Jason. I never made a boast, as some men do, Of my superior virtue, nor denied Nor any solemn funerals at all, Nor sepulchre with thy fathers.-Get thee hence! (Music. Procession of Priests and people, with eitherns, harps, and cymbals. JuDAS MACCABEUS puts himself at their head, and they go into the inner courts.) SCENE III.-JASON, alone. Jason. Through the Gate Beautiful I see them come With branches and green boughs and leaves of palm, And pass into the inner courts. Alas! I should be with them, should be one of them, But in an evil hour, an hour of weakness, That cometh unto all, I fell away The weakness of my nature, that hath From the old faith, and did not clutch the made me And hark! they sing with citherns and | That is not lost nor marred. with cymbals, And all the people fall upon their faces, Alas! to-day I would give everything ACT V. The Mountains of Ecbatana. SCENE I.-ANTIOCHUS; PHILIP; AT TENDANTS, Ant. Where are my players and my dancing Where are my sweet musicians with their That made me merry in the olden time? Philip. All would be well. Ant. Sleep from my eyes is gone, And my heart faileth me for very care. Dost thou remember, Philip, the old fable Told us when we were boys, in which the bear Ant. HERE let us rest awhile. Where Going for honey overturns the hive, And is stung blind by bees? I am that Why did I leave it? Why have I been To plunder Elymais, and be driven Philip. These are fortune's changes. Stung by the Persian swarms of Elymais. Antioch These thoughts will be as covered and As are the tracks of Pharaoh's chariot- Ant. Ah! when I come Again to Antioch! When will that be?; Ant. What a defeat it was! The Per- SCENE II.-ANTIOCHUS; PHILIP; A sian horsemen Came like a mighty wind, the wind Khamaseen, And melted us away, and scattered us But what thou hadst not. Ant. To skip among these stones. Philip. Who saw a little cloud rise from the sea Like a man's hand, and soon the heaven was black With clouds and rain. read; I cannot ; I see that cloud. dim Before mine eyes. Here, Philip, Philip. See that the chariots be in readiness; We will depart forthwith. Ant. It makes the letters Weak as an infant. Ye will have to lead crown. My elephants shall trample him to dust; (Throws up his hands, and sinks into the arms of attendants, who lay him upon a bank.) Philip. Antiochus! Antiochus ! Alas, The King is ill! What is it, O my lord? Ant. Nothing. A sudden and sharp spasm of pain, As if the lightning struck me, or the knife Of an assassin smote me to the heart. 'Tis passed, even as it came. Let us set forward. me. Jove, or Jehovah, or whatever name me, If I knew how to pray, I would entreat O my lord, Thou shalt not die; we will not let thee die ! Ant. How canst thou help it, Philip? Stab after stab. Thou hast no shield against This unseen weapon. God of Israel, Since all the other gods abandon me, Help me. I will release the Holy City, Garnish with goodly gifts the Holy Temple. Thy people, whom I judged to be unworthy To be so much as buried, shall be equal I will become a Jew, and will declare Philip. He faints. It is like death. Bring here the royal litter. We will bear him Into the camp, while yet he lives. O Philip, Ant. land. Philip. Antiochus ! my King! My crown and sceptre, and deliver them Wisheth them joy, prosperity, and health. I who, puffed up with pride and arrogance, If I would but outstretch my hand and take them, Meet face to face a greater potentate, Thought all the kingdoms of the earth King Death-Epiphanes—the Illustrious! mine own, [Dies. TRANSLATIONS. COPLAS DE MANRIQUE. FROM THE SPANISH. [DON JORGE MANRIQUE, the author of the following poem, flourished in the last half of the fifteenth century. He followed the profession of arms, and died on the field of battle. Mariana, in his History of Spain, makes honourable mention of him, as being present at the siege of Uclés; and speaks of him as "a youth of estimable qualities, who in this war gave brilliant proofs of his valour. He died young and was thus cut off from long exercising his great virtues, and exhibiting to the world the light of his genius, which was already known to fame." He was mortally wounded in a skirmish near Cañavete, in the year 1479. The name of Rodrigo Manrique, the father of the poet, Conde de Paredes and Maestre de Santiago, is well known in Spanish history and song. He died in 1476; according to Mariana, in the town of Uclés; but, according to the poem of his son, in Ocaña. It was his death that called forth the poem upon which rests the literary reputation of the younger Manrique. In the language of his historian, "Don Jorge Manrique, in an elegant Ode, full of poetic beauties, rich embellishments of genius, and high moral reflections, mourned the death of his father as with a funeral hymn." This praise is not exaggerated. The poem is a model in its kind. Its conception is solemn and beautiful; and, in accordance with it, the style moves on,-calm, dignified, and majestic.] O LET the soul her slumbers break, How soon this life is past and gone, Swiftly our pleasures glide away, The moments that are speeding fast Onward its course the present keeps, And, did we judge of time aright, Let no one fondly dream again, That Hope in all her shadowy train Fleeting as were the dreams of old, Our lives are rivers, gliding free Thither all earthly pomp and boast Thither the mighty torrents stray, There all are equal; side by side I will not here invoke the throng The deathless few: Fiction entices and deceives, And, sprinkled o'er her fragrant leaves, Lies poisonous dew. To One alone my thoughts arise, The Eternal Truth, the Good and Wise, Who shared on earth our common lot, This world is but the rugged road So let us choose that narrow way, Our cradle is the starting-place, When, in the mansions of the blest, Did we but use it as we ought, This world would school each wandering thought To its high state. Faith wings the soul beyond the sky, Yes, the glad messenger of love, Born amid mortal cares and fears, Behold of what delusive worth Amid a world of treachery! They vanish ere death shuts the eye, Time steals them from us, chances strange, The noble blood of Gothic name, How, in the onward course of time, Some, the degraded slaves of lust, Others, by guilt and crime, maintain Wealth and the high estate of pride, Bid not the shadowy phantoms stay, These gifts in Fortune's hands are found; No rest the inconstant goddess knows, Even could the hand of avarice save Let none on such poor hopes rely; |