The night winds howled, the billows dashed Against the tossing chest, As Danae to her broken heart Her slumbering infant pressed.

"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 cl.u.s.tering 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 odors rise, Breathed up from blossoms of a thousand dyes.

Shadowy, and close, and cool, The pine and poplar keep their quiet nook; Forever 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.

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 lining fountains, Grows fruitful, and its beauteous branches rise, Forever, toward the skies.

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!

Nor frost nor heat may blight Thy vernal beauty, fertile sh.o.r.e, Yielding thy blessed fruits for evermore.

There, without crook or sling, Walks the good shepherd; blossoms white and red Round his meek temples cling; And to sweet pastures led, The flock he loves beneath his eye is fed.

He guides, and near him they Follow delighted, for he makes them go Where dwells eternal May, And heavenly roses blow, Deathless, and gathered but again to grow.

He leads them to the height Named of the infinite and long-sought Good, And fountains of delight; And where his feet have stood 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.

From his sweet lute flow forth Immortal harmonies, of power to still All pa.s.sions born of earth, And draw the ardent will Its destiny of goodness to fulfil.

Might but a little part, A wandering breath of that high melody, Descend into my heart, And change it till it be Transformed and swallowed up, oh love, in thee!

Ah! then my soul should know, Beloved! where thou liest at noon of day, And from this place of woe Released, should take its way To mingle with thy flock and never stray.

FATIMA AND RADUAN.

FROM THE SPANISH.

Diamante falso y fingido, Engastado en pedernal, etc.

"False diamond set in flint! hard heart in haughty breast!

By a softer, warmer bosom the tiger's couch is prest.

Thou art fickle as the sea, thou art wandering as the wind, And the restless ever-mounting flame is not more hard to bind.

If the tears I shed were tongues, yet all too few would be To tell of all the treachery that thou hast shown to me.

Oh! I could chide thee sharply--but every maiden knows That she who chides her lover, forgives him ere he goes.

"Thou hast called me oft the flower of all Granada's maids, Thou hast said that by the side of me the first and fairest fades; And they thought thy heart was mine, and it seemed to every one That what thou didst to win my love, for love of me was done.

Alas! if they but knew thee, as mine it is to know, They well might see another mark to which thine arrows go; But thou giv'st me little heed--for I speak to one who knows That she who chides her lover, forgives him ere he goes.

"It wearies me, mine enemy, that I must weep and bear What fills thy heart with triumph, and fills my own with care.

Thou art leagued with those that hate me, and ah! thou know'st I feel That cruel words as surely kill as sharpest blades of steel.

'Twas the doubt that thou wert false that wrung my heart with pain; But, now I know thy perfidy, I shall be well again.

I would proclaim thee as thou art--but every maiden knows That she who chides her lover, forgives him ere he goes."

Thus Fatima complained to the valiant Raduan, Where underneath the myrtles Alhambra's fountains ran.

The Moor was inly moved, and blameless as he was, He took her white hand in his own, and pleaded thus his cause: "Oh lady, dry those star-like eyes--their dimness does me wrong; If my heart be made of flint, at least 'twill keep thy image long.

Thou hast uttered cruel words--but I grieve the less for those, Since she who chides her lover, forgives him ere he goes."