"It avails not," Frithiof answered; "in the North are other swords; Sharp, O monarch, is the sword's tongue, and it speaks not peace ful words, Murky spirits dwell in steel-blades, spirits from the Niffelhem, Slumber is not safe before them, silver locks but anger them." Spanish. COPLAS DE MANRIQUE. OH, let the soul her slumbers break, How soon this life is past and gone, Swiftly our pleasures glide away, With many sighs; The moments that are speeding fast We heed not, but the past,-the past, More highly prize. Onward its course the present keeps, And, did we judge of time aright, The past and future in their flight Let no one fondly dream again, That Hope and all her shadowy train Ꮓ Fleeting as were the dreams of old, Our lives are rivers, gliding free Thither, all earthly pomp and boast Thither the mighty torrents stray, There all are equal. Side by side I will not here invoke the throng The deathless few; Fiction entices and deceives, And sprinkled o'er her fragrant leaves To One alone my thoughts arise, The Eternal Truth,-the Good and Wise, To Him I cry, Who shared on earth our common lot, This world is but the rugged road Of peace above; So let us choose that narrow way Our cradle is the starting-place, In life we run the onward race, And reach the goal; When, in the mansions of the blest, The weary soul. Did we but use it as we ought, This world would school each wandering thought To its high state. Faith wings the soul beyond the sky, Up to that better world on high, Yes, the glad messenger of love, Born amid mortal cares and fears, Behold of what delusive worth The bubbles we pursue on earth, The shapes we chase, Amid a world of treachery! They vanish ere death shuts the eye, And leave no trace. Time steals them from us,-chances strange, Disastrous accidents, and change, That come to all; Even in the most exalted state, Relentless sweeps the stroke of fate; The strongest fall. Tell me,-the charms that lovers seek The hues that play O'er rosy lip and brow of snow, When hoary age approaches slow, Ah, where are they? The cunning skill, the curious arts, The glorious strength that youth imparts In life's first stage; These shall become a heavy weight, When Time swings wide his outward gate To weary age. The noble blood of Gothic name, How, in the onward course of time, The landmarks of that race sublime Some, the degraded slaves of lust, Others by guilt and crime maintain Wealth and the high estate of pride, Bid not the shadowy phantoms stay, Of fickle heart. These gifts in Fortune's hands are found; Her swift-revolving wheel turns round, And they are gone! No rest the inconstant goddess knows, But changing, and without repose, Still hurries on. Even could the hand of avarice save Its gilded baubles, till the grave Reclaimed its prey, Let none on such poor hopes rely ; Life, like an empty dream, flits by, And where are they? Earthly desires and sensual lust Are passions springing from the dust,— They fade and die; But in the life beyond the tomb, They seal the immortal spirit's doom The pleasures and delights, which mask In treacherous smiles life's serious task, What are they, all, But the fleet coursers of the chase, And death an ambush in the race, Wherein we fall? 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 bour To deck the sensual slave of sin, Yet leave the freeborn soul within In weeds of woe! Monarchs, the powerful and the strong? Famous in history and in song Of olden time, Saw, by the stern decrees of fate, Their kingdoms lost, and desolate Their race sublime. Who is the champion? who the strong? Pontiff and priest, and sceptered throng? On these shall fall As heavily the hand of Death, As when it stays the shepherd's breath Beside his stall. I speak not of the Trojan name, Has met our eyes; Nor of Rome's great and glorious dead, Though we have heard so oft, and read Their histories. Little avails it now to know Of ages past so long ago, And how they rolled; |