Where the waters flow Down to the city of Sevilla, Years and years ago.

Seated half within a bower,

Where the languid evening breeze Shook out odours in a shower

From oranges and citron-trees,

Sang she from a romancero,

How a Moorish chieftain bold

Fought a Spanish caballero

By Sevilla's walls of old;

How they battled for a lady,

Fairest of the maids of Spain,How the Christian's lance, so steady,

Pierced the Moslem through the brain.

Then she ceased: her black eyes, moving, Flash'd, as ask'd she with a smile, Say, are maids as fair and loving,

66

"And the men?" "Ah! dearest lady, Are-quien sabe? who can say?

To make love they're ever ready,

When they can and where they may;

"The breeze of the evening that cools the hot air, That kisses the orange and shakes out thy hair,

Is its freshness less welcome, less sweet its perfume, That you know not the region from which it is come? Whence the wind blows, where the wind goes,

Hither and thither and whither — who knows?

The river forever glides singing along,
The rose on the bank bends down to its song;
And the flower, as it listens, unconsciously dips,
Till the rising wave glistens and kisses its lips:
But why the wave rises and kisses the rose,
And why the rose stoops for those kisses

who knows? Who knows?

And away flows the river, - but whither · who knows?

Let me be the breeze, love, that wanders along,

The river that ever rejoices in song;

Be thou to my fancy the orange in bloom,

The rose by the river that gives its perfume.

Would the fruit be so golden, so fragrant the rose,

If no breeze and no wave were to kiss them?

Who knows?

Who knows?

If no breeze and no wave were to kiss them?

Who knows?"

As I sang, the lady listen'd,

Silent save one gentle sigh:
When I ceased, a tear-drop glisten'd
On the dark fringe of her eye.

Tongues speak wild when hearts are flutter'd
By the mighty master-spell.

"Magdalena, dearest, hear me,"

Sigh'd I, as I seized her hand; "Hola! Senior," very near me,

Cries a voice of stern command.

And a stalwart caballero

Comes upon me with a stride,
On his head a slouch'd sombrero,
A toledo by his side.

"Will your Worship have the goodness
To release that lady's hand?"
"Senior," I replied, "this rudeness
I am not prepared to stand."

Then the Spanish caballero

Bow'd with haughty courtesy,

Solemn as a tragic hero,

And announced himself to me:

'Tis as good as twenty score, sir,"
Said I to him, with a frown:
"Mucha bulla para nada,
No palabras, draw your 'spada;
If you're up for a duello

You will find I'm just your fellow, –
Senior, I am Peter Brown!"

By the river's bank that night,
Foot to foot in strife,
Fought we in the dubious light
A fight of death or life.
Don Camillo slash'd my shoulder;
With the pain I grew the bolder,

Close and closer still I press'd:

Fortune favour'd me at last;

I broke his guard, my weapon pass'd: Through the caballero's breast:

The man of many names went down, Pierced by the sword of Peter Brown!

With the bleeding from his wound.

If he be living still, or dead,

I never knew, I ne'er shall know. That night from Spain in haste I fled, Years and years ago.

XI.

ONOMATOPOETIC.

THE BELLS.

EDGAR A. POE.

HEAR the sledges with the bells, silver bells;
What a world of merriment their melody foretells!
How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle,
In the icy air of night!
While the stars, that oversprinkle
All the heavens, seem to twinkle
With a crystalline delight;

Keeping time, time, time,

In a sort of Runic rhyme,

To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells
From the bells, bells, bells, bells, bells,
From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells.

Hear the mellow wedding-bells, — golden bells!
What a world of happiness their harmony foretells!
Through the balmy air of night
How they ring out their delight!
From the molten-golden notes,
And all in tune,

What a liquid ditty floats

To the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloats
On the moon!

O, from out the sounding cells,

What a gush of euphony voluminously wells!
How it swells! how it dwells