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Into my bosom's deepness,

Oh, could thine eye but see, Where all the songs are sleeping That God e'er gave to me! There would thine eye perceive it, If aught of good be mine,— Although I may not name thee,That aught of good is thine.

From the Foreign Quarterly Review.

A

THE SUNKEN CROWN

OFT on yonder hillside

A little cot doth stand;
You look off from its threshold

Far out upon the land.

There sits a free-born peasant

Upon the bank at even,
And whets his scythe, and singeth
His grateful song to Heaven.

Below on the lake are falling
The silent shadows down;
Beneath the wave lies hidden,
All rich and rare a crown.
In the darksome night it sparkles
With rubies and sapphires gay;
But no man recks where it lieth
From the times so old and gray.

Translation of H. W. Dulcken.

A

A MOTHER'S GRAVE

GRAVE, O mother, has been dug for thee

Within a still-to thee a well-known-place.

A shadow all its own above shall be,

And flowers its threshold too shall ever grace.

And even as thou died'st, so in thy urn

Thou'lt lie unconscious of both joy and smart:
And daily to my thought shalt thou return;
I dig for thee this grave within my heart.

Translation of Frederick W. Ricord.

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There was iron and steel in right good store;
And a fire that did bicker, and flame, and roar.

"O smithying-carle, good master of mine,
Teach me this forging craft of thine.

"Teach me the lore of shield and blade,
And how the right good swords are made!”

He struck with the hammer a mighty blow,
And the anvil deep in the ground did go.

He struck through the wood the echoes rang,
And all the iron in flinders sprang.

And out of the last left iron bar

He fashioned a sword that shone as a star.

"Now have I smithied a right good sword,
And no man shall be my master and lord;

"And giants and dragons of wood and field, I shall meet like a hero, under shield.»

Translation of Elizabeth Craigmyle.

I

ICHABOD: THE GLORY HAS DEPARTED

RIDE through a dark, dark Land by night,
Where moon is none and no stars lend light,
And rueful winds are blowing;

Yet oft have I trodden this way ere now,
With summer zephyrs a-fanning my brow,
And the gold of the sunshine glowing.

I roam by a gloomy Garden-wall;
The death-stricken leaves around me fall,
And the night blast wails its dolors:
How oft with my love I have hitherward strayed
When the roses flowered, and all I surveyed
Was radiant with Hope's own colors!

But the gold of the sunshine is shed and gone,
And the once bright roses are dead and wan,

And my love in her low grave molders;
And I ride through a dark, dark Land by night,
With never a star to bless me with light,

And the Mantle of Age on my shoulders.

Translation of James C. Mangan.

ARMANDO PALACIO VALDÉS

(1853-)

EFORE heaven! your Worship should read what I have read,» exclaims an honest inn-keeper in 'Don Quixote,' concerning Felixmarte of Hyrcania, who, "with one back-stroke, cut asunder five giants through the middle. At another time he encountered a great and powerful army of about a million six hundred thousand soldiers, all armed from top to toe, and routed them as if they had been a flock of sheep."

This was said in response to a protest against his wasting his time over the foolish books of chivalry of the epoch, and a recommendation that he should read, instead, the real exploits of Gonsalvo de Cordova, the Great Captain, who had in fact put to flight a dozen men or so with his own hand. The paragraph is a useful one, as throwing light on the insatiate nature of the thirst for mere adventure and movement in fiction. It has no limits; but was just as impatient of the splendid feats of arms, battles, sieges, and romantic doings-as we should consider them- of all kinds, that were then of daily occurrence, as the same school is at present of the happenings of real life all about us. The change is one of relation rather than spirit; and the school of criticism that demands only the startling and exceptional, and eschews all else as tame, is still, numerically at least, superior to any other. How much nobler an aim is that of Palacio Valdés and his kind, who show us feeling, beauty, and innate interest everywhere throughout common existence; and who lighten and dignify the otherwise commonplace days as they pass, by leading us to look for these things. Nothing is truer than that the purpose of the arts is to please; but a Spanish proverb also well says: «Show me what pleases you and I will tell you what you are.»

Armando Palacio Valdés was born October 4th, 1853. His birthplace was Entralgo, a small village near Oviedo, the capital of the province of Asturias, in the northwest of Spain. He received his earlier education at the small marine town of Avilés, and at Oviedo; and then took his degree in law at the University of Madrid. His first literary work was in criticism. In 1881 he began the publication of novels with El Señorito Octavio, a rather flimsy story of Spanish provincial life, then in 1883 he gave to the world one of its really great novels, (Marta y María) (Martha and Mary).

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