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Life's Pilgrimage

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f Jorge Manrique, a Spanlsh poet of the 15th cetitury, whose principal poetn.s were wrilten between 1450 and 1474. In the Kdlnburg Review the luie Georite .Molr sald the fotlowing poeiu "Ih KurpHHHed by notuing in the Hpanisii language, except the odes of Luis de Leon."j O ! let the soul lts slumber bréfck, Arouse lts eeuses and awake, To see how Koon 1 .1 ti' wlth lts lories gilde away, Aud the slern footstep nf decay Comes stealiug on. How ploasure, llke the passing wind, Blows by and leaves us naugut beiilud Kut grief at last; How h i 11 imr present happlness Seeins, to the wayward fancy, less 'l'liuii w hut is past. And wliile we eye the rolling tlde, Down which our fly Inií minutes glide Away so fast ; let us the presen I. hour employ, And deern each future dream of Joy Already past. Let no valn bope decelve the mimi No happier let us hope to flml To-morrow than to-day. Our golden dreams of yore were brlght, Like tlicm the present -huil dellgnt,- Llke Hutu decay. Our II ves llke lastlng streams must he. That into one engulnng sea Are üooined to f&ll ; The Sea of Detth, whose waves roll on. O'er king and kingdom, crown and throne. And swallow all; Allke the river's lordly tlde. Allke the homble rlv'letts gilde To that snd wave; Death levéis poverty and prlde, Aud rlch aud poor sleep side by slde Witbin the grave. Our blrth ík bnt a starting place, Life is the running of the race, And dealh the goal ; There all our steps ut last are hrought, Thut palh alone, of uil unsought, Is found of all. Suy then, how poor anii llttle worth Are uil t {lltterlug toys of earth TDat lure us ttere; Dreams of a sleep thut ilcuth mustbreak, Alus ! boforo lt blds us wake 'u disu])pear. Tongcre the llampo of death can bll:ht, The cheeks pure tilow of red and white 11 tl h passed away ; Youth smili'il. aini all was heave'nly fair, A;i' came and luid hls üngers there, Aud where are they ? Where are the strengt!] that mocked decay' The step that rose so lightund gay. The heart's bllihe tone? The atrengtb I gone. the tep Is slow, Aud joy grows wearlsome and woe, When airecomeB on.


Ann Arbor Courier
Old News