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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 Miifa give them, when he spake his sad farewell;
And what to say, when he comes back, alas! I can not 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 tongue should list, nor smile on other's tale,
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 Mu$a think of me, I can not, can not 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 unchanging gems are not befitting well:
Thus will he think:—and what to say, alas! I can not 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 my 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 can not 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 j
But when he went to Tunis, my virgin troth had broken,
And thought no more of Mu^a, and cared not for his token.
My ear-rings! my ear-rings! Oh! luckless, luckless well!
For what to say to Muja, alas! I can not tell!

"I'll tell the truth to Muva, 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 Saldafia," 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 lothsome 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 1

And why so dull and cold 1
Doth not my blood within thee run1

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 host1
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 1

"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 'tis 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 1

"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.

XVII.

FEMALE POETS.

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 can not 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 neighborhood to meet the wife and daughters of a certain Dr. Blamire "An old friend of yours and mine," quoth our inviter to my father "Don't you remember how you used to flirt with the fair lady when you and Babington were at Haslar? Faith, if Blamire had not taken pity on her, it would have gone hard with the poor damsel! However, he made up to the disconsolate maiden, and she got over it. Nothing like a new love for chasing away an old one. You must dine with us to-morrow. I shall like to see the meeting."

My father did not attempt to deny the matter. Men never do. He laughed, as all that wicked sex do laugh at such sins twenty years after, and professed that he should be very glad to shake hands with his old acquaintance. So the next day we met.

I was a little curious to see how my own dear mother, my mamma that was, and the stranger lady, my mamma that might have been, would bear themselves on the occasion. At first, my dear mother, an exceedingly ladylike, quiet person, had considerably the advantage, being prepared for the rencontre and perfectly calm and composed; while Mrs. Blamire, taken, I suspect, by surprise, was a good deal startled and flustered. This state of things, however, did not last. Mrs. Blamire having got over

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