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THE BROOK. Laugh of the mountain !-lyre of bird and tree! Pomp of the meadow! mirror of the morn! The soul of April, unto whom are born The rose and jessamine, leaps wild in thee! Although, where'er thy devious current strays, The lap of earth with gold and silver teems, To me thy clear proceeding brighter seems Than golden sands that charm each shepherd's gaze. How without guile thy bosom, all transparent As the pure crystal, lets the curious eye Thy secrets scan, thy smooth, round pebbles count! How, without malice murmuring, glides thy current! O sweet simplicity of days gone by! Thou shun'st the haunts of man, to dwell in limpid fount!

SANTA TERESA'S BOOK-MARK.

FROM SANTA TERESA.
LET nothing disturb thee,
Nothing affright thee;
All things are passing;
God never changeth;
Patient endurance
Attaineth to all things;
Who God possesseth
In nothing is wanting;
Alone God sufficeth.

SONG.*

FROM THE PORTUGUESE.
IF thou art sleeping, maiden,

Awake, and open thy door:
'Tis the break of day, and we must away,

O’er meadow, and mount, and moor.
Wait not to find thy slippers,

But come with thy naked feet:
We shall have to pass through the dewy grass,

And waters wide and feet.
* This song is inserted in "The Spanish Student."

.

TO-MORROW.

FROM LOPE DE VEG

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?
O strange delusion!—that I did not greet
Thy blest approach, and 0, 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,
“ 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 FRANCISCO DE ALDANA. CLEAR fount of light! my native land on high, Bright with a glory that shall never fade! Mansion of truth! without a veil or shade, Thy holy quiet meets the spirit's eye. There dwells the soul in its ethereal essence, Gasping no longer for life's feeble breath; But sentinelled in heaven, its glorious presence With pitying eye beholds, yet fears not, death. Beloved country! banished from thy shore, A stranger in this prison-house of clay, The exiled spirit weeps and sighs for thee! Heavenward the bright perfections I adore Direct, and the sure promise cheers the way, That, whither love aspires, there shall my dwelling be.

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THE IMAGE OF GOD.

FROM FRANCISCO DE ALDANA. O LORD! that seest, from yon starry height, Centred in one the future and the past, Fashioned in thine own image, see how fast The world obscures in me what once was bright! Eternal Sun! the warmth which thou hast given To cheer life's flowery April, fast decays; Yet, in the hoary winter of my days, For ever green shall be my trust in Heaven. Celestial King! O let thy presence pass Before my spirit, and an image fair 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.

TRANSLATIONS FROM THE ITALIAN.

THE CELESTIAL PILOT.

FROM DANTE. PURGATORIO, II.

And now, behold! as at the approach of morning,
Through the gross vapours, Mars grows fiery red
Down in the west upon the ocean floor,

Appeared to me-may I again behold it!-
A light along the sea, so swiftly coming,
Its motion by no flight of wing is equalled.
And when therefrom I had withdrawn a little
Mine eyes, that I might question my conductor,
Again I saw it brighter grown and larger.

Thereafter, on all sides of it, appeared
I knew not what of white, and underneath,
Little by little, there came forth another.

My master yet had uttered not a word,
While the first brightness into wings unfolded
But, when he clearly recognised the pilot,
He cried aloud : “Quick, quick, and bow the knee !
Behold the Angel of God! fold up thy hands !
Henceforward shalt thou see such officers !

“ See how he scorns all human arguments,

So that no oar he wants, nor other sail
Than his own wings, between so distant shores!

“See, how he holds them, pointed straight to heaven, Fanning the air with the eternal pinions, That do not moult themselves like mortal hair !"

And then, as nearer and more near us came
The Bird of Heaven, more glorious he appeared,
So that the eye could not sustain his presence.

But down I cast it; and he came to shore
With a small vessel, gliding swift and light,
So that the water swallowed nought thereof.

Upon the stern stood the Celestial Pilot!
Beatitude seemed written in his face!
And more than a hundred spirits sat within.

In exitu Israel de Ægypto !

Thus sang they altogether in one voice,
With whatso in that Psalm is after written.
Then made he sign of holy rood upon them,
Whereat all cast themselves upon the shore,
And he departed swiftly as he came.

THE TERRESTRIAL PARADISE.

FROM DANTE. PURGATORIO, XXVIII.

LONGING already to search in and round
The heavenly forest, dense and living green,
Which to the eyes tempered the new-born day,

Withouten more delay I left the bank,
Crossing the level country slowly, slowly,
Over the soil, that everywhere breathed fragrance.

Hu?

A gently-breathing air, that no mutation
Had in itself, smote me upon the forehead,
No heavier blow, than of a pleasant breeze,
Whereat the tremulous branches readily
Did all of them bow downward towards that side
Where its first shadow casts the Holy Mountain;

Yet not from their upright direction bent
So that the little birds upon their tops
Should cease the practice of their tuneful art;

But, with full-throated joy, the hours of prime
Singing received they in the midst of foliage
That made monotonous burden to their rhymes,

Even as from branch to branch it gathering swells, Through the pine forests on the shore of Chiassi, When Æolus unlooses the Sirocco.

Already my slow steps had led me on
Into the ancient wood so far, that I
Could see no more the place where I had entered.

And lo! my farther course cut off a river
Which, towards the left hand, with its little waves,
Bent down the grass, that on its margin sprang.

All waters that on earth most limpid are,
Would seem to have within themselves some mixture,
Compared with that, which nothing doth conceal,

Although it moves on with a brown, brown current,
Under the shade perpetual, that never
Ray of the sun lets in, nor of the moon.

BEATRICE.

FROM DANTE. PURGATORIO, XXX. XXXI.

EVEN as the Blessèd, at the final summons
Shall rise up quickened, each one from his grave,
Wearing again the garments of the flesh;

So, upon that celestial chariot,
A hundred rose ad vocem tanti senis,
Ministers and messengers of life eternal.

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