'TWAS IN THE MONTH OF MAY.

"Que por Mayo, era por Mayo.".

'Twas in the month of May,-of May,
The month of calm and gentle heat,
When the young lover hastes away

To serve his love with tribute meet.
Yes! all but I-poor wretched one!
Who moan within this dungeon drear,
And know not when the night is done,

Nor when the evening stars appear.

Oft the day-waking notes I heard
Of a sweet bird that hail'd the light:
An archer shot that little bird-

Cancionero de Valencia, 1511, p. 136.

[What follows is another version, derived from a different authority. Their romances are often divided into fragments: various subjects are sometimes blended. The similarity of the asonantes, and the traditional manner of their preservation, have often led to great confusion as to their origin, and as to the subject of which they treat.]

ORD

THE MONTH OF MAY.

"Por el mes era de Mayo."

It was when the sun put forth his glory,
It was in the joyous month of May,
When the linnet sings in the greenwood forest,
And the nightingale answers his roundelay:
It was when love exerts its empire,

And nature to its rule submits,

When all submits but the prison'd minstrel,
Who is the slave of sorrow's fits.

He knows not when the day is dawning,
Nor when the night resumes its sway,
Except by a little bird, whose music
Welcome gives to the dawn of day.
That bird was murder'd by an archer—
O may Heaven's curse the traitor meet!
Here
my untwined and flowing tresses
Have almost reached my frozen feet.
Naked-my only wretched mantle

Is my clogg'd beard that wraps me round, And my claw-like nails my only weapon, While I perish on the damp ground.

If 'tis by my good monarch's warrant, lord-my master he:

He is

my

But perhaps 'tis but my gaoler's malice,
All his unbidden treachery.

O! would some little bird could hear me,
Could listen to my mournful tale—
Some busy thrush, or sportful linnet,
Or solitary nightingale,

That had been train'd by gentle woman
To sympathise with man's distress;
I'd send him to my Leonora,

In gentle whispers to express

A prayer, that she would convey me hither
A pick-axe and a silent file;

The bird might bring them 'neath his pinions,
And cheer me with his music, while

I mined the walls, and filed the irons,
And hasten'd, like a bird, to flee !—
The monarch heard the sorrowing prisoner,
And gave that prisoner liberty.

Cancionero de Madrid, 1644, p. 265.

SHE COMES TO GATHER FLOWERS.

"Fertiliza tu vega."

PUT on your brightest, richest dress,
Wear all your gems, blest vales of ours!
My fair one comes in her loveliness,
She comes to gather flowers.

Garland me wreaths, thou fertile vale!
Woods of green, your coronets bring;
Pinks of red, and lilies pale,

Come with your fragrant offering.
Mingle your charms of hue and smell,

Which Flora wakes in her spring-tide hours;—

My fair one comes across the dell,

She comes to gather flowers.

Twilight of morn! from thy misty tower

Scatter the trembling pearls around,
Hang up thy gems on fruits and flower,
Bespangle the dewy ground!
Phoebus! rest on thy ruby wheels,
Look, and this world of ours,

For

my

envy

fair one now descends the hills

She comes to gather flowers.

List! for the breeze on wing serene
Through the light foliage sails;
Hidden amidst the forest green
Warble the nightingales,
Hailing the glorious birth of day

With music's divinest powers

Hither my fair one bends her way—

She comes to gather flowers.