Imagens das páginas

naked and feed the hungry, I would admonish thee for this unseasonable levity. Those, my daughter, who seek to be happy, wed not for the sake of costly dresses-well plenished rooms-and the fatness and fulness of the earth :-these things fade and perish-winter kills man's flocks, and the moths destroy the finest fleeces. Chaste true love is an unsolicited fire-warming, but not burning-glowing alike amid pover ty and wealth-and as flowers grow towards the sun, so grows peace and happiness under the gentle light of true love." "Hear ye that again," cried Jenny, "all ye who come to make another bode for Bodenton. To boot and saddle-to whip and spur some sax score and seven of ye will ye stand till I call Je forth by name." "This is a merry lass," said one of some half-adozen shepherds" od now if I don't think she has more spunk than the bride-and then she's twice as bonny -it's a shame such a quean should live single."

"Thou art a froward lass," said the divine, in a half whisper, to Jenny," a froward lass, but à merry one-I think ye know a secret that will not be long kept-choose us out a bridegroom-and see ye choose a clever one-I shall let a wayward woman have her will in the kirk for once." Jenny glanced her eye on her mistress, and away she went on her mission. "Choose me, lass," said one, "and I'll give thee a handful of gold." "Had ye been less of a fool," whispered Jenny, in the same confidential tone, "I could have made yere fortune." She looked another for a moment in the face and said, "Thou's none of the marrying kind." To a third she whispered," A horse and a half-pint stoup, what wantest thou with a wife?" She muttered in the ear of a fourth, "A fighting cock, a terrier dog, and a bird in a cage, here stands an idle man." crowd seemed unwilling to endure the scrutiny of this shrewd inquisitor, and gave way before her. At


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last she stept suddenly up to a young man in a shepherd's dress-a servant to a neighbouring farmer-and in whom no one had hitherto thought of finding a bridegroom, and laying her hand on his shoulder whispered something in his ear, which sent the blood to his brow. They looked. steadfastly on each other for a moment, and Jenny taking his hand, said, "The minister wants to marry ye, man-can ye come without a crutch?" A titter ran among the women, and a murmur among the men, as this new candidate for the vacant honour of bridegroom made his appearance: the bride took his hand and said, "He is my choice, and I am his-he was friendly to me when I was friendless-he was kind when all were unkind; when others scorned the poor menial maid with her carroty hair and her hame→ made gown, he alone loved me and served me. Since my uncle's death I have had wooers many they fell in love with Bodenton-but none, save this kind lad, ever fell in love with me-and poor though he be, and but modestly clad, he has more of that scarce commodity called common sense, than some seventeen of the proudest of them. So, reverend sir, do what ye have to do-for I'm as fixed in my purpose as Burnswark-hill." "A capital lass-a brave lass-and a merry lass," half shouted the assembled multitude. "Aye, and what is better," said the divine, "a sensible and a discerning lass this choice of thine, bride, will be a credit to us all; and when I have done the deed according to law and gospel, if ye will tarry with your husband and your company, I will preach ye a short and pithy sermon, on the folly and ungainfulness of making holy marriage a matter of barter and profit." "If ye be counselled by me," said Jenny Jardine, "ye will seek your sermon in the watchword of my mistress and me

Another bode for Bodenton'-it's a gallant text, though a profane one." NALLA.



THERE are sublime lessons of morality in some of the old Spanish poets -they seem to march along in all the pomp and pageantry of funereal state. They speak as with an oracular voice. Their discourse is of that death over which they triumph, and which they make the servant of their verse, and the minister of their wisdom. The grave is almost as often the record of man's pride as the witness of his humiliation. He has his revenge on mortality by raising pillars and piles-whether of sculpture or of song-more durable than the poor tenement that mortality has laid in ruins. Death sweeps away the woe-worn creature of years, who in return builds up his monument, which lasts for centuries-deaf to the storm, and reckless of vicissitude. There is a fine flow of solemn truths in Jorge Manrique's Glosa on his departed friend. These are extracts.


Recuerde el alma dormida

abiue el seso y despierte


como se passa la vida,

como se viene la muerte tan callando:

Quan presto se va el plazer,

como despues de acordado da dolor,

como a nuestro parecer qualquiera tiempo passado fue mejor.

Nuestras vidas son los rios que van a dar en la mar, que es el morir,

allà van los señorios

derechos a se acabar

y consumir :

alli los rios caudales, alli los otros medianos y mas chicos,

allegados son iguales

los que viuen por sus manos y los ricos.

Si fuesse en nuestro poder tornar la cara hermosa corporal,

como podemos hazer el anima gloriosa angelical,

que diligencia tan viva tuuieramos cada hora,

y tan presta,

en componer la cautiua,

y dexar a la señora descompuesta.

Ved de quan poco valor son las cosas tras q andamos y corremos,

que en este mundo traydor, aun primero que muramos


Awake, awake, my sleeping soul,

Rouse from thy dreams of hope and fear:
And think, and see

How soon life's busy moments roll,

How soon the hour of death draws near!
How silently!

How swiftly hurrying joy glides by!

And nought but sorrow's shade remains
Of vanish'd bliss!

Yet sweeter is the memory

Of other moments' griefs and pains
Than joys in this.

Our lives are rivers flowing on
To that interminable sea,

The mighty grave:

There go-as there have ever gone,

All pomp, and pride, and royalty,

Which nought can save.

There roll the mountain's rapid streams,

There rolls the little gentle rill,

There mingle all—

Lost in that ocean-tide which seems

To swallow-though unsated still
The great-the small.

O could we but adorn the face,
The corporal face, with skilful art,
And beauty rare!

As we might clothe with glorious grace,
And angel charms, our brighter part,
And all that's fair-

O what industrious, busy will,
What passion and what ardour we
Should bring, to deck

The sensual captive with our skill,
While the bright soul of liberty
Might go to wreck!

O mark of what delusive worth

The fleeting things for which we sigh!
Satisfied never;

For, in this vain deceitful earth,
We lose them ev'n before we die,

las perdemos.

Dellas deshace la edad,
dellas cosas desastradas
que acaecen,
dellas por su calidad

en los mas altos estados

Los plazeres y dulçores
desta vida trabajosa
que tenemos,

Que son, sino corredores, y la muerte la celada

en que caemos;

No mirando nuestro daño corremos a rienda suelta

sin parar,
Quando verms el engaño
y queremos dar la buelta
no ay lugar.

Estos Reyes poderosos,
que vemos por escrituras
ya passadas,

pa casos tristes llorosos, fueron sus buenas venturas trastornadas;

Assi que no ay cosa fuerte a Papas, ni Emperadores, ni Perlados,

que assi los trata la muerte como a los pobres pastores de ganados.

Dexemos a los Troyanos, que sus males no los vimos, ni sus glorias, Dexemos a los Romanos, aunque oymos, y leymos sus historias:

no curemos de saber

lo de aquel siglo passado
que fué dello,
Vengamos a lo de ayer
que tambien es oluidado
como aquello.

No se os haze tan amarga
la batalla temerosa
que esperais;

Pues otra vida mas larga
de fama tan gloriosa
acà dexais.

Aunque esta vida de honor
tampoco no es eternal
verdadera :

Mas con todo es muy mejor que la otra corporal perecedera.

El viuir que es perdurable no se gana con estados mundanales,

JAN. 1824.

Yes! lose for ever;

And time destroys them in its way,
Vicissitude and accident,

And busy change;

All bear the seeds of self-decay,
And o'er the heights most eminent,
The tempests range.

The dazzling dreams, the luscious sweets,
Which round life's gloomy passage dwell,
Are convent walls,

Where pilgrim oft with pilgrim meets,
And hastens to death's gloomy cell,
And then he falls.

We reck not, but with breathless speed
We hasten o'er the travell'd track

As driven by fate

Then stop-Death calls-"Take heed, take heed,"

And then we fain would hurry back,
But 'tis too late.

We read of mighty monarchs driven
From highest pomp to low distress
In ancient days;

Their sceptres and their glories riven,
Their strength reduced to helplessness,
And dimm'd their praise.

Death treats all mortal things the same;
And pope and prelate, king and count,
Alike he shocks.

He heeds no rank, respects no name,
Calls seer, or shepherd on the mount,
Or senseless flocks.

The Trojans are in darkness laid,
And all they thought and all they did,
Their losses-gains-

The Roman history's veil'd in shade,
That tower'd as towers a pyramid-
But nought remains.

Why should we seek the vain display
Of distant ages, treasured not
In memory's hold,—

When the events of yesterday
Are vanish'd all-are all forgot
As deeds of old?

The battle to be fought,-though hard,
Is far less dreadful than it seems,-
Come on! Come on!

For thou wilt gain a rich reward
In that bright memory which streams
From victories won.-

There is a life which virtue lives

In men's deep hearts enshrined, though this
Is passing too;

Yet the long-living fame, that gives
An earthly heav'n to worth,—is bliss
And glory true.

This is the second life,-the best
Was never gain'd in mortal strife,
Nor mundane joy,


Ni con vida delectable
donde moran los pecados

Mas los buenos Religiosos
gananlo con oraciones,
y con lloros.

Los caualleros famosos
con trabajo y aflicciones,
contra Moros.

No gastemos tiempo ya en esta vida mezquina por tal modo;

Que mi voluntad està conforme con la diuiha para todo.

Que consciente en mi morir 3 con voluntad plazentera clara y pura?

Que querer el hombre viuir quado Dios quiere que muera es locura.

Tu que por nuestra maldad tomaste forma ciuil y baxo nombre, Tu que a tu diuinidad

juntaste cosa tan vil como el hombre.

Tu que tan gran agravemientos

sufriste con resistencia

en tu persona:

No por mis merecimientos, mas por tu santa clemencia me perdona.

Nor in the scenes of ease and rest,

Nor 'midst the murderous sins of life,
Which life destroy;

But in devotion's sainted cell,

Where monks and hermits pass their time
In prayers and woes;

And by bold warriors, who repel,
'Midst dangers, toils, and deeds sublime,
The Moorish foes.

Let's waste no words,-for calm and still
I wait-obey; no idle speech

Submission needs;

For that, which is my Maker's will,
Shall be my will,-whate'er it teach,
Where'er it leads.

I'm ready now to die.-I give
My soul to heaven resignedly-
To death's great change:
For to desire and long to live,
When God decrees that we shall die,
Were folly strange.

Thou who didst bend thee from above,
And take a mean and worthless name,
O sovereign grace!

Thou who didst clothe thee in thy love
With the low weeds of human shame,
To save our race:

Thou who didst bear the stripes abhorr'd,
And give thy sacred name to bear
All mortal pain!

Not for my merit-heavenly Lord!
But for thy mercies-hear me-hear!
And pardon then!

Yet if ever the staid and sober brow of religion was adorned with garlands of flowers-if ever she was led by cheerfulness into the daily walks of the world—if ever she was courted by the smiles of poetry and of natural joy—it was in Spain. True, she had a terrible aspect, and a scourge of vipers for those she hated; but on the simple, untutored, obedient spirits that followed in her gorgeous train, she breathed nothing but peace, and beauty, and blessedness. Their devotion had none of the high abstractions of philosophy, neither had it any of philosophy's doubts and fears. They believed and felt-they felt and believed. Their creed intermingled itself with their social affections—their devotion was fed by every-day objects-over which their romanceros threw the lustre of poetical imagery, and which their priests enlisted in the service of religion.


Oveja perdida, ven sobre mis hombros, que hoy no solo tu pastor soy, sino tu pasto tambien. Por descubrirte mejor cuando balabas perdida,, dejé en un árbol la vida donde me subió tu amor : si prenda quieres mayor mis obras hoy te la den: veja perdida! ven!

Come, wandering sheep, O come!
'I'll bind thee to my breast,

I'll bear thee to thy home,
And lay thee down to rest.

I saw thee stray forlorn,
And heard thee faintly cry,
And on the tree of scorn,
For thee I deign'd to die-
What greater proof could I
Give, than to seek the tomb?
Come, wandering sheep, O come!

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Antes que á Belen partamos
dime por tu vida, Blas,
á que viene de los cielos
este infante celestial?
"A traer al mundo paz,

66 que es de todos los humanos "la mayor felicidad!"

A que viene desde el trono
de su excelsa Magestad,
al limite de un pesebre,
al estrecho de un portal?
"A traer al mundo paz,
66 que es de todos los humanos
"la mayor felicidad!"

A que viene siendo eterno
disfrazado en lo mortal,
quien solo para su gloria
hizo la immortalidad?
"A traer al mundo paz,

66 que es de todos los humanos "la mayor felicidad !

Pues si á darnos paz viene
vamos, pastor, allá ;
que no hay mayor ventura
que una dichosa paz !

While to Bethlem we are going,
Tell me, Blas, to cheer the road,
Tell me why this lovely infant
Quitted his divine abode ?
"From that world to bring to this
Peace, which, of all earthly blisses,
Is the brightest, purest bliss."
Wherefore from his throne exalted,
Came he on his earth to dwell-
All his pomp an humble manger,
All his court a narrow cell?
"From that world to bring to this
Peace, which, of all earthly blisses,
Is the brightest, purest, bliss."
Why did he, the Lord eternal,
Mortal pilgrim deign to be,
He who fashion'd for his glory
Boundless immortality?
"From that world to bring to this
Peace, which, of all earthly blisses,
Is the brightest, purest bliss."

Well, then! let us haste to Bethlem,
Thither let us haste and rest:
For of all heaven's gifts the sweetest
Sure is peace-the sweetest, best.,

The pastoral romances too are generally the very portraiture of genuine sentiment-undefaced by the decorations and delusions of artificial society. Their charms are not extraneous. They are varied; they are pure and passionate. They have nothing of the mysticism of civilization, nor of the adorning of deceit.

Sañosa está la niña,

ay Dios! quien le hablaría!

En la sierra anda la niña su ganado à repastar, hermosa como las flores, sañosa como la mar: sañosa está la niña, ay Dios! quien le hablaría.


The maiden is disquieted,

Who shall break on her footsteps' tread ?

She is wandering o'er the mountain there,
Her flocks around her be;

She is fair as the brightest flowers are fair,
But troubled like the sea.
The maiden is disquieted,

Who shall break on her footsteps' tread?
Gil. Vicente.


Porque olvidas el rebaño ? mira, pastor, que es mancilla, -Ay! Pascual que Bartolilla es causa de tanto daño.

Nay! shepherd, nay! thou art unwary—
Thy flocks are wandering far away;
Alas! I know it well-'tis Mary
Who leads my troubled thoughts astray.

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