And so he led him prancing and panting to the King; But "No!" said Don Alphonso, "it were a shameful thing 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 THE BRIDAL OF ANDALLA. "Rise up, 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 the tall, tall plume of our cousin's bridegroom floats proudly Arise, arise, Xarifa; I see Andalla's face; He bends him to the people with a calm and princely grace; The Zegri lady rose not, nor laid her cushion down; But though her eyes dwelt on her knee, in vain her fingers strove, “Why rise ye not, Xarifa, nor lay your cushion down? 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?" "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 tell." 'T was 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, "He'll say I am a woman, and we are all the same; "I'll tell the truth to Muça, and I hope he will believe 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 For when this castle first I saw, Doth not my blood within thee run? Alas! it may be so, but still Thy mother's blood is thine; And what is kindred to the King And thus all three against me stand; 'Tis not enough to have our foes, 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, By uttering words so free, For, while oppressed with age I moan, 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 "You went yesterday playing And now you come out, More than other girls drest. "You take pleasure in sighs, 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; "Our old aunt will be sent for, With the girls as we pass. "And when we walk out, She will bid that old shrew "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; "He is gone of free choice, Without summons or call; And 't is foolish to love him, "Nay, pray morn and night And again you should love," As she answered poor Jane); "What hope is there, sister, From the proverb's old strains; Love's dominion you own, 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. XVII. FEMALE POETS. ADVENTURE AT WILLIAM COBBETT'S. MISS BLAMIRE-MRS. JAMES GRAY. 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 |