"Que descansada vida," we should prefer quoting it, as most characteristic of the peculiar imagery and feeling of the poet. As it is, we are tempted to present Mr. Wiffen's spirited translation of his ode on the Moorish invasion: the animation and fire which it breathes has made it a favourite, and shows that Luis de Leon was confined to didactic subjects rather from choice, than by the necessity or narrowness of his genius. "As by Tagus' billowy bed,[26] King Rodrigo, safe from sight, With the lady Cava fed On the fruit of loose delight; From the river's placid breast, Slow its ancient Genius broke; Of the scrolls of fate possess'd, Thus the frowning prophet spoke: 'In an evil hour dost thou, Ruthless spoiler, wanton here! Shouts and clangours even now, Even now assail mine ear-- Shout and sound of clashing shield, Shiver'd sword, and rushing car-- All the frenzy of the field!-- All the anarchy of war! 'O what wail and weeping spring Forth from this, thine hour of mirth, From you fair and smiling thing, Who in an evil hour had birth! In an evil day for Spain Plighted in your guilty troth-- Fatal triumph! costly gain To the sceptre of the Goth! 'Flames and furies, griefs and broils, Slaughter, ravage, fierce alarms, Anguish and immortal toils Thou dost gather to thine arms,-- For thyself and vassals--those Who the fertile furrow break, Where the stately Ebro flows. Who their thirst in Douro slake! 'For the throne--the hall--the bower-- Murcian lord and Lusian swain-- For the chivalry a flower Of all sad and spacious Spain! Prompt for vengeance, not for fame, Even now from Cadiz' halls, On the Moor, in Allah's name, Hoarse the Count--the Injur'd calls. 'Hark, how frightfully forlorn Sounds his trumpet to the stars, Citing Afric's desert-born To the gonfalon of Mars! Lo! already loose in air Floats the standard--peals the gong; They shall not be slow to dare Roderick's wrath for Julian's wrong. 'See their spears the Arabs shake, Smite the wind, the war demand; Millions in a moment wake, Join, and swarm o'er all the sand. Underneath their sails, the sea Disappears--a hubbub runs Through the sphere of heaven, a-lee, Clouds of dust obscure the sun's. 'Swift their mighty ships they climb, Cut the cables, slip from shore; How their sturdy arms keep time To the dashing of the oar! Bright the frothy billows burn Round their cleaving keels, and gales, Breathed by Æolus astern, Fill their deep and daring sails. 'Sheer across Alcides' strait, He whose voice the floods obey, With the trident of his state, Gives the grand armada way. In her sweet subduing arms, Sinner! dost thou slumber still, Dull and deaf to the alarms Of this loud inrushing ill? 'In the hallow'd Gadite bay, Mark them mooring from the main; Rise, take horse!--away! away! Scale the mountain--scour the plain! Give not pity to thy hand, Give not pardon to thy spur; Dart abroad thy flashing brand, Bare thy fatal scimitar.