SLIGHTED LOVE, FROM THE SPANISH, BY M.

“—And this is poor Anselmo’s grave! Ah, Juan! say of what he died— For he was young, was young and brave, Yet gentle as the cooing dove.”— “He died, alas!”—and Juan sighed,— “He died, he died of slighted love.” “—Poor youth!—And, Juan!—spake he aught Of what he felt, before he died?”— “—He said that all his pains were nought Save one—of which he would not speak— Alas! we had not far to seek For that:—it was the one dark thought Wherewith in vain his spirit strove— He died, he died of slighted love.” “—And when Death hovered nearer still, What said he of his mournful fate?” “—That death was not so sharp an ill— That Life, o’erdarkened by Despair, Was bitterer far than Death to bear; That rest awaits us in the tomb, Where Anguish sleeps with Love and Hate. Thus much he spake—and some were there Who wept aloud his early doom; But others knelt in silent prayer,— And when they said that such as he Were flowers that God took up to bloom In Heaven, he smiled so thankfully! And raised his failing eyes above— He died, he died of slighted love.” “—And—Shepherd!—when the heavenly spark Was flickering in its lamp of clay, Before the glassy eye grew dark, What said he more? or said he aught?”— “—But this—‘The pilgrim goes his way:— Farewell the beauty of the moon! Farewell the glory of the noon! The home of rest my heart hath sought So long in vain will soon be mine— Soon will that heart, all quelled and cold, Lie low aneath the trodden mould, Which brings it Peace,—a welcome boon! Yet Love, ah, Love is still divine, And surely Goodness never dies!’— He said no more—we closed his eyes— We laid him in the grassy grove— He died, he died of slighted love.” —Dublin University Magazine.