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Vict. Forgive me, sweet! for what I

made thee suffer. Think'st thou this heart could feel a

moment's joy, Thou being absent?' O, believe it not ! Indeed, since that sad hour I have not

slept, For thinking of the wrong I did to thee! Dost thou forgive me? Say, wilt thou

forgive me? Prec. I have forgiven thee. Ere

those words of anger Were in the book of Heaven writ down

against thee, I had forgiven thee. Vict.

I'm the veriest fool That walks the earth, to have believed

thee false. It was the Count of Lara Prec.

That bad man Has worked me harm enough. Hast

thou not heard Vict. I have heard all. And yet

speak on, speak on ! Let me but hear thy voice, and I am

happy; For every tone, like some sweet incan

tation, Calls

up the buried past to plead for me. Speak, my beloved, speak into my

heart, Whatever fills and agitates thine own.

(They walk aside.) Hyp. All gentle quarrels in the pas

toral poets, All passionate love-scenes in the best

romances, All chaste embraces on the public stage, All soft adventures, which the liberal

stars Have winked at, as the natural course

of things, Have been surpassed here by my friend

the student, And this sweet Gipsy lass, fair Preciosa! Prec. Señor Hypolito! I kiss your

hand. Pray shall I tell

your

fortune? Нур.

Not to-night; For should you treat me as you did

Victorian, And send me back to marry maids for

lorn,

My wedding-day would last from now

till Christmas. Chispa (within). What ho! the Gip

sies, ho! Beltran Cruzado! Halloo ! halloo! halloo! halloo ! (Enters booted, with a whip and

lantern.) Vict.

What now? Why such a fearful din? Hast thou

been robbed ? Chispa. Ay, robbed and murdered :

and good evening to you, My worthy masters.

Vict. Speak, what brings thee here?
Chispa (to PRECIOSA), Good news

from Court; good news ! Beltran

Cruzado, The Count of the Calés, is not your

father; But your true father has returned to

Spain
Laden with wealth. You are no more

a Gipsy
Vict. Strange as a Moorish tale!
Chispa.

And we have all Been drinking at the tavern to your

health, As wells drink in November, when it

rains.
Vict. Where is the gentleman?!
Chispa.

As the old song says,
His body is in Segovia,

His soul is in Madrid.
Prec. Is this a dream? O, if it be a

dream, Let me sleep on, and do not wake me

yet! Repeat thy story! Say I'm not de

ceived! Say that I do not dream! I am awake; This is the Gipsy camp; this is Victorian, And this his friend, Hypolito! Speak!

speak! Let me not wake and find it all a dream ! Vict. It is a dream, sweet child! a

waking dream, A blissful certainty, a vision bright Of that rare happiness, which even on

earth Heaven gives to those it loves. Now

art thou rich, As thou wast ever beautiful and good; And I am now the beggar..

Prec. (giving him her hand). I have 'Tis the break of day, and we must away, still

O'er meadow, and mount, and moor. A hand to give.

Wait not to find thy slippers, Chispa (aside). And I have two to

But come with thy naked feet; take.

We shall have to pass through the dewy I've heard my grandmother say, that

grass, Heaven gives almonds

And waters wide and fleet. To those who have no teeth. That's nuts to crack.

(Disappears down the pass. Enter a I've teeth to spare, but where shall I

Monk. A Shepherd appears on the find almonds?

rocks above.) Vict. What more of this strange

Monk. Ave Maria, gratia plena. story?

Olá! good man! Chispa.

Nothing more.

Shep. Olá! Your friend, Don Carlos, is now at the Monk. Is this the road to Segovia? village,

Shep. It is, your reverence. Showing to Pedro Crespo, the Alcalde,

Monk. How far is it? The proofs of what I tell you. The old Shep. I do not know. hag,

Monk. What is that yonder in the Who stole you in your childhood, has

valley? confessed;

Shep. San Ildefonso. And probably they'll hang her for the Monk. A long way to breakfast. crime,

Shep. Ay, marry. To make the celebration more complete. Monk. Are there robbers in these Vict. No; let it be a day of general

mountains ? joy;

Shep. Yes, and worse than that. Fortune comes well to all, that comes

Monk. What? not late.

Shep. Wolves. Now let us join Don Carlos.

Monk. Santa Maria! Come with me Нур.

So farewell, to San Ildefonso, and thou shalt be well The student's wandering life ! Sweet rewarded. serenades

Shep. What wilt thou give me? Sung under ladies' windows in the night,

Monk. An Agnus Dei and my beneAnd all that makes vacation beautiful !

diction. To you, ye cloistered shades of Alcalá, (They disappear. A mounted ContraTo you, ye radiant visions of romance, bandista passes, wrapped in his Written in books, but here surpassed cloak, and a gun at his saddle-bow. by truth,

He goes down the pass singing.) The Bachelor Hypolito returns,

SONG. And leaves the Gipsy with the Spanish

Worn with speed is my good steed, Student.

And I march me hurried, worried ; SCENE VI.-A pass in the Guadarrama

Onward, caballito mio, mountains. Early morning;

With the white star in thy forehead! Muleteer crosses the stage, sitting

Onward, for here comes the Ronda, sideways on his mule, lighting

And I hear their rifles crack! a paper cigar with flint and steel. Ay, jaléo! Ay, ay, jaléo !

Ay, jaléo! They cross our track. SONG

(Song, dies away.

Enter Preciosa, If thou art sleeping, maiden,

on horseback, attended by VICTORAwake, and open thy door,

IAN, HYPOLITO, Don Carlos, and

CHISPA, on foot and armed.) * From the Spanish; as is likewise Vict. This is the highest point. Here the song of the Contrabandista.

let us rest.

on thee

See, Preciosa, see how all about us Kneeling, like hooded friars, the misty

mountains
Receive the benediction of the sun!
O glorious sight !

Prec. Most beautiful indeed!
Hyp. Most wonderful !
Vict.

And in the vale below, Where yonder steeples flash like lifted

halberds, San Ildefonso, from its noisy belfries, Sends up a salutation to the morn, As if an army smote their brazen

shields, And shouted victory! Prec.

And which way lies Segovia? Vict.

At a great distance yonder. Dost thou not see it? Prec.

No. I do not see it. Vict. The merest flaw that dents the

horizon's edge. There, yonder!

Hyp. 'Tis a notable old town, Boasting an ancient Roman aqueduct, And an Alcazar, builded by the Moors, Wherein, you may remember, poor Gil

Blas Was fed on Pan del Rey. Oh, many a

time Out of its grated windows have I looked Hundreds of feet plumb down to the

Eresma, That, like a serpent through the valley

creeping, Glides at its foot. Prec.

O yes! I see it now, Yet rather with my heart than with So faint it is. And all my thoughts

sail thither, Freighted with prayers and hopes, and

forward urged Against all stress of accident, as in The Eastern Tale, against the wind

and tide, Great ships were drawn to the Magnetic

Mountains, And there were wrecked, and perished in the sea !

(She weeps.) Vict. O gentle spirit! Thou didst

bear unmoved Blasts of adversity and frosts of fate!

But the first ray of sunshine that falls Melts thee to tears! Oh, let thy weary

heart Lean upon mine! and it shall faint no

more, Nor thirst, nor hunger; but be com

forted And filled with my affection. Prec.

Stay no longer! My father waits. Methinks I see him

there, Now looking from the window, and

now watching Each sound of wheels or footfall in the

street, And saying, “Hark! she comes !” o

father! father! (They descend the pass. CHISPA re

mains behind.) Chispa. I have a father, too, but he is a dead one. Alas and alack-a-day! Poor was I born, and poor do I remain. I neither win nor lose. Thus I wag through the world, half the time on foot, and the other half walking; and always as merry as a thunder-storm in the night. And so we plough along, as the fly said to the ox. Who knows what may happen? Patience, and shuffle the cards ! I am not yet so bald that you can see my brains; and perhaps, after all, I shall some day go to Rome, and come back Saint Peter. Benedicite !

[Exit. (A pause. Then enter BARTOLOMÉ

wildly, as if in pursuit, with a car-
bine in his hand.)
Bart. They passed this way! I hear

their horses' hoofs! Yonder I see them! Come, sweet

caramillo, This serenade shall be the Gipsy's last !

(Fires down the pass.) Ha! ha! Well whistled, my sweet

caramillo ! Well whistled I have missed her!

Oh, my God! (The shot is returned. BARTOLOMÉ

falls.)

mine eyes,

SONGS.

SEA-WEED.
When descends on the Atlantic

The gigantic
Storm-wind of the equinox,
Landward in his wrath he scourges

The toiling surges,
Laden with sea-weed from the rocks:
From Bermuda's reefs; from edges

Of sunken ledges,
In some far-off, bright Azore;
From Bahama, and the dashing,

Silver-flashing
Surges of San Salvador;
From the tumbling surf, that buries

The Orkneyan skerries,
Answering the hoarse Hebrides ;
And from wrecks of ships, and drifting

Spars, uplifting
On the desolate, rainy seas ;-
Ever drifting, drifting, drifting

On the shifting
Currents of the restless main;
Till in sheltered coves, and reaches

Of sandy beaches,
All have found repose again.
So when storms of wild emotion

Strike the ocean
Of the poet's soul, ere long
From each cave and rocky fastness,

In its vastness,
Floats some fragment of a song:
From the far-off isles enchanted,

Heaven has planted
With the golden fruit of Truth;
From the flashing surf, whose vision

Gleams Elysian
In the tropic clime of Youth;
From the strong Will,and the Endeavour

That forever Wrestle with the tides of Fate; From the wreck of Hopes far-scattered,

Tempest-shattered,
Floating waste and desolate ;-
Ever drifting, drifting, drifting

On the shifting
Currents of the restless heart;
Till at length in books recorded,

They, like hoarded
Household words, no more depart.

THE DAY IS DONE. The day is done, and the darkness

Falls from the wings of Night, As a feather is wasted downward

From an eagle in its flight. I see the lights of the village

Gleam through the rain and the mist, And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me,

That my soul cannot resist:
A feeling of sadness and longing,

That is not akin to pain,
And resembles sorrow only

As the mist resembles the rain. Come, read to me some poem,

Some simple and heartfelt lay, That shall soothe this restless feeling,

And banish the thoughts of day. Not from the grand old masters,

Not from the bards sublime, Whose distant footsteps echo

Through the corridors of Time. For, like strains of martial music,

Their mighty thoughts suggest Life's endless toil and endeavour;

And to-night I long for rest. Read from some humbler poet,

Whose songs gushed from his heart, As showers from the clouds of summer,

Or tears from the eyelids start; Who, through long days of labour,

And nights devoid of ease,
Still heard in his soul the music

Of wonderful melodies.
Such songs have power to quiet

The restless pulse of care,
And come like the benediction

That follows after prayer.
Then read from the treasured volume

The poem of thy choice,
And lend to the rhyme of the poet

The beauty of thy voice.
And the night shall be filled with music,

And the cares, that infest the day, Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs,

And as silently steal away.

H

AFTERNOON IN FEBRUARY.

The day is ending,
The night is descending;
The marsh is frozen,

The river dead.
Through clouds like ashes,
The red sun flashes
On village windows

That glimmer red.
The snow recommences:
The buried fences
Mark no longer

The road o'er the plain,
While through the meadows,
Like fearful shadows,
Slowly passes

A funeral train.
The bell is pealing,
And every feeling
Within me responds

To the dismal knell;
Shadows are trailing,
My heart is bewailing
And tolling within

Like a funeral bell.

Yet dost thou recall
Days departed, half-forgotten,
When in dreamy youth I wandered
By the Baltic, -
When I paused to hear
The old ballad of King Christian
Shouted from suburban taverns
In the twilight.
Thou recallest bards,
Who, in solitary chambers,
And with hearts by passion wasted,
Wrote pages.
Thou recallest homes
Where thy songs of love and friendship
Made the gloomy Northern winter
Bright as summer.
Once some ancient Scald,
In his bleak, ancestral Iceland,
Chanted staves of these old ballads
To the Vikings.
Once in Elsinore,
At the court of old King Hamlet,
Yorick and his boon companions
Sang these ditties.
Once Prince Frederick's Guard
Sang them in their smoky barracks ;-
Suddenly the English cannon
Joined the chorus !
Peasants in the field,
Sailors on the roaring ocean,
Students, tradesmen, pale mechanics,
All have sung them.
Thou hast been their friend ;
They, alas ! have left thee friendless !
Yet at least by one warm fireside
Art thou welcome.
And, as swallows build
In these wide, old-fashioned chimneys,
So thy twittering songs shall nestle
In my bosom,-
Quiet, close, and warm,
Sheltered from all molestation,
And recalling by their voices
Youth and travel.

TO AN OLD DANISH SONG

BOOK. WELCOME, my old friend, Welcome to a foreign fireside, While the sullen gales of autumn Shake the windows. The ungrateful world Has, it seems, dealt harshly with thee, Since, beneath the skies of Denmark, First I met thee. There are marks of age, There are thumb-marks on thy margin, Made by hands that clasped thee rudely At the alehouse. Soiled and dull thou art ; Yellow are thy time-worn pages, As the russet, rain-molested Leaves of autumn. Thou art stained with wine Scattered from hilarious goblets, As these leaves with the libations Of Olympus.

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