Before my spirit, and an image fair Shall meet that look of mercy from on high, O LORD! who seest, from yon starry As the reflected image in a glass height Centred in one the future and the past [how fast Fashioned in thine own image, see Wet with unhealthy dews, before my gate, And pass the gloomy nights of winter there? O strange delusion! that I did not greet Thy blest approach, and oh, to If my ingratitude's unkindly frost How oft my guardian angel gently cried, "Soul, from thy casement look, and thou shalt see How he persists to knock and wait for thee!" And, oh! how often to that voice of sorrow, "To-morrow we will open," I replied, And when the morrow came, I answered still, To-morrow." THE NATIVE LAND. FROM THE SPANISH OF FRANCISCO DE ALDANA. CLEAR fount of light! my native land on high, Bright with a glory that shall never fade! Mansion of truth! without a veil or shade, Thy holy quiet meets the spirit's eye. There dwells the soul in its ethereal essence, Gasping no longer for life's feeble breath; But. sentinelled in heaven, its glo rious presence With pitying eye beholds, yet fears not, death. Beloved country! banished from thy shore, A stranger in this prison-house of clay, The exiled spirit weeps and sighs for thee! THE CELESTIAL PILOT. FROM DANTE. PURGATORIO, II. AND now, behold! as at the approach of morning, Through the gross vapours, Mars grows fiery red Down in the west upon the ocean floor, Appeared to me,-may I again behold it! A light along the sea, so swiftly coming, Its motion by no flight of wing is equalled. And when therefrom I had withdrawn a little Mine eyes, that I might question my conductor, Again I saw it brighter grown and larger. Thereafter, on all sides of it, appeared I knew not what of white, and underneath, Little by little, there came forth another. My master yet had uttered not a word, While the first whiteness into wings unfolded; But, when he clearly recognized the pilot, He cried aloud: "Quick, quick, and bow the knee ! Behold the Angel of God! fold up thy hands! Henceforward shalt thou see such officers! See, how he scorns all human arguments, So that no oar he wants, nor other sail Than his own wings, between so distant shores ! See, how he holds them, pointed straight to heaven, Fanning the air with the eternal pinions, That do not moult themselves like |