PEDRO DE PADILLA.

THE CHAINS OF LOVE.

"Bien haya quien hizo."

O BLEST be he! O blest be he!

Let him all blessings prove,

Who made the chains, the shining chains,
The holy chains of love.

There's many a maiden bright and fair

Upon our village green;

But what bright maiden can compare
With thee, my Geraldine?

O blest be she! O blest be she!

Let her all blessings prove,

A swain there lives whose every thought
Is bound by her control.

His heart, his soul are hers, and nought

Can sever soul from soul:

So sure the chains, the shining chains,

The holy chains of love.

Tesoro de varias Poesias. Madrid, 1580, p. 451.

THE WANDERING KNIGHT.

"La sierra es alta."

THE mountain towers with haughty brow,
Its paths deserted be;

The streamlets through their currents flow,
And wash the mallows tree.

O mother mine! O mother mine!
That youth so tall and fair,

With lips that smile, and eyes that shine,
I saw him wandering there.

I saw him there when morning's glow
Was sparkling on the tree,—
With my five fingers, from below,

I beckon'd," Come to me."

The streamlets through their currents flow,

And wash the mallows tree.

Idem, p. 450.

CONCEALED PASSION.

"Todos piensan que no quiero."

THEY know not that I love, while I
Despairing die.

The flame which burns within the heart
Can find no outlet through the tongue,
And so they know not that the smart
Is fix'd so deep, has burnt so long;
And thus they call the mighty throng
Of passion,-fleeting whim, while I
Despairing die.

They talk of liberty to me

To me, in heaviest fetters bound!

As if or peace, or liberty,

Flitted a wasting heart around;

And so my thoughts they would confound
With tales of treacherous love-while I
Despairing die.

This is Love's dart of waywardness,

These are the weapons Love employs; And so he sports with man's distress,

And trifles thus with human joys.

They know not how his will annoys
My heart: they hold me free, while I
Despairing die.

The tumult busy in my breast

I name not; so-short-sighted men!
They call me, as they deem me, blest,
And oft they turn to me again,

And say, "You never knew love's pain,
O happy, happy maid!"-while I
Despairing die.

No wonder: never from the cell
Of my affections has a word
Escaped: he knows, he knows it well,
Who in that sacred spot interr'd
Lies smiling. I have often heard
Words of reproachful guise; but I
Despairing die.

And I have worn deceit so long,

That if my heart gives utterance now
To its old love-though firm and strong-
They'll turn to scorn the honest vow,
Laugh at despair, and so allow

My spirit to be martyr'd. I
Despairing die.

Idem, p. 285.

LOVE.

“ Hace el Amor lo que quiere.”

LOVE does whate'er he likes, 'tis true,

But never what he ought to do..

It is, I find, his royal will

That I, o'erpower'd by love, should die, And so 'tis his delight to fill

My cup with varied misery:

He tries my heart with every ill
That mortal patience ever knew,
Which surely he ought not to do!

There is no grief, there is no pain,
Which he inflicts not: when I fall

Subdued, he rouses me again,

And but to visit me with all

That ever bid a heart complain:

His embers do his birth renew,
Which, surely, they need not to do!

It would become him well to give,
For sorrows deep, and sufferings long,
One gleam of joy, one short reprieve,

One thought of bliss 'midst misery's throng.