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Poetry of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Translations

III

THE NATIVE LAND

(EL PATRIO CIELO)

BY FRANCISCO DE ALDANA

Clear fount of light! my native land on high,
  Bright with a glory that shall never fade!
  Mansion of truth! without a veil or shade,
  Thy holy quiet meets the spirit's eye.
There dwells the soul in its ethereal essence,
  Gasping no longer for life's feeble breath;
  But, sentinelled in heaven, its glorious presence
  With pitying eye beholds, yet fears not, death.
Beloved country! banished from thy shore,
  A stranger in this prison-house of clay,
  The exiled spirit weeps and sighs for thee!
Heavenward the bright perfections I adore
  Direct, and the sure promise cheers the way,
  That, whither love aspires, there shall my dwelling be.