Imagens das páginas

Porque olvidas, dí pastor, tu ganado que se va ? -Quien olvidado es de amor, que es lo que no olvidará.-Dame presto el desengaño de tu cordojo y rencilla. -Ay! Pascual, que Bartolilla es causa de tanto daño.

Si tu mal es de amorío, aborece sus marañas.

-No puedo, que en mis entrañas
ha tomado el señorio-
Pues la cura no la apaño,
sin haber de tí mancilla.
-Ay! Pascual, que Bartolilla
es causa de tanto daño.

Desaluíciate, zagal,
toma placer, vuelve en tí!
-El placer no dice á mí,
ni lo requiere mi mal.—
Quien te hizo tan estraño
de no baylar en la villa?
-Ay! Pascual, que Bartolilla
es causa de tanto daño.

Hazle tu pena saber
con un billete añudado.

-Ay Pascual! ya lo he enviado y halo rasgado sin ver→→→ ¿Sin ver? muera su rebaño de sed y mala polilla! -Ay Pascual! á Bartolilla no le anuncies tanto daño.

Look, shepherd! look-how far they rove!
Why so forgetful-call them yet—
-O! he who is forgot by love
Will soon, too soon, all else forget-
Come leave those thoughts so dark and dreary,
And with your browzing flocks be gay.
-Ah no! 'tis vain, 'tis vain,-for Mary
Leads all my troubled thoughts astray.
'Tis love then, shepherd! O depart,
And drive away the cheating boy.
-Alas! he's seated in my heart,
And rules it with tumultuous joy.
Nay! shepherd, wake thee, dare not tarry,
For thou art in a thorny way.

-Ah no! 'tis vain, 'tis vain,-for Mary
Leads all my troubled thoughts astray.
Throw off this yoke, young shepherd, be
Joyous and mirthsome as before.
-O what are mirth and joy to me,
They on my woes no balm can pour.
Thou didst refuse to dance, didst tarry
When laughing maidens were at play.—
I know I did-Alas! 'tis Mary
That leads my troubled thoughts astray.
Then tell thy love-perchance 'tis hid,
And send a missive scribbled o'er.-
Alas! my friend-I did, I did,—
Which ere the maid had read, she tore.—
Then hang the maid-the foul fiend carry
A pestilence through all her flocks.—
O no, forbear!-Nor threaten Mary
With sorrow's frowns,-nor misery's shocks.

The two following are very illustrative of Spanish manners and Spanish feelings.


Paseabase el buen conde todo lleno de pesar,

cuentas negras en sus manos do suele siempre rezar, palabras tristes diciendo palabras para llorar : veo os, hija, crecida y en edad para casar, el mayor dolor que siento es no tener que os dar. Calledes, padre, calledes no debeis tener pesar que quien buena hija tiene rico se debe llamar, y él que mala la tenia viva la puede enterrar pues amengua su linage que no debiera amenguar, y yo si no me casare en religion puedo entrar.

The good old Count in sadness stray'd
Backwards-forwards pensively;
He bent his head-he said his prayers
Upon his beads of ebony;

And sad and gloomy were his thoughts,
And all his words, of misery:
O! daughter fair-to woman grown,
Say who shall come to marry thee;
For I am poor-though thou art fair,
No dower of riches thine shall be.-
Be silent, father, mine! I pray,
For what avails a dower to me?-
A virtuous child is more than wealth;
O! fear not,-fear not poverty:
There are whose children ban their bliss,
Who call on death to set them free;
And they defame their lineage,
Which shall not be defamed by me,
For if no husband should be mine,
I'll seek a convent's purity.


Rosa fresca, rosa fresca

tan garrida y con amor,

cuando yo os tuve en mis brazos

no vos supe servir no,

y agora que vos serviria
no vos puedo yo haber no.

Vuestra fué la culpa amigo,
vuestra fué que mia no,
enviastes me una carta
con un vuestro servidor,
y en lugar de recaudar
el dijera otra razon,
que erades casado, amigo,
allá en tierras de Leon,
que teneis muger hermosa
y hijos como una flor.
Quien os lo dijo, Leñora,
no vos dijo verdad no,

que yo nunca entré en Castilla
ni en las tierras de Leon,
sino cuando era pequeño
que no sabia de amor.

Lovely flow'ret, lovely flow'ret,

O! what thoughts your beauties move-
When I prest thee to my bosom,
Little did I know of love;

Now that I have learnt to love thee,
Seeking thee in vain 1 rove—

But the fault was thine, young warrior;
Thine it was-it was not mine:

He who brought thy earliest letter
Was a messenger of thine:
And he told me-graceless traitor—
Yes! he told me-lying one-
That thou wert already married
In the province of Leon:
Where thou had'st a lovely lady,
And, like flowers too, many a son.
Lady! he was but a traitor,
And his tale was all untrue-
In Castille I never enter'd-
From Leon, too, I withdrew
When I was in early boyhood,
And of love I nothing knew.

But these romances must be brought to a close. They must mingle no longer with other gems and flowers, but be transplanted to a garden of their own. That's melancholy !-they quit the sweet society among which they have been proud to linger,-friends and companions-and they go to solitude, perhaps to oblivion. Be it not so!

It is hard to tear oneself away from delightful recollections and busy thoughts. Yet in the progress of these desultory things, the heart has been often wounded when it has been dragged to that" renowned, romantic land" where they had their origin. Gloom soon cast shadows around it, and those shadows grew darker and darker. Meanwhile they with whom every remembrance of sympathy and affection was associated, have been torn up, like loathsome weeds, from the soil they blessed-and we loved. Of the *dearest, and the purest, some have perished; and their memory, embalmed in burning and undying hate, to be poured out hereafter on the bare heads of tyrants, lives in the heart of heart ;-some wear cruel chains which may perhaps rust ere they fall—and some wander like the ghosts which can find no habitation on earth, nor an entrance to the grave-desolate-broken ;-and some most perfidiously-their figures pursue me, and ten times a day I hurl-Nay! stop thy indignation-they were

I had forgotten-that I ought to forget. Yet a romance or two!—they will still a spirit that is sadly troubled.


Mil veces voy á hablar

á mi zagala,

pero mas quiero callar por no esperar

que me envie noramala.

Voy á decirla mi daño

pero tengo por mejor, tener dudoso el favor

que no cierto el desengaño: y aunque me suele animar

A thousand, thousand times I seek
My lovely maid;

But I am silent still, afraid

That if I speak

The maid might frown, and then my heart
would break.

I've oft resolved to tell her all,
But dare not-what a woe 'twould be
From doubtful favour's smiles, to fall
To the harsh frown of certainty.
Her grace-her music cheers me now;

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When, if she frown'd, my troubled heart would break?

No! rather I'll conceal my story
In my full heart's most sacred cell:
For though I feel a doubtful glory,
I'scape the certainty of hell.

I lose 'tis true-the bliss of heaven-
I own my courage is but weak;
That weakness may be well forgiven,
For should she speak

In words ungentle, O! my heart would break.

Un abrazo me mandó Ines bailando allá en el aldea, plega á Dios, que por bien sea no suceda algo despues.

No sé como me atreví: cuando á bailar la saqué muy pasito me allequé y un abrazo le pedí vergonzosa volvió á mí, de amor y temor temblando, y dijo: yo te lo mando cuando mas seguro estés.

Yo le dige: como es eso? Ines mia, yo te juro, que siempre este mas seguro porque no quede por eso : con tudo temo un suceso de tan soberano don, no sea alguna invencion

de dar conmigo al través.

Ines sent a kiss to me

While we danced upon the green;
Let that kiss a blessing be,
And conceal no woes unseen.

How I dared I know not how,
While we danced I gently said,
Smiling, "Give me, lovely maid,
Give me one sweet kiss"-when, lo!
Gathering blushes robed her brow;
And with love and fear afraid,
Thus she spoke-I'll send the kiss
In a calmer day of bliss..

Then I cried-dear maid! what day
Can be half so sweet as this?
Throw not hopes and joys away;
Send, O! send the promised kiss-
Can so bright a gift be mine,
Bought without a pang of pain?
"Tis perchance a ray divine,
Darker night to bring again.

Yo no dudo que muriese de placer si ya llegase al hora en que me abrazase ojala en eso me viese! no será sin interes si ella me cumple la fé, que por uno que me dé pienso darle mas de tres.

Dineros son calidad verdad,

Could I dwell on such a thought,

I of very joy should die;

Nought of earth's enjoyments, nought
Could be like that extasy.

I will pay her interest meet,
When her lips shall breathe on me;
And, for every kiss so sweet,

Give her many more than three.


Mas ama quien mas suspira

Cruzados hazen cruzados,
Escudos pintan escudos.
y tahures muy desnudos,
con dados ganan condados.
Ducados dexan ducados,
y coronas magestad,

Pensar que uno solo es dueño
de puerta de muchas llaues,
y afirmar que penas graves,
les paga un mirar risueño,
y entender que no son sueño,
las promessas de Marsira,

Todo se vende este dia,
todo el dinero lo iguala,
la Corte vende su gala,
la guerra su valentia,
hasta la sabiduria
vende la Universidad,

No ay persona que hablar dexe

al necessitado en plaça,
todo el mundo le es mordaza,
aunque el por señas se quexe,
que cara de Hereje,

y aun sè la necessidad

Siendo como un algodon

nos jura que es como un huesso.
y quiere provarnos esso
con que es su cuello almidon,
goma su copete, y son
sus vigores alquitira,

Qualquiera que pleitos trata,
aunque sea sin razon,
dexe el rio Marañon,
y entre en el de la Plata,
que hallarà corriente grata,
y puerto de claridad

Gregorio Silvestro.

Riches will serve for titles too-
That's true that's true!

And they love most who oftenest sigh-
That's a lie, that's a lie!

That crowns give virtue-power gives wit,
That follies well on proud ones sit;
That poor men's slips deserve a halter,
While honours crown the great defaulter;
That 'nointed kings no wrong can do,
No right, such worms as I and you-
That's true-that's true!

To say a dull and sleepy warden
Can guard a many-portal'd garden;
That woes which darken many a day,
One moment's smile can charm away;
To say you think that Celia's eye
Speaks aught but trick and treachery-
That's a lie-that's a lie!

That wisdom's bought and virtue sold;
And that you can provide, with gold,
For court a garter or a star,

And valour fit for peace or war;
And purchase knowledge at the U-
Niversity for P. or Q.-

That's true-that's true!

They must be gagg'd who go to court,
And bless, besides, the gagger for't;
That rank-less must be scourged, and thank
The scourgers when they're men of rank;
The humble, poor man's form and hue
Deserve both shame and suffering too

That's true-that's true!

But wond'rous favours to be done,
And glorious prizes to be won;
And downy pillows for our head,
And thornless roses for our bed;
In monarchs' words-to trust and try,
And risk your honour on the die-
That's a lie-that's a lie.

That he who in the courts of law
Defends his person, or estate,
Should have a privilege to draw
Upon the mighty river Plate ;*
And, spite of all that he can do,
He will be pluck'd and laugh'd at too-
That's true-that's true!

Rio de la Plata Silver River.

Siembra en una artesa berros la madre, y sus hijas todas son perros de muchas bodas, y bodas de muchos perros, y sus yernos rompen hierros en la toma de Alzezira, mentira.

To sow of pure and honest seeds,
And gather nought but waste and weeds;
And to pretend our care and toil
Had well prepared the ungrateful soil;
And then on righteous heaven to cry,
As 'twere unjust-and ask it why?
That's a lie-that's a lie.




The Vespers of Palermo. We do not wish to be ungallant, but we are impressed with a feeling, touching very closely upon a conviction, that no lady can write a tragedy; we should, perhaps, be inclined to go further if we were urged, and declare that no lady can write poetry, but, thank heavens, we are not called upon to decide that question; and Mrs. Hannah More, Mrs. Hemans, Miss Baillie, Rosa Matilda, Anna Matilda, and the rest, need not unglove their fingers' ends to wreak vengeance on our little band of ungentlemanly critics. Sappho, a lady of old (not an old lady) did, to be sure, forge some fine links of poetry out of the warm metal of her imagination: but she appears to have been a great brazen burning thing, that had little of the feminine in her composition and "no heed therefore is to be taken of her." But "impossible for a lady to write tragedy!" "Why impossible, Mr. London?" inquires Miss Higginbottom, a lady in azure hose, who very properly champions herself to the outrance, in the defence of the tragic genius of her sex. In the first place, Miss Higginbottom, experience does not show us one tragedy, born of woman, on record:-and, in the next place, we venture to surmise, that the very delicacy and slenderness of woman's mind are adverse to any attempts at tragic composition. Tragedy requires a masculine grasp, or it will not be overpowered. Ladies write pleasant novels, because in them they delineate life as they would draw flowers,-they sketch characters, colour conversationsmake pretty groups of lovers and heroes; but they do not grapple with the passions-they do not lay bare the human heart, and show the storms of passions that rage around it.

They describe characters, instead of calling them up and letting us see them. Miss Baillie's professed Plays of the Passions are certainly plays upon the passions-they are not the passions themselves, which Shakspeare's unprofessed ones are. She makes good miniature copies of our old masters; but our old masters copied from the life. Mrs. Hannah More's Percy was a long serious evil, which Time has shaken under its foot; all we remember is, that it contained very long scenes, and very long speeches, and made very long faces; but it scarcely contained, what we generally look to meet with, some pretty passages. Mrs. Wilmot's Ina was made up of the like Alexandrine description, and is alike forgotten. Miss Porter's tragedy also perished of its story-telling habitsthough her friends declared at the time, and one or two of extraordinary memory persist in it to this day, that it contained some pleasing passages, and ought to have had a run. Buckle would say, that instead of running up to expectation, it bolted. Kean was accused of doing great wrong to Mrs. Wilmot, and Miss Porter; of playing like one of Captain Parry's company, like a true North Poler-a man of ice. But Kean is not the man" to extract sunbeams from cucumbers ;" and Miss Porter and Mrs. Wilmot, when they brought him their unsunned snow, ought not to have expected him to set about attempting the extract. Kean is an actor, not a reciter: he grapples with the passions themselves, and does not point to pretty pictures of them.-Having made these few ungracious remarks, made really "more in sorrow than in anger," we come to the new Tragedy,-dead, alack, and gone,-the Vespers of Palermo.


Very luckily for our pages we

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