"O maiden! no such cheating words,
No more perfidious language say!
Whose is that proud and noble horse
I heard within the stable neigh?"
"My lord! my father sent the steed
An homage of his love to thee."-
Whose, lady, are those shining arms,
Which 'gainst the corridor I see?"
My lord! they were my brother's arms,
Which he has sent for thee to wear."
"And whose, fair lady! is the lance

66

66

Whose sharpen'd point is moving there?"
"O count! O count! take thou that lance,
And pierce my guilty body through ;
For O! I have deserved it all,

And shame and death are now my due."

Cancionero de Amberes, 1555. III. 179.

THE MUSIC OF THE MATIN-BELLS..

"En campaña madre."

THE music of the matin bells

Across the fields is thrown,

And while their sound with echo dwells,

O I am left alone.

When first the sunbeams leave the hills, And hasten on the day,

O then the matin-music fills

Morn's solitary way.

But at their call my glory wakes

To welcome in the dawn,

And then her early walks she takes
Across the sparkling lawn:
Alas! my dreams of love are gone,
And I am left alone.

I now am like a mournful morn,
When the bright sun is clouded,
And misty day comes on forlorn,
In heavy vapour shrouded.
In solitude I mourn, for how
Could I endure to live

Where my soul's light,-my maiden's brow,

No ray of joy can give?

No peace I feel, no hope I own,

For I am left alone.

Romancero General, Madrid. 1604, p.

449.

WHEN SHE IS TWENTY.

"Niña de quince años."

IF now, though but fifteen, we see

The maiden clad with charms in plenty,

O what an angel she will be

When she is twenty!

I saw her on a balcony,

O melancholy day!

For she remain'd in liberty,

And I in fetters lay.

Her every hair is like a chain,

Which her admirer binds,

And though he would escape, 'tis vain,

He is a slave he finds;

And oft I sigh'd, and silently,

O, lady fair, relent ye!

For what an angel will she be

When she is twenty!

One glance of thought,-one fond desire,

Bright from her eyes of love, Would set a thousand hearts on fire,

A thousand spirits move.

When to the fount she's wont to go,
My footsteps follow her;

Whene'er she wrings her robes of snow,

I'm never absent there:

And oft I say,-Bright eyes! to me

What evil spirit sent ye?

For what an angel will she be
When she is twenty!

No

sunny ray her garments dries, The sunny rays are vain ;

For, lo! the torrents from my eyes
Soon make them wet again.

And if in tender infancy

She graces bear in plenty,

O what an angel will she be

When she is twenty!

Romancero General. Madrid, 1604, p. 226.