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The soul in dalliance laid, the spirit
Corrupt with sin, shall not inherit
A joy so great.

But the good monk, in cloistered cell,

Shall gain it by his book and bell,

His prayers and tears;

And the brave knight, whose arm endures

Fierce battle, and against the Moors

His standard rears.

And thou, brave knight, whose hand has poured The life-blood of the Pagan horde

O'er all the land,

In heaven shalt thou receive, at length,
The guerdon of thine earthly strength
And dauntless hand.

"Cheered onward by this promise sure, Strong in the faith entire and pure Thou dost profess,

Depart, thy hope is certainty,

The third, the better life on high
Shalt thou possess."

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"O Death, no more, no more delay;
My spirit longs to flee away,
And be at rest;

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The will of Heaven my will shall be,
I bow to the divine decree,

To God's behest.

My soul is ready to depart,

No thought rebels, the obedient heart

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Breathes forth no sigh;

The wish on earth to linger still

Were vain, when 't is God's sovereign will That we shall die.

"O thou, that for our sins didst take

A human form, and humbly make
Thy home on earth;

Thou, that to thy divinity

A human nature didst ally
By mortal birth,

"And in that form didst suffer here

Torment, and agony, and fear,
So patiently;

By thy redeeming grace alone,
And not for merits of my own,
Oh, pardon me!"

As thus the dying warrior prayed,
Without one gathering mist or shade
Upon his mind;

Encircled by his family,

Watched by affection's gentle eye

So soft and kind;

His soul to Him who gave

it rose ;

God lead it to its long repose,

Its glorious rest!

And, though the warrior's sun has set,
Its light shall linger round us yet,
Bright, radiant, blest.

SONNETS.

I.

THE GOOD SHEPHERD.

(EL BUEN PASTOR.)

BY LOPE DE VEGA.

The five following sonnets are from the Coplas de Manrique volume, where they were printed with the Spanish text on the opposite pages. Two other sonnets in that volume, not retained when the volume was merged in Voices of the Night, will be found in the Appendix. The two Lope de Vega sonnets are from his Rimas Sacras.

SHEPHERD! Who with thine amorous, sylvan song Hast broken the slumber that encompassed me, Who mad'st thy crook from the accursed tree, On which thy powerful arms were stretched so. long!

Lead me to mercy's ever-flowing fountains;

For thou my shepherd, guard, and guide shalt

be;

I will obey thy voice, and wait to see

Thy feet all beautiful upon the mountains.
Hear, Shepherd! thou who for thy flock art dying,
Oh, wash away these scarlet sins, for thou
Rejoicest at the contrite sinner's vow.

Oh, wait! to thee my weary soul is crying,
Wait for me! Yet why ask it, when I see,
With feet nailed to the cross, thou 'rt waiting
still for me!

Line 1. Shepherd! that with thine amorous, sylvan song
Line 3. That madest thy crook from the accursed tree,
Line 9. Hear, Shepherd! - thou that for thy flock art dying,

Who made the bravest and the best

The bondsmen of their high behest,
Their underlings;

What was their prosperous estate,
When high exalted and elate

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What, but a transient gleam of light,

A flame, which, glaring at its height,
Grew dim and died?

So many a duke of royal name,
Marquis and count of spotless fame,
And baron brave,

That might the sword of empire wield,
All these, O Death, hast thou concealed
In the dark grave!

Their deeds of mercy and of arms,
In peaceful days, or war's alarms,
When thou dost show,

O Death, thy stern and angry face,
One stroke of thy all-powerful mace
Can overthrow.

Unnumbered hosts, that threaten nigh, Pennon and standard flaunting high, And flag displayed ;

High battlements intrenched around, Bastion, and moated wall, and mound, And palisade,

Line 19. O death, thy stern and cruel face,

And covered trench, secure and deep,
All these cannot one victim keep,

O Death, from thee,

When thou dost battle in thy wrath,

And thy strong shafts pursue their path Unerringly.

O World! so few the years we live, Would that the life which thou dost give Were life indeed!

Alas! thy sorrows fall so fast,

Our happiest hour is when at last
The soul is freed.

Our days are covered o'er with grief,
And sorrows neither few nor brief
Veil all in gloom;

Left desolate of real good,

Within this cheerless solitude

No pleasures bloom.

Thy pilgrimage begins in tears,

And ends in bitter doubts and fears,

Or dark despair;

Midway so many toils appear,

That he who lingers longest here

Knows most of care.

Thy goods are bought with many a groan,

By the hot sweat of toil alone,

And weary hearts;

Fleet-footed is the approach of woe,

Line 10. But thy sorrows fall so fast,

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