“My little child”—­in tears she said—­
  “To wake and weep is mine,
But thou canst sleep—­thou dost not know
  Thy mother’s lot, and thine.

“The moon is up, the moonbeams smile—­
  They tremble on the main;
But dark, within my floating cell,
  To me they smile in vain.

“Thy folded mantle wraps thee warm,
  Thy clustering locks are dry,
Thou dost not hear the shrieking gust,
  Nor breakers booming high.

“As o’er thy sweet unconscious face
  A mournful watch I keep,
I think, didst thou but know thy fate,
  How thou wouldst also weep.

“Yet, dear one, sleep, and sleep, ye winds
  That vex the restless brine—­
When shall these eyes, my babe, be sealed
  As peacefully as thine!”

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 odours rise,
Breathed up from blossoms of a thousand dyes.

  Shadowy, and close, and cool,
The pine and poplar keep their quiet nook;
  For ever fresh and full,
Shines, at their feet, the thirst-inviting brook;
  And the soft herbage seems
Spread for a place of banquets and of dreams.

  Thou, who alone art fair,
And whom alone I love, art far away. 
  Unless thy smile be there,
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. deg.

From the Spanish of Bartolome Leonardo de Argensola.

Blessed, yet sinful one, and broken-hearted! 
  The crowd are pointing at the thing forlorn,
      In wonder and in scorn! 
Thou weepest days of innocence departed;
  Thou weepest, and thy tears have power to move
      The Lord to pity and love.

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,
  Evil and ignorant, and thou shalt rise
      Holy, and pure, and wise.

It is not much that to the fragrant blossom
  The ragged brier should change; the bitter fir
      Distil Arabian myrrh! 
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
  Thick to their tops with roses:  come and see
      Leaves on the dry dead tree: 
The perished plant, set out by living fountains,
  Grows fruitful, and its beauteous branches rise,
      For ever, towards the skies.

THE LIFE OF THE BLESSED.