THE THRUSH.

"Madre mia aquel pajarillo."

MOTHER of mine! yon tuneful thrush,
That fills with songs the happy grove→
Tell him those joyous songs to hush-
For ah! my nymph has ceased to love.

Tell him to sympathize,-for this
Is music's triumph, music's care;
Persuade him that another's bliss
Makes bitter misery bitterer.

Then bid him leave the emerald bough,
Seek her abode and warble there ;
And if young love has taught him how,
Be love's sweet-tongued interpreter.

He thinks his notes are notes of joy;
That gladness tunes his eager breath,→→

O, tell him, mother mine! that I

Hear in his songs the tones of death!

If, spite of all those prayers of thine,
He still will stay-I'll pray that he
May one day feel these pangs of mine,
And I-his thoughtless ecstasy.

Then mother mine!—persuade the thrush
To charm no more the verdant grove;
Bid him his sweetest music hush-
For ah! my nymph has ceased to love.

Silva de Romances, 1644.

SWEET WERE THE HOURS.

"Dulces eran las horas y cortas."

SWEET were the hours, and short as sweet, Which, lady! I have pass'd with thee; But those were dark and infinite

Which roll'd when thou wert far from me.

For Time-as has been oft express'd,
Is Fancy's handmaid-swift or brief:
How short-how short, alas! for rest!
How long-how long, alas! for grief!

How lightning-wing'd do pleasures fly,
And love's sweet pleasures fleeter yet!
On pinions of rapidity,

That leave but terror, or regret.

In mournful strains they roll along,
Midst hopes deceived and joys bereft ;
While memory's departed throng

Are mourn'd-my joyless memory's left.

I think of days, when morning's flame,
Kindled by thee, shone fair and bright;
And then the dazzling noon-day came,

And then-the solitude of night.

'Twas then-upon the elms, whose feet
The Betis laves-I saw thee write;
O raptured hour!-"I love thee sweet”-
And my heart sparkled at the sight.

Silva de Romances, 1644, p. 130.

AMARYLLIS.

"Mientras duerme la niña."

SHE sleeps ;-Amaryllis
Midst flowerets is laid;
And roses and lilies

Make the sweet shade:

The maiden is sleeping,

Where, through the green hills,

Manzanares is creeping

Along with his rills.

Wake not Amaryllis,

Ye winds in the glade! Where roses and lilies

Make the sweet shade.

The sun, while upsoaring,

Yet tarries awhile,

The bright rays adoring

Which stream from her smile.

The wood-music still is;

To rouse her afraid,

Where roses and lilies

Make the sweet shade.

Silva de Romances, 1644.