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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
Hazle tu pena saber
-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!
-Ah no! 'tis vain, 'tis vain,-for Mary
The two following are very illustrative of Spanish manners and Spanish feelings.
THE GOOD OLD COUNT IN SADNESS STRAY'D.
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
And sad and gloomy were his thoughts,
LOVELY FLOW'ret, lovely FLOW'RET.
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
Vuestra fué la culpa amigo,
que yo nunca entré en Castilla
Lovely flow'ret, lovely flow'ret,
O! what thoughts your beauties move-
Now that I have learnt to love thee,
But the fault was thine, young warrior;
He who brought thy earliest letter
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.
A THOUSAND, THOUSAND TIMES I SEEK.
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
But I am silent still, afraid
That if I speak
The maid might frown, and then my heart
I've oft resolved to tell her all,
When, if she frown'd, my troubled heart would break?
No! rather I'll conceal my story
I lose 'tis true-the bliss of heaven-
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;
How I dared I know not how,
Then I cried-dear maid! what day
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
I will pay her interest meet,
Give her many more than three.
THAT'S A LIE, THAT'S A LIE!
Mas ama quien mas suspira
Cruzados hazen cruzados,
Pensar que uno solo es dueño
Todo se vende este dia,
No ay persona que hablar dexe
al necessitado en plaça,
y aun sè la necessidad
Siendo como un algodon
nos jura que es como un huesso.
Qualquiera que pleitos trata,
Riches will serve for titles too-
And they love most who oftenest sigh-
That crowns give virtue-power gives wit,
To say a dull and sleepy warden
That wisdom's bought and virtue sold;
And valour fit for peace or war;
That's true-that's true!
They must be gagg'd who go to court,
That's true-that's true!
But wond'rous favours to be done,
That he who in the courts of law
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,
COVENT GARDEN THEATRE.
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.
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