The veil of cloud was lifted, and below Glowed the rich valley, and the river's flow 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, 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 With sorrows, that thou wouldst forget, Af thou wouldst read a lesson, that will keep hy heart from fainting and thy soul from sleep, | Departs with silent pace! That spirit moves In the green valley, where the silver brook, From its full laver, pours the white cascade; And, babbling low amid the tangled woods, Slips down through moss-grown stones with endless laughter. And frequent, on the everlasting hills, Its feet go forth, when it doth wrap itself In all the dark embroidery of the storm, And shouts the stern, strong wind. And here, amid The silent majesty of these deep woods, Its presence shall uplift thy thoughts from earth, As to the sunshine and the pure, bright air BURIAL OF THE MINNISINK. ON sunny slope and beechen swell, Far upward in the mellow light In the warm blush of evening shone ; But soon a funeral hymn was heard Where the soft breath of evening stirred The tall, gray forest; and a band They sang, that by his native bowers A dark cloak of the roebuck's skin Covered the warrior, and within Its heavy folds the weapons, made For the hard toils of war, were laid; The cuirass, woven of plaited reeds, And the broad belt of shells and beads. Before, a dark-haired virgin train Stripped of his proud and martial Uncurbed, unreined, and riderless, They buried the dark chief; they freed TRANSLATIONS. [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 died on the field of battle. Mariana, in his History of Spain, makes honorable mention of him, as being present at the siege of Uclés; and speaks of him as "a youth of estimable qualities, who in this war gave brilliant proofs of his valor. He died young; 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." He was mortally wounded in a skirmish near Cañavete, in the year 1479. 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 Uclés; but, according to the poem of his son, in Ocaña. 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.] Time steals them from us, chances Earthly desires and sensual lust strange, Disastrous accident, 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, The noble blood of Gothic name, How, in the onward course of time, Some, the degraded slaves of lust, Others, by guilt and crime, maintain Wealth and the high estate of pride, 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 But the fleet coursers of the chase, No foe, no dangerous pass, we heed, And, when the fatal snare is near, Could we new charms to age impart, As we can clothe the soul with light, 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, 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 She, that had been his friend before, The countless gifts, the stately walls, Plate with armorial bearings wrought, The noble steeds, and harness bright, And gallant lord, and stalwart knight, In rich array, Where shall we seek them now? Alas! His brother, too, whose factious zeal What a gay, brilliant court had he, But he was mortal; and the breath, Judgment of God! that flame by thee, Spain's haughty Constable, the true Breathe not a whisper of his pride, The countless treasures of his care, His villages and villas fair, His mighty power, What were they all but grief and shame, The flowing robes, inwrought with gold, Tears and a broken heart, when came 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; |