FROM THE SPANISH OF VILLEGAS.

"TIS sweet, in the green Spring,

To gaze upon the wakening fields around;
Birds in the thicket sing,

Winds whisper, waters prattle from the ground;

A thousand odors rise,

Breathed up from blossoms of a thousand dies.

Shadowy, and close, and cool,

The pine and poplar keep their quiet nook; Forever fresh and full,

Shines, at their feet, the thirst-inviting brook; And the soft herbage seems

Spread for a place of banquets and of dreams.

Thou, who alone art fair,
And whom alone I love, art far away.
Unless thy smile be there,

It makes me sad to see the earth so gay;
I care not if the train

Of leaves, and flowers, and zephyrs go again.

THE LIFE OF THE BLESSED.

(FROM THE SPANISH OF LUIS PONCE DE LEON.)

REGION of life and light!

Land of the good whose earthly toils are o'er! Nor frost nor heat may blight

Thy vernal beauty, fertile shore, Yielding thy blessed fruits for evermore!

There, without crook or sling,

Walks the good shepherd; blossoms white and red

Round his meek temples cling;

And, to sweet pastures led,

His own loved flock beneath his eye is fed.

He guides, and near him they Follow delighted, for he makest them go Where dwells eternal May,

And heavenly roses blow, Deathless, and gathered but again to grow.

He leads them to the height Named of the infinite and long-sought Good, And fountains of delight;

And where his feet have stood Springs up, along the way, their tender food.

And when, in the mid skies,

The climbing sun has reached his highest bound,

Reposing as he lies,

With all his flock around,

He witches the still air with numerous sound.

From his sweet lute flow forth Immortal harmonies, of power to still All passions born of earth,

And draw the ardent will Its destiny of goodness to fulfill.

Might but a little part,
A wandering breath of that high melody,
Descend into my heart,

And change it till it be

Transformed and swallowed up, oh love! in thee.

Ah! then my soul should know, Beloved! where thou liest at noon of day, And from this place of woe

Released, should take its way

To mingle with thy flock and never stray.

MARY MAGDALEN.

(FROM THE SPANISH OF BARTOLOME LEONARDO DE ARGENSOLA.)

BLESSED, yet sinful one, and broken-hearted! The crowd are pointing at the thing forlorn,

In wonder and in scorn!

Thou weepest days of innocence departed; Thou weepest, and thy tears have power

to move

The Lord to pity and love.

The greatest of thy follies is forgiven, Even for the least of all the tears that shine

On that pale cheek of thine.

Thou didst kneel down, to Him who came from heaven,

Evil and ignorant, and thou shalt rise
Holy, and pure, and wise.

It is not much that to the fragrant blossom The ragged brier should change; the bitter fir

Distil Arabian myrrh;

Nor that, upon the wintry desert's bosom, The harvest should rise plenteous, and the swain

Bear home the abundant grain.

But come and see the bleak and barren mountains

Thick to their tops with roses; come and

see

Leaves on the dry dead tree:

The perished plant, set out by living foun

tains,

Grows fruitful, and its beauteous branches

rise,

Forever, toward the skies.

THE SIESTA.

(FROM THE SPANISH.)

Vientecico murmurador,
Que lo gozas y andas todo, etc.

AIRS, that wander and murmur round,
Bearing delight where'er ye blow!
Make in the elms a lulling sound,
While my lady sleeps in the shade below.

Lighten and lengthen her noonday rest,
Till the heat of the noonday sun is o'er.
Sweet be her slumbers! though in my breast
The pain she has waked may slumber no

more.

Breathing soft from the blue profound,
Bearing delight where'er ye blow,
Make in the elms a lulling sound,
While my lady sleeps in the shade below.

Airs! that over the bending boughs,
And under the shadows of the leaves,
Murmur soft, like my timid vows

Or the secret sighs my bosom heaves,

Gently sweeping the grassy ground,
Bearing delight where'er ye blow,
Make in the elms a lulling sound,

While my lady sleeps in the shade below.

FROM THE SPANISH

OF PEDRO DE CASTRO Y ANAYA.

STAY, rivulet, nor haste to leave
The lovely vale that lies around thee.
Why wouldst thou be a sea at eve,

When but a fount the morning found thee?

Born when the skies began to glow,
Humblest of all the rock's cold daughters,
No blossom bowed its stalks to show
Where stole thy still and scanty waters.

Now on thy stream the noonbeams look,
Usurping, as thou downward driftest,
Its crystal from the clearest brook,

Its rushing current from the swiftest.

Ah! what wild haste!—and all to be
A river and expire in ocean.
Each fountain's tribute hurries thee
To that vast grave with quicker motion.

Far better 'twere to linger still

In this green vale, these flowers to cherish, And die in peace, an aged rill,

Than thus, a youthful Danube, perish.

THE COUNT OF GREIERS.

(FROM THE GERMAN.)

AT morn the Count of Greiers before his castle stands;

He sees afar the glory that lights the mountain lands;

The horned crags are shining, and in the shade between

A pleasant Alpine valley lies beautifully green.