. . . . . . . . .

Descending low before her face a screen of feathers hung,—­
A moscader, or fan for flies, ’tis called in vulgar tongue;
From the feathers of the peacock’s wing ’t was fashioned bright and fair,
And glistened like the heaven above when all its stars are there.

It chanced that, for the people’s sins, fell the lightning’s blasting stroke: 
Forth from all four the sacred walls the flames consuming broke;
The sacred robes were all consumed, missal and holy book;
And hardly with their lives the monks their crumbling walls forsook.

. . . . . . . . .

But though the desolating flame raged fearfully and wild,
It did not reach the Virgin Queen, it did not reach the Child;
It did not reach the feathery screen before her face that shone,
Nor injure in a farthing’s worth the image or the throne.

The image it did not consume, it did not burn the screen;
Even in the value of a hair they were not hurt, I ween;
Not even the smoke did reach them, nor injure more the shrine
Than the bishop hight Don Tello has been hurt by hand of mine.

. . . . . . . . .

SONG

She is a maid of artless grace,
Gentle in form, and fair of face,

Tell me, thou ancient mariner,
  That sailest on the sea,
If ship, or sail or evening star
  Be half so fair as she!

Tell me, thou gallant cavalier,
  Whose shining arms I see,
If steel, or sword, or battle-field
  Be half so fair as she!

Tell me, thou swain, that guard’st thy flock
  Beneath the shadowy tree,
If flock, or vale, or mountain-ridge
  Be half so fair as she!

SANTA TERESA’S BOOK-MARK

(LETRILLA QUE LLEVABA POR REGISTRO EN SU BREVIARIO)

BY SANTA TERESA DE AVILA

Let nothing disturb thee,
Nothing affright thee;
All things are passing;
God never changeth;
Patient endurance
Attaineth to all things;
Who God possesseth
In nothing is wanting;
Alone God sufficeth.

FROM THE CANCIONEROS

I

EYES SO TRISTFUL, EYES SO TRISTFUL

(OJOS TRISTES, OJOS TRISTES)

BY DIEGO DE SALDANA

Eyes so tristful, eyes so tristful,
Heart so full of care and cumber,
I was lapped in rest and slumber,
Ye have made me wakeful, wistful!

In this life of labor endless
Who shall comfort my distresses? 
Querulous my soul and friendless
In its sorrow shuns caresses. 
Ye have made me, ye have made me
Querulous of you, that care not,
Eyes so tristful, yet I dare not
Say to what ye have betrayed me.