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Yes, beautiful beyond belief,
But the nearer the dawn the darker the night,
O sun, that followest the night,
The choir is singing the matin song,
“ Nunc plaudite !" the Student cried,
When he had finished; “now applaud,
And generous was the applause and loud,
A sudden wind from out the west
Only far up in the blue sky
Like prisoners from their dungeon gloom,
TRANSLATIONS FROM THE SPANISH AND
COPLAS DE MANRIQUE.
The silent grave!
In one dark wave.
Thither the mighty torrents stray, Our hearts recall the distant day
Thither the brook pursues its way, With many sighs;
And tinkling rill. The moments that are speeding fast
There all are equal. Side by side We heed not, but the past, – the past,
The poor man and the son of pride More highly prize
Lie calm and still.
I will not here invoke the throng Onward its course the present keeps,
Of orators and sons of song, Onward the constant current sweeps,
The deathless few; Till life is done;
Fiction entices and deceives, And, did we judge of time aright,
And, sprinkled o'er her fragrant leaves, The past and future in their flight Lies poisonous dew. Would be as one.
To One alone my thoughts arise, Let no one fondly dream again,
The Eternal Truth, the Good and That Hope and all her shadowy train
Wise,Will not decay;
To Him I cry, Pleeting as were the dreams of old, Who shared on earth our common lot, Remembered like a tale that's told, But the world comprehended not They pass away.
This world is but the rugged road In life's first stage;
When Time swings wide his outward So let us choose that narrow way,
gate Which leads no traveller's foot astray To weary age. From realms of love.
The noble blood of Gothic name, Our cradle is the starting-place,
Heroes emblazoned high to fame, Life is the running of the race,
In long array; We reach the goal
How, in the onward course of time, When, in the mansions of the blest, The landmarks of that race sublime Death leaves to its eternal rest
Were swept away! The weary soul.
Some, the degraded slaves of lust, Did we but use it as we ought,
Prostrate and trampled in the dust, This world would school each wandering
Shall rise no more; thought
Others, by guilt and crime, maintain To its high state.
The scutcheon, that, without a stain, Faith wings the soul beyond the sky,
Their fathers bore. Up to that better world on high,
Wealth and the high estate of pride, For which we wait.
With what untimely speed they glide,
How soon depart! Yes,—the glad messenger of love,
Bid not the shadowy phantoms stay, To guide us to our home above,
The vassals of a mistress they,
Of fickle heart.
These gifts in Fortune's hands are found; A death of shame.
Her swift revolving wheel turns round, Behold of what delusive worth
And they are gone!
No rest the inconstant goddess knows, The bubbles we pursue on earth,
But changing, and without repose,
Still hurries on.
Even could the hand of avarice save And leave no trace.
Its gilded baubles, till the grave Time steals them from us, --chances
Reclaimed its prey,
Let none on such poor hopes rely;
Life, like an empty dream, flits by,
And where are they?
Earthly desires and sensual lust Relentless sweeps the stroke of fate;
Are passions springing from the dust, The strongest fall.
They fade and die;
But, in the life beyond the tomb, Tell me, the charms that lovers seek
They seal the immortal spirit's doom In the clear eye and blushing cheek, Eternally! The hues that play O'er rosy lip and brow of snow,
The pleasures and delights, which mask When hoary age approaches slow, In treacherous smiles life's serious task, Ah, where are they?
What are they, all,
But the fileet coursers of the chase, The cunning skill, the cunning arts, And death an ambush in the race, The glorious strength that youth imparts Wherein we fall ?