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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
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
Not to-night; For should you treat me as you did
Victorian, And send me back to marry maids for
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
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?
from Court; good news ! Beltran
Cruzado, The Count of the Calés, is not your
father; But your true father has returned to
And we have all Been drinking at the tavern to your
health, As wells drink in November, when it
As the old song says,
His soul is in Madrid.
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.
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
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.
See, Preciosa, see how all about us Kneeling, like hooded friars, the misty
Prec. Most beautiful indeed!
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-
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
The toiling surges,
Of sunken ledges,
The Orkneyan skerries,
On the shifting
Of sandy beaches,
Strike the ocean
In its vastness,
Heaven has planted
That forever Wrestle with the tides of Fate; From the wreck of Hopes far-scattered,
On the shifting
They, like hoarded
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:
That is not akin to pain,
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,
Of wonderful melodies.
The restless pulse of care,
That follows after prayer.
The poem of thy choice,
The beauty of thy voice.
And the cares, that infest the day, Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs,
And as silently steal away.
AFTERNOON IN FEBRUARY.
The day is ending,
The river dead.
That glimmer red.
The road o'er the plain,
A funeral train.
To the dismal knell;
Like a funeral bell.
Yet dost thou recall
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.