Postulates, that to thee are so conclusive, Why dost thou take them for the word divine ?" And I: "The proof, which shows the truth to me, Are the works subsequent, whereunto Nature Ne'er heated iron yet, nor anvil beat." 'Twas answered me: "Say, who assureth thee That those works ever were? the thing itself We wish to prove, nought else to thee affirms it." "Were the world to Christianity converted," I said, "withouten miracles, this one Is such, the rest are not its hundredth part; For thou didst enter destitute and fasting Into the field, to plant there the good plant, Which was a vine, and has become a thorn!" This being finished, the high, holy Court Resounded through the spheres, "One God we praise!" In melody that there above is chanted. And then that Baron, who from branch to branch, Till the remotest leaves we were approaching, Did recommence once more: "The Grace that lords it Over thy intellect thy mouth has opened, Up to this point, as it should opened be, So that I do approve what forth emerged; But now thou must express what thou believest, And whence to thy belief it was presented." "O holy father, O thou spirit, who seest What thou believedst, so that thou o'ercamest, Forthwith the manner of my prompt belief, Sole and eterne, who all the heaven doth move, Physical and metaphysical, but gives them In Persons three eterne believe I, and these This the beginning is, this is the spark And, like a star in heaven, is sparkling in me." G Even as a lord, who hears what pleases him, Three times encircled me, when I was silent, TRANSLATIONS. THE GOOD SHEPHERD. FROM THE SPANISH OF LOPE DE VEGA. SHEPHERD! that with thine amorous, sylvan song For thou my shepherd, guard, and guide shalt be; Thy feet all beautiful upon the mountains. O, wait!--to thee my weary soul is crying- 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 Doth meet the look of him who seeks it there, COPLAS DE MANRIQUE. FROM THE SPANISH. DON JORGE MANRIQUE, the author of the following poem, flourished in the last half of the fifteenth century. He followed the profession of arms, and gave brilliant proofs of his valour. He died young-having been mortally wounded in a skirmish near Cunavette, in the year 1479. The following extract is from a majestic poem written by him on the death of his father. It is a great favourite in Spain, and four commen. taries have been published upon it. O LET the soul her slumbers break, Let thought be quickened, and awake; How soon this life is past and gone, And death comes softly stealing on How silently! Swiftly our pleasures glide away, Our hearts recall the distant day The moments that are speeding fast We heed not, but the past-the past— |