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ANTONIO DE VILLEGAS.

SLEEP AND DREAMS.

"En la peña, suso la peña."

On a rock where the moonlight gleam'd, The maiden slept, and the maiden dream'd.

The maiden dream'd, for love had crept
Within her thoughtless heart, and seem'd
To picture him of whom she dream'd.
She dream'd, and did I say she slept?
O no! her brain with visions teem'd:
The maiden on the rocky ground
Sleeps not, if love's wild dreams flit round.

Her heart's perplex'd by mystery,
And passing shades, and misty gleams;
And if she see not what she dreams,
She dreams of what she fain would see;
And 'tis her woe estranged to be,
While on the rocky mountain laid,
From all that cheers a love-sick maid.

And what is love, but dreams which thought,
Wild thought carves out of passion? throwing
Its veil aside, while, wing'd and growing,
The embryo's to existence brought,

False joys, fierce cares, with mysteries fraught;
As who by day of hunger dies,

Dreaming of feasts at midnight lies.

Inventario, Medina del Campo, 1565, p. 68,

LOVE'S EXTREMES.

"Cualquiera que amor siguiere."

EVERY votary of love

Needs must pain and pleasure prove:

Love's delights belong to those

Who have felt love's wants and woes.

Love still bears a double chain,
All his prisoners to bind;
Living,-seek they death in vain ;
Dying,-life in death they find.

When he wounds or kills, he cures,—
When he heals, he seems to kill,-
So the love-torn heart endures

All extremes of good and ill.

Inventario, 57.

ESTEVAN MANUEL DE VILLEGAS.

HOW CALM, HOW SWEET THE PLAIN.

"O cuan dulce y suave."

How calm, how sweet the plain,

When spring walks forth-and gloomy days are gone,
Birds pour their mournful strain,

The winds expire, the streamlets linger on,
And from the flowery bed

Gay smiles awake, and odorous breaths are shed.

The elm tree, and the pine,

Shade from the dazzling of the noontide beam;
A golden amber line

Plays ever sparkling on the gentle stream
Which rolls across the mead-

Food for the mouth,-a pillow for the head.

But thou being absent, all,
Fair maiden! loses every beauty now;

For thy sweet footsteps fall

As fall the morn-rays from the mountain brow,

And gladness and soft joy

Without thee are but sorrow and annoy.

Amatorias, p. 10.

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