Heaven's light ne'er led his knighthood's roving sails; But the bright cause his error countervails, And heavenly beauty pleads for love's excess. So now the lamb with cub of wolf must mate; The dove must take the raven to her nest; Our palace, like the old ark, must shelter all: Confusion, as of Babylon the great,

Is round us, and the faith of Spain, oppress'd By fine state-reason, trembles to its fall.

RHYMES ON THE MINISTRY OF OLIVARES.

The king a child,-the favourite, king,
Vice-favourites round him many a one :

A President, who cannot bring

His mind to dwell beneath the moon : The Confessor, an ox that might

For sleekness win the prize at show: Cheap ministers, whose rule of right

Veers round with all court-winds that blow;

Slaves, that to upstart favourite pay

The worship due to truth and heaven,
And in their idol's refuge pray

To find all past offence forgiven :—
When flesh and blood make league so strong,
And prudent Mammon serves his friends,
Well fare the world, where present wrong
For older wrong makes sweet amends!

GONGORA

ON THE DEATH OF VILLAMEDIANA.

He lies in earth's dark bed,

Whose living rancour vex'd our noblest dead;

The bloodstain'd breast is bare,

Which search'd all other breasts, and would not spare.

He who before his fall

Spoke wildly, more than wisdom bade, of all,

Dies unregarded;-none

Speak of his fate, or mourn his spirit gone.
Mute silence best may veil

The sin, the shame, the terror of the tale.
How should that spirit fell,

That spoke so ill in life, in death speak well?
First courier of ill news he fain would be ;
Such losing office none might seek but he :
But Death indignant, ere his task was done,
The posting mischief in its course outrun ;
And shamed to brook, that tongue of venom'd breath
Should with bad haste o'ermatch the dart of death,
In life's mid race snapp'd short his vital thread,
And left the breathless corpse, ill fenced, ill sped.

POEMS

ILLUSTRATING THE POET'S PRIVATE HISTORY

AND PERSONAL FRIENDSHIPS.

SONNETS.

I. ON HIS YOUTHFUL SICKNESS.

The Tormes upon his banks had mourn'd me dead,
Laid in a swoon and trance of sleep profound,
While thrice the ruddy God of Day unbound
His team, and stall'd his steeds in Ocean's bed:

Rare marvel was it, when I rear'd my head,

And gazed, as Lazarus might, all wondering, round; Or rather, like the tricksy vagabond,

Of whom Castille in merry tales hath read :

For I, like Lazarillo, be it known,

Served a blind beggar, oft in fire and flame
Emperill'd, till my life was scarce my own.
O joy! if my deliverance be the same
As Lazarillo's, that base service done,
And witty vengeance salve the smart and shame.
See Hist. and Crit. Essay, sec. 6.

II. TO DON GERONYMO MANRIQUE, BISHOP ELECT

OF CORDOVA.

Not as a stranger guest, good reverend Sire,
I came to your fair palace: Heaven above

Is witness, how the thought of friends we love Makes sweet the rough road's toil, that else would tire. But, ah! the cruel sickness, herald dire

Of that stern Power, whose pity none can move, Dogging my steps, my feeble force outstrove, Till One more mighty heard my heart's desire, And cherish'd, by your guardian care benign,

I rose to health and safety. For such boon, May life unvex'd by suffering long be yours, Where Boetis through dark woods is seen to shine, Honour and age in happy union,

And God's sweet comfort speed the white-wing'd hours.

III. PRIMERO.

I play'd with Time upon a rising ground

The spring-game of Primero.

Hands were shewn ;

And at the third card dealt to me I found

The trump of price, whose worth was twenty-one. Age now held stakes for me: the score went on To forty-five. Ambition then drew nigh;

The sharper bade me wear, as though I'd won,