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COPLAS DE MANRIQUE.

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.*

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* This poem of Manrique is a great favorite in Spain. No less than four poetic Glosses, or running commen. taries, upon it have been published, no one of which, however, possesses great poetic merit. That of the Car thusian monk, Rodrigo de Valdepenas, is the best. It is known as the Glosa del Cartujo. There is also a prose Commentary by Luis de Aranda.

The following stanzas of the poem were found in the author's pocket, after his death on the field of battle:

"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.

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TRANSLATIONS.

"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.

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And ends in bitter doubts and tears

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 wor

But with a lingering step and slow

Its form departs."

THE GOOD SHEPHERD.

FROM THE SPANISH OF LOPE DE VEGA.

SHEPHERD! that with thine amorous, sylvan

song

Hast broken the slumber which encompassed

me,

That 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,

O, wash away these scarlet sins, for thou
Rejoicest at the contrite sinner's vow.

O, 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!

TO-MORROW.

FROM THE SPANISH OF LOPE DE VEGA

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 O, 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,

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