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And so he led him prancing and panting to the King;
But “No :” said Don Alphonso, “it were a shameful thing
That peerless Bavieca should ever be bestrid
By any mortal but Bivar: Mount, mount again, my Cid !”

In these two ballads there is little mention of the ladies. But two of the most charming of the Moorish series are devoted to them exclusively. “The following,” says Mr. Lockhart,“ has been often imitated in Spain and in Germany." Its elegance could scarcely be increased in any language :


Rise Rise



rise up, Xarifa, lay the golden cushion down; Rise up, come to the window, and gaze with all the town. From gay guitar and violin the silver notes are flowing, And the lovely lute doth speak between the trumpets lordly blowing; And banners bright from lattice light are waving everywhere, And the tall, tall plume of our cousin's bridegroom floats proudly Rise up, rise up, Xarifa, lay the golden cushion down ; [in the air. Rise up, come to the window, and gaze with all the town. Arise, arise, Xarifa ; I see Andalla's face; He bends him to the people with a calm and princely grace; Through all the land of Xeres, and banks of Guadalquiver, Rode forth bridegroom so brave as he, so brave and lovely never. Yon tall plume waving o'er his brow, of azure mixed with white, I guess it was wreathed by Zara, whom he will wed to-night. up,

rise up, Xarifa, lay the golden cushion down; UP, come to the window, and gaze with all the town. "What aileth thee, Xarifa ? what makes thine eyes look down? Why stay ye from the window far, nor gaze with all the town? I've heard you say on many a day, and sure you said the truth, Andalla rides without a peer among all Granada's youth; Without a peer he rideth, and yon milk-white horse doth go Beneath his stately master, with a stately step and slow. Then rise, oh rise, Xarifa, lay the golden cushion down; Unseen here, through the lattice, you may gaze with all the town." The Zegri lady rose not, nor laid her cushion down ; Nor came she to the window, to gaze with all the town; But though her eyes dwelt on her knee, in vain her fingers strove, And though her needle prest the silk, no flower Xarifa wove. One bonny rose-bud she had traced before the noise drew nigh; That bonny bud a tear effaced, slow dropping from her eye.

No, no," she sighs, “bid me not rise, nor lay my cushion down,

gaze upon Andalla with all the gazing town.”
Why rise ye not, Xarifa, nor lay your cushion down?
Why gaze ye not, Xarifa, with all the gazing town?
Hear, hear the trumpet how it swells ! and how the people cry!
He stops at Zara’s palace-gate. Why sit ye still? Oh, why?"

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“At Zara’s gate stops Zara’s mate; in him shall I discover The dark-eyed youth pledged me his truth with tears, and was my I will not rise with weary eyes, nor lay my cushion down, [lover? To gaze on false Andalla with all the gazing town.” The next, still of a Moorish maiden, is even more charming:

ZARA'S EAR-RINGS. My ear-rings ! my ear-rings ! they've dropt into the well, And what to say to Muça, I cannot, cannot teil.” 'Twas thus, Granada's fountain by, spoke Albuharez' daughter. “The well is deep; far down they lie, beneath the cold blue water. To me did Muça give them, when he spake his sad farewell; And what to say, when he comes back, alas ! I cannot tell. “My ear-rings ! my ear-rings ! they were pearls in silver set, That when my Moor was far away, I ne'er should him forget: That I ne'er to other tongues should list, nor smile on other's ta.e, But remember he my lips had kissed, pure as those ear-rings pale, When he comes back, and hears that I have dropped them in the well, Oh! what will Muça think of me, I cannot, cannot tell ! “ My ear-rings ! my ear-rings ! he'll say they should have been Not of pearl and of silver, but of gold and glittering sheen, Of jasper and of onyx, and of diamond shining clear, Changing to the changing light, with radiance insincere; That changeful mind unchangeful gems are not befitting well : Thus will he think :-and what to say, alas ! I cannot tell ! “He'll think, when I to market went, I loitered by the way; He'll think a willing ear I lent to all the lads might say; He'll think some other lover's hand, among my tresses noosed From the ears where he had placed them iny rings of pearl unloosed, He'll think, when I was sporting so beside this marble well, My pearls fell in :-and what to say, alas ! I cannot tell ! " He'll say I am a woman, and we are all the same; He'll say I loved, when he was here, to whisper of his flame ; But when he went to Tunis, my virgin troth had broken, And thought no more of Muça, and cared not for his token. My ear-rings ! my ear-rings ! Oh! luckless, luckless well! For what to say to Muça, alas ! I cannot tell ! " I'll tell the truth to Muça, and I hope he will believe That I thought of him at morning, and thought of him at eve; That musing on my lover, when down the sun was gone, His ear-rings in my hand I held, by the fountain all alone; And that my mind was o'er the sea, when from my hand they fell, And that deep his love lies in my heart, as they lie in the well !”

These ballads are all from Mr. Lockhart's delightful book. I add one or two extracts from the probably more literal version of Mr. Ticknor; the first is the “ Lament of the Count de Saldaña," who, in his solitary prison, complains of his son, who he supposes must know his descent, and of his wife, the Infanta, whom he presumes to be in league with her royal brother. After a description of the castle in which he is confined, the Count says :

The tale of my imprisoned life

Within these loathsome walls,
Each moment as it lingers by

My hoary hair recalls;
For when this castle first I saw,

My beard was scarcely grown,
And now, to purge my youthful sins,

Its folds hang whitening down.
Then where art thou, my careless son ?

And why so dull and cold ?
Doth not my blood within thee run ?

Speaks it not loud and bold?
Alas! it may be so, but still

Thy mother's blood is thine;
And what is kindred to the King

Will plead no cause of mine :
And thus all three against me stand :-

For, the whole men to quell,
'Tis not enough to have our foes,

Our heart's blood must rebel.
Meanwhile, the guards that watch me here,

Of thy proud conquests boast;
But if for me thou lead'st it not,

For whom then fights thy host?
And since thou leav'st me prisoned here,

In cruel chains to groan,
Or I must be a guilty sire,

Or thou a guilty son !
Yet pardon me, if I offend

By uttering words so free,
For, while oppressed with age I moan,

No words come back from thee.

Some of these old songs are sufficiently shrewd and humorous ; witness the following, “in which an elder sister is represented lecturing a younger one on first noticing in her the symptoms of love :"

Her sister Miguela

Once chid little Jane,
And the words that she spake

Gave a great deal of pain.
"You went yesterday playing

A child like the rest;
And now you come out,
More than other girls drest.

“ You take pleasure in sighs,

In sad music delight; With the dawning you rise,

Yet sit up half the night. “ When you take up your work,

You look vacant, and stare; And gaze on your sampler,

Yet miss the stitch there. “You're in love, people say,

And your actions all show it; New ways we shall have,

When our mother shall know it. “She 'll nail up the windows,

And lock up the door; Leave to frolic and dance

She will give us no more. “ Our old aunt will be sent for,

To take us to mass ; And to stop all our talk

With the girls as we pass. “ And when we walk out,

She will bid that old shrew Keep a faithful account

of whate'er our eyes do; “ And mark who goes by,

If I peep through the blind; And be sure to detect us

In looking behind.
“ Thus for your idle follies,

Must I suffer too;
And though nothing I've done,

Must be punished like you." “Oh! sister Miguela,

Your chiding pray spare . That I've troubles you guess,

But know not what they are. “Young Pedro it is,

Old Don Ivor's fair youth ;But he's gone to the wars,

And, oh! where is his truth? “I loved him sincerely,

Loved all that he said ; But I fear he is fickle,

I fear he has fled. “He is gone of free choice,

Without summons or call; And 't is foolish to love him,

Or like him at all.”

“Nay, pray morn and night

To the Virgin above,
Lest this Pedro return,

And again you should love,”
(Said Miguela in jest,

As she answered poor Jane);
“For when love has been bought

At the cost of such pain,
“What hope is there, sister,

Unless the soul part,
That the passion so cherished

Should leave your fond heart ?
“As your years still increase,

So increase will your pains ;
And this you may learn

From the proverb's old strains ;
“ That if, when but a child,

Love's dominion you own,
None can tell what you'll do,

When you older are grown.” This dialogue is three hundred years old at the very least. I do not think it would be quite impossible to match it now, with a little change of names and of costume. Perhaps I may have myself altered some of the lines, since I quote from memory, and have not the book to refer to.

It is not the least gratifying tribute to Mr. Ticknor's valuable work that it was recommended for perusal by Mr. Macaulay to the Queen of England.






The name of Blamire has always a certain interest for me, in consequence of a circumstance, which, as it took place somewhere about five-and-forty years ago, and has reference to a flirtation of twenty years previous, there cannot now be much harm in relating.

Being with my father and mother on a visit about six miles from Southampton, we were invited by a gentleman of the

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