THE BURIED WOE.

"De dentro tengo mi mal."

My woe is buried deep within;
Without no evidence is seen.

My woe, within my heart enshrin'd,
Is veil❜d from every mortal eye;
The body knows no sympathy,

That's the proud privilege of the mind.
'Tis like a living spark that's hid

Beneath an alabaster lid:

My woe is buried deep in me.

Idem.

CARTAGENA.

NO, THAT CAN NEVER BE.

"Partir quiero yo."

YES! I must leave,-O, yes!
But not the thoughts of thee,
For that can never be.

To absence, loneliness,

"Tis vain,-'tis vain to flee;

I see thee not the less,

When memory's shades I see;
And how can I repress

The rising thoughts of thee?
No! that can never be.

Yet must I leave ;-the grave

Shall be a home for me,
Where fetter'd grief shall have
A portion with the free.
I, other than a slave

To thy strange witchery,
Can never, never be !

Cancionero General, Valencia, 1511, p. 147.

PAIN IN PLEASURE.

"Voluntud no trabajeis."

O LABOR not, impatient will!
With anxious thought and busy care,
Whatever be thy doom,-whate'er
Thy power, or thy perverseness,-still
A gem of sorrow will be there.

If thou wilt think of moments gone,
Of joys as exquisite as brief,
Know, Memory, when she lingers on
Past pleasure, turns it all to grief.
The struggling toil for bliss is vain,
The dreams of hope are vainer yet,
The end of glory is regret,

And death is but the goal of pain,

And memory's eye with tears is wet.

Cancionero General, Valencia, 1511, p. 124.

CRISTOVAL DE CASTILLEJO.

WOMEN.

66

Sinmugeres."

How dreary and lone
The world would appear

If women were none !

"Twould be like a fair,

With neither fun nor business there.

Without their smile,

Life would be tasteless, vain, and vile;

A chaos of perplexity,

A body without a soul 'twould be ;

A roving spirit, borne

Upon the winds forlorn ;

A tree without or flowers or fruit,

A reason with no resting place,
A castle with no governor to it,
A house without a base.
What are we? what our race?
How good for nothing and base
Without fair woman to aid us!

What could we do? where should we go?
How should we wander in night and woe,

But for woman to lead us?

How could we love if woman were not?
Love-the brightest part of our lot;

Love the only charm of living;
Love-the only gift worth giving?

Who would take charge of your house, say who?

Kitchen, and dairy, and money-chest?

Who but the women, who guard them best;

Guard, and adorn them too?

Who like them has a constant smile,

Full of peace, of meekness full,

When life's edge is blunt and dull,
And sorrow and sin, in frowning file,
Stand by the path in which we go

Down to the grave through wasting woe?
All that is good is theirs, is theirs,—
All we give and all we get;

And if a beam of glory yet
Over the gloomy earth appears,

O, 'tis theirs!-O, 'tis theirs!

They are the guard,-the soul,-the seal

Of human hope and human weal:

They,-they,-none but they!

Woman,-sweet woman,-let none say nay!

Obras. Amberes, 1598, p. 166.