong heart of steel this day Since thou hast been, in battle-strife, 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, A life of honour 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 The soul in dalliance laid, the spirit But the good monk, in cloistered cell, Shall gain it by his book and bell, His prayers and tears; And the brave knight, whose arm endures 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, And dauntless hand. Cheered onward by this promise sure, Depart, thy hope is certainty, The third-the better life on high "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, where 'tis God's sovereign will That we shall die. O Thou, that for our sins didst take A human form, and humbly make Thou, that to thy divinity A human nature didst ally And in that form didst suffer here Torment and agony and fear So patiently; By thy redeeming grace alone, Oh, 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 led it to its long repose, Its glorious rest! And, though the warrior's sun has set, Its light shall linger round us yet, THE GOOD SHEPHERD. FROM THE SPANISH OF LOPE DE VEGA. SHEPHERD! that with thine amorous, sylvan song Thy feet all beautiful upon the mountains. Oh, wait to thee my weary soul is crying,- With feet nailed to the cross, thou'rt waiting still for me! TO-MORROW. FROM THE SPANISH OF LOPE DE VEGA. LORD, what am I, that, with unceasing care, Oh, strange delusion !—that I did not greet |