THE JOURNEY OF LIFE. BENEATH the waning moon I walk at night, And pitfalls lurk in shade along the ground, The trampled earth returns a sound of fear A hollow sound, as if I walked on tombs; And I, with faltering footsteps, journey on, TRANSLATIONS. VERSION OF A FRAGMENT OF SIMONIDES. THE night winds howled-the billows dashed Her slumbering infant pressed. "My little child"-in tears she said- "The moon is up, the moonbeams smile- "Thy folded mantle wraps thee warm, "As o'er thy sweet unconscious face "Yet, dear one, sleep, and sleep, ye winds 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, And whom alone I love, art far away. It makes me sad to see the earth so gay; I care not if the train Of leaves, and flowers, and zephyrs go again. MARY MAGDALEN. 157 1 MARY MAGDALEN. FROM THE SPANISH OF BARTOLOME LEONARDO DE ARGENSOLA. BLESSED, yet sinful one, and broken-hearted! The crowd are pointing at the thing forlorn, Thou weepest days of innocence departed; The greatest of thy follies is forgiven, Even for the least of all the tears that shine On that pale cheek of thine. 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 Leaves on the dry dead tree: 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! Tielding thy blessed fruits for evermore. There, without crook or sling, Walks the good shepherd; blossoms white and red His own loved flock beneath his eye is fed. He guides, and near him they Deathless, and gathered but again to grow. He leads them to the height Named of the infinite and long-sought Good, Springs up, along the way, their tender food. 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. |