(Song dies away.

SONG.

Worn with speed is my good steed,
And I march me hurried, worried;
Onward, caballito mio

With the white star in thy forehead!

Onward, for here comes the Ronda,
And I hear the rifles crack!

Ay, jaléo! Ay, ay, jaléo!

Ay, jaléo! They cross our track.

Enter PRECIOSA, on horseback, attended by VICTORIAN, HYPOLITO, DON CARLOS, and CHISPA, on foot, and armed).

VICTORIAN.

This is the highest point. Here let us rest.

See, Preciosa, see how all about us

Kneeling, like hooded friars, the misty mountains
Receive the benediction of the sun!

Oh, glorious sight!

PRECIOSA.

Most beautiful indeed!

HYPOLITO.

Most wonderful!

VICTORIAN.

And in the vale below

Where yonder steeples flash like lifted halberds,
San Ildefonso, from its noisy belfries,

Sends up a salutation to the morn,

As if an army smote their brazen shields,
And shouted victory!

HYPOLITO.

"Tis a notable old town,

Boasting an ancient Roman aqueduct,
And an Alcázar, builded by the Moors,
Wherein, you may remember, poor Gil Blas
Was fed on pan del rey. Oh, many a time
Out of its grated windows have I looked
Hundreds of feet plumb down to the Eresma,
That, like a serpent through the valley creeping,
Glides at its foot!

PRECIOSA.

Oh, yes! I see it now,

Yet rather with my heart than with mine eyes,
So faint it is. And all my thoughts sail thither,
Freighted with prayers and hopes, and forward urged
Against all stress of accident, as in

The eastern tale, against the wind and tide,

Great ships were drawn to the Magnetic Mountains,
And there were wrecked and perished in the sea!

VICTORIAN.

(She weeps.)

O gentle spirit! thou didst bear unmoved
Blasts of adversity and frosts of fate!
But the first ray of sunshine that falls on thee
Melts thee to tears! Oh, let thy weary heart
Lean upon mine! and it shall faint no more,
Nor thirst, nor hunger; but be comforted
And filled with my affection.

PRECIOSA.

Stay no longer!

My father waits. Methinks I see him there,

Now looking from the window, and now watching

Each sound of wheels or foot-fall in the street,

And saying, "Hark! she comes!" O father! father!
(They descend the pass. CHISPA remains behind.)

CHISPA.

Alas and alack-a

I have a father, too, but he is a dead one. day! Poor was born, and poor do I remain. I neither win nor lose. Thus I wag through the world, half the time on foot, and the other half walking; and always as merry as a thunder-storm

in the night. And so we plough along, as the fly said to the ox. Who knows what may happen? Patience, and shuffle the cards! I am not yet so bald, that you can see my brains; and perhaps, after all, I shall some day go to Rome, and come back Saint Peter. Benedicite!

[Exit.

(A pause. Then enter BARTOLOMÉ wildly as if in pursuit, with a carabine in his hand.)

BARTOLOMÉ.

They passed this way! I hear their horses' hoofs !
Yonder I see them! Come, sweet caramillo,

This serenade shall be the Gipsy's last!

(Fires down the pass.)

Ha ha! Well whistled, my sweet caramillo?
Well whistled!—I have missed her!-Oh, my God!

(The shot is returned. BARTOLOMÉ falls.)

BALLADS.

THE SKELETON IN ARMOUR.

[THE following ballad was suggested to me while riding on the sea-shore at Newport. A year or two previous, a skeleton had been dug up at Fall River, clad in broken and corroded armour; and the idea occurred to me of connecting it with the Round Tower at Newport, generally known hitherto as the Old Windmill, though now claimed by the Danes as a work of their early ancestors.]

"SPEAK! speak! thou fearful guest!
Who, with thy hollow breast,
Still in rude armour drest,

Comest to daunt me!

Wrapt not in eastern balms,
But with thy fleshless palms
Stretched, as if asking alins,

Why dost thou haunt me?"

Then, from those cavernous eyes
Pale flashes seemed to rise,
As when the northern skies
Gleam in December;

And, like the water's flow
Under December's snow,

Came a dull voice of woe

From the heart's chamber.

"I was a Viking old!

My deeds, though manifold,
No Skald in song has told,

No Saga taught thee!
Take heed, that in thy verse
Thou dost the tale rehearse,

Else dread a dead man's curse.

For this I sought thee.

"Far in the northern land, By the wild Baltic's strand, I, with my childish hand,

Tamed the ger-falcon ; And, with my skates fast-bound, Skimmed the half frozen Sound,

That the poor whimpering hound Trembled to walk on.

"Oft to his frozen lair

Tracked I the grisly bear,
While from my path the hare
Fled like a shadow;
Oft through the forest dark
Followed the were-wolf's bark,
Until the soaring lark

Sang from the meadow.

"But when I older grew,
Joining a corsair's crew,
O'er the dark sea I flew
With the marauders.
Wild was the life we led;
Many the souls that sped,
Many the hearts that bled,
By our stern orders.

"Many a wassail-bout

Wore the long Winter out;
Often our midnight shout

Set the cocks crowing,
As we the Berserk's tale
Measured in cups of ale,
Draining the oaken pail,

Filled to o'erflowing.

"Once, as I told in glee
Tales of the stormy sea,
Soft eyes did gaze on me,
Burning, yet tender;
And as the white stars shine
On the dark Norway pine,
On that dark heart of mine

Fell their soft splendour.