"Touta kausa mortala una fes perirá, Fors que l'amour de Dieu, que touiours durará. Tous nostres cors vendran essuchs, come fa l'eska, Lous Aubres leyssaran lour verdour tendra e fresca, Lous Ausselets del bosc perdran lour kant subtyeu, E non s'auzira plus lou Rossignol gentyeu. Lous Buols al Pastourgage, e las blankas fedettas Sent'ran lous agulhons de las mortals Sagettas, Lous crestas d'Aries fiers, Renards, e Loups espars Kabrols, Cervys, Chamous, Senglars de toutes pars, Lous Ours hardys e forts, seran poudra, e Arena. Lou Daulphin en la Mar, lou Ton, e la Balena, Monstres impetuous, Ryaumes, e Comtas, Lous Princes, e lous Reys, seran per mort domtas. E nota ben eysso káscun: la Terra granda, (Ou l'Escritura ment) lou fermament que branda, Prendra autra figura. Enfin tout perirá, Fors que l'Amour de Dieu, que touiours durará." Page 150. FROM THE SPANISH OF PEDRO DE CASTRO Y AÑAYA. _Las Auroras de Diana_, in which the original of these lines is contained, is, notwithstanding it was praised by Lope de Vega, one of the worst of the old Spanish Romances, being a tissue of riddles and affectations, with now and then a little poem of considerable beauty. Page 160. EARTH. The author began this poem in rhyme. The following is the first draught of it as far as he proceeded, in a stanza which he found it convenient to abandon: A midnight black with clouds is on the sky; A shadow like the first original night Folds in, and seems to press me as I lie; No image meets the vainly wandering sight, And shot through rolling mists no starlight gleam Glances on glassy pool or rippling stream. No ruddy blaze, from dwellings bright within, Tinges the flowering summits of the grass; No sound of life is heard, no village din, Wings rustling overhead or steps that pass, While, on the breast of Earth at random thrown, I listen to her mighty voice alone. A voice of many tones: deep murmurs sent From waters that in darkness glide away, From woods unseen by sweeping breezes bent, From rocky chasms where darkness dwells all day, And hollows of the invisible hills around, Blent in one ceaseless, melancholy sound. O Earth! dost thou, too, sorrow for the past? Mourn'st thou thy childhood's unreturning hours, Thy springs, that briefly bloomed and faded fast, The gentle generations of thy flowers, Thy forests of the elder time, decayed And gone with all the tribes that loved their shade? Mourn'st thou that first fair time so early lost, The golden age that lives in poets' strains, Ere hail or lightning, whirlwind, flood, or frost Scathed thy green breast, or earthquakes whelmed thy plains, Ere blood upon the shuddering ground was spilt, Or night was haunted by disease and guilt?