THE JOURNEY OF LIFE. BENEATH the Waning moon I walk at night, The trampled earth returns a sound of fear- And I, with faltering footsteps, journey on, TRANSLATIONS. VERSION OF A FRAGMENT OF SIMONIDES THE night winds howled-the billows dashed As Danae to her broken heart Her slumbering infant pressed. "My little child"—in tears she said- "The moon is up, the moonbeams smile- 1 "Thy folded mantle wraps thee warm, "As o'er thy sweet unconscious face I think, didst thou but know thy fate, "Yet, dear one, sleep, and sleep, ye winds When shall these eyes, my babe, be sealed FROM THE SPANISH OF VILLEGAS. "TIS sweet, in the green Spring, To gaze upon the wakening fields around; Birds in the thicket sing, Winds whisper, waters prattle from the ground; A thousand odors rise, Breathed up from blossoms of a thousand dyes. Shadowy, and close, and cool, The pine and poplar keep their quiet nook; Shines, at their feet, the thirst-inviting brook; Spread for a place of banquets and of dreams. Thou, who alone art fair, It makes me sad to see the earth so gay; Of leaves, and flowers, and zephyrs go again. MARY MAGDALEN. 157 MARY MAGDALEN. FROM THE SPANISH OF BARTOLOME LEONARDO DE ARGENSOLA. BLESSED, yet sinful one, and broken-hearted! Thou weepest days of innocence departed; The greatest of thy follies is forgiven, Even for the least of all the tears that shine Thou didst kneel down, to Him who came from heaven, It is not much that to the fragrant blossom Nor that, upon the wintry desert's bosom, The harvest should rise plenteous, and the swain Bear home the abundant grain. But come and see the bleak and barren mountains The perished plant, set out by living fountains, THE LIFE OF THE BLESSED. FROM THE SPANISH OF LUIS PONCE DE LEON. REGION of life and light! Land of the good whose earthly toils are o'er! Thy vernal beauty, fertile shore, There, without crook or sling, Walks the good shepherd; blossoms white and red Round his meek temples cling; And to sweet pastures led, His own loved flock beneath his eye is fed. He guides, and near him they And heavenly roses blow, He leads them to the height And where his feet have stood And when, in the mid skies, The climbing sun has reached his highest bound, Reposing as he lies, With all his flock around, He witches the still air with numerous sound. |