Thy blest approach, and oh, to Heaven how lost, Has chilled the bleeding wounds upon thy feet. "Soul, from thy casement look, and thou shalt see And when the morrow came, I answered still, “Tomorrow." THE NATIVE LAND. FROM THE SPANISH OF FRANCISCO DE ALDANA. CLEAR fount of light! my native land on high, 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 For ever green shall be my trust in Heaven. Shall meet that look of mercy from on high, Doth meet the look of him who seeks it there, THE BROOK. FROM THE SPANISH. LAUGH of the mountain!-lyre of bird and tree! The lap of earth with gold and silver teems, Than golden sands, that charm each shepherd's gaze. 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! THE CELESTIAL PILOT. FROM DANTE. PURGATORIO, II. AND now, behold! as at the approach of morning, Appeared to me,—may I again behold it! And when therefrom I had withdrawn a little Thereafter, on all sides of it, appeared I knew not what of white, and underneath, My master yet had uttered not a word, He cried aloud: "Quick,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 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 But down I cast it; and he came to shore Upon the stern stood the Celestial Pilot! And more than a hundred spirits sat within. "In exitu Israel out of Egypt !" Thus sang they all together in one voice, Then made he sign of holy rood upon them, THE TERRESTRIAL PARADISE. FROM DANTE. PURGATORIO, XXVIII. LONGING already to search in and round Withouten more delay I left the bank, Crossing the level country slowly, slowly, Over the soil, that every where breathed fragrance. A gently-breathing air, that no mutation 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 Should cease the practice of their tuneful art; |