How oft my guardian angel gently cried, "Soul, from thy casement look, and thou shalt see How he persists to knock and wait for thee!" And, O! how often to that voice of sorrow, "To-morrow we will open," I replied, And when the morrow came I answered still," Tomorrow." THE NATIVE LAND. FROM THE SPANISH OF FRANCISCO DE ALDANA. CLEAR fount of light! my native land on high, Mansion of truth! without a veil or shade, There dwells the soul in its ethereal essence, Beloved country! banished from thy shore, The exiled spirit weeps and sighs for thee! be. THE IMAGE OF GOD. FROM THE SPANISH OF FRANCISCO DE ALDANA. O LORD! that seest, from yon starry height, For ever green shall be my trust in Heaven. |