TO-MORROW. FROM THE SPANISH OF LOPE DE VEGA. LORD, what am I, that, with unceasing care, Thou didst seek after me, that thou didst wait, Wet with unhealthy dews, before my gate, And pass the gloomy nights of winter there? Thy blest approach, and O, to Heaven how lost, If my ingratitude's unkindly frost Has chilled the bleeding wounds upon thy feet. How oft my guardian angel gently cried, And, O! how often to that voice of sorrow, And when the norrow 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, Beloved country! banished from thy shore, Direct, and the sure promise cheers the way, 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, Fashioned in thine own image, see how fast Yet, in the hoary winter of my days, For ever green shall be my trust in Heaven. |