But grief is lesson'd in an honest school,
And o'er the face spreads out, in sad array,
Its pallid colours or its hectic flush;
It ought to put the others to the blush.

XXXVII.

Well-oze day, when king Phoebus in the East
Had lifted his round head from off his pillow,
And frighten'd from their slumbers man and beast,
And turn'd to clear quicksilver every billow,
The Don Diego, from Love's toil released,
With ducats primed and head ycrown'd with
willow,

Stepp'd in his heavy coach with heavier sigh,
Pull'd up the blinds and bade the drivers "fly."

XXXVIII.

They travell'd (our sad hero and his mother,.
From great Madrid, through Old and New
Castile,

Stopp'd at one town and rattled through another,
Ate fish and fowl and flesh (excepting veal :)
Meanwhile he took it in his head he'd smother
Cupid; he tried, and soon began to feel
That as the boy grew quiet, he grew merry
(He smother'd him with Port and sometimes

Sherry.)

XXXIX.

Then 'round his mother he would twine his arms
Gently, and kiss and call her his Aurelia,
And gaze and sigh "inimitable charms!"
And then "what ruby lips!" until 'twas
really a

Joke, for although it filled her with alarms

To see him rave and take his glass thus freely, a Bystander must have laugh'd to see a woman Of fifty kiss'd: in Spain 'tis quite uncommon.

XL.

Well, this went on: he found that wine was better Than thought, while thought ran cankering through his breast,

And so he talk'd of other things, and let her Sweet name sometimes (Divine Aurelia")

rest:

To finish, he sat down and wrote a letter,

In which he said that- all was for the bestThat love might grow to folly-that his mother Had but one child, and might not have another."

XLI.

"That filial duty was a noble thing:

That he must live though 'gainst his inclination,

For though he once resolved, he said, to fling
Himself into the sea as an oblation
To Cupid, yet, as love had lost its sting,
He'd take a dip merely for recreation:
And then he added he should go to Cadiz,
To see the place, and how he liked the ladies."

XLII.

The letter ended with-I quite forget

The actual words, but with some short apology About his lungs, he said he owed a debt

To nature, and-pshaw! though I've been to college I

Am in the Doctors' language stupid yet,

And often blunder in my phraseology; No matter, he was sick he did declare, And wanted change of scene and country air.

XLIII.

And then he rambled through his native land, And by her rivers wide and silver rills, Running through cork and beechen forests, and Breathed the brave air of those immortal hills. Which like an altar or memorial stand

Of patriot spirits, whose achievement fills Story and song: for, once, the Spanish name Was noble, and identified with fame.

XLIV.
Now-but I'm quite a shallow politician,
And we've enough of politics in prose,
And so to men of talent and condition

I leave the task to plead the Spanish woes: What I should say would be mere repetition,

And bring the theme no nearer to its close, So I'll e'en leave the wrongs of Spain to time; Beside, the thing's too serious for this rhyme. XLV.

Diego pass'd Cordova, gay Sevilla

(Seville,) and saw some mighty pleasant sights Saw the Fandango and the Sequidilla

And new Bolero danced on summer nights, And got at last to Cadiz, which is still a

Right noble city, as Lord Byron writes. N. B. The dances I have named are national, And, like all others, tolerably irrational.

XLIX.

He wish'd at times to meet Aurelia's look
Divine, and her right royal figure, graced
With beauty intellectual (like a book

Well bound and written in the finest taste,
Whose noble meaning no one e'er mistook,)

Her white arm, and her undulating waist,
Her foot like Atalanta's, when she ran
And lost the race (a woman should) to man.
L.

But in his lonely moments he would dream

Of young Aurora, and would tremble lest Aught should befal the girl, and then a gleam Of the sad truth would come and break his

rest,

And from his pillow he would rise and scream:
This was a sort of night-mare, at the best,
For he at Cadiz had forgot his diet,
And raked and drank instead of being quiet.

LI.

He thought of her so young, and oh so pale, And like a lily which the storms have bent Unto the dust: then would he swear and rail That 'twas impossible and never meant That girls should die for love: an idle tale,

And by some moody imp of slumber sent To teaze him, for the Rosicrucian creed Is understood in Spain by all-who read.

LII.

Whate'er it was-presentiment (which is
A sort of silent prophecy, some say,
In lottery luck, and love, and death, and bliss)
Or not, he could not drive the thought away;
Then 'twas a passing fancy-where she his,

How gently would he soothe her dying dayHe swore she should not die-(when folks are

amorous

They're frequently absurd as well as clamorous.)

LIII.

When once his Spanish head had got this notion,
It stuck upon his brain just like birdlime,
And cured him without either pill or potion,
Bleeding or balm, in no (or little) time;
Then would he wander on that deep blue ocean,
Dreaming of her, and string some idle rhyme,
And every stanza (none are known to fame)
Did finish somehow with Aurora's name.

LIV.

And often to a grotto did he hie

Which in a lone and distant forest stood, Just like a wood-nymph's haunt; and he would lie

Beneath the cover of its arch so rude,

For there when the August sun had mounted high,

And all was silent but the stock-dove's brood, The whispering zephyr sometimes 'rose unseen, And kiss'd the leaves and boughs of tender green.

LV.

And every shrub that fond wind flatter'd cast Back a perfuming sigh, and rustling roll'd VOL. II.-37

Before the entrance of that grotto flow'd
A quiet streamlet, cool and never dull,
Wherein the many-colour'd pebbles glow'd,
And sparkled through its waters beautiful,
And thereon the shy wild-fowl often rode,
And on its grassy margin you might cull
Flowers and healing plants: a hermit spot,
And, once seen, never to be quite forgot.
LVII.

Our lover, Don Diego do Montilla,

In moody humour pass'd his time at Cadiz; Drove out to Arcos, or perhaps Sevilla,

Saint Lucar-Trafalgar (which I'm afraid is Not now in fashion)-danced the Sequidilla,

Sometimes with castanets, to please the ladies, Ate, drank, and sail'd upon the dark blue waters, Where mothers begg'd he'd take (for health) their daughters.

Seems woo'd not conquer'd by the coming night, Meeting his dim embrace but not command, Until it sinks and vanishes, and the sight

On mockeries of the past alone is strained. Thus Jove, drawn out in all Correggio's charms, Wraps the sweet Io in his snadowy arms.

LXII.

Alas! she was so young-but Death has no Compassion on the young more than the old,She wore a patient look, but free from woe

Unto the last ('tis thus the story's told,) She never look'd reproachful-peevish, though Her lady sister would not seldom scold, Because the girl had fancied her old lover; For none could any other cause discover. LXIII.

O, melancholy Love! amidst thy fears,

Thy darkness, thy despair, there runs a vein Of pleasure, like a smile 'midst many tears,— The pride of sorrow that will not complainThe exultation that in after years

The loved one will discover-and in vain,
How much the heart silently in its cell
Did suffer till it broke, yet nothing tell.
LXIV.

Else-Wherefore else doth lovely woman keep
Lock'd in her heart of hearts, from every gaze
Hidden, her struggling passion-wherefore weep
In grief that never while it flows allays
Those tumults in the bosom buried deep,

And robs her bright eyes of their natural rays.
Creation's sweetest riddle !-yet, remain
Just as thou art-man's only worthy gain.

LXV.

LXVIII.

The girl was dying. Youth and beauty-all Men love or women boast of was decaying; And one by one life's finest powers did fall Before the touch of death, who seem'd delaying,

As though he'd not the heart at once to call

The maiden to his home. At last, arraying Himself in softest guise, he came: she sigh'd, And, smiling as though her lover whisper'd, died

LXIX.

Diego-though it seem as he could change
From love to love at pleasure-be it said
Unto his honour, he did never range

Again: I should have written that he fled To her (some people thought this wondrous strange)

At the first news of danger-She was dead. One silly woman said her heart was broke.He look'd and listen'd, but he never spoke.

LXX.

He saw her where she lay in silent state,
Cold and as white as marble: and her eye,
Whereon such bright and beaming beauty sate.
Was after the fashion of mortality,
Closed up for ever; e'en the smiles which late
None could withstand, were gone; and there

did lie

(For he had drawn aside the shrouding veil) By her a helpless hand, waxen and pale.

LXXI.

Diego stood beside the coffin lid

And gazed awhile upon her: then he bent

thou

Done to the archer blind, that he should dart His cruel shafts till thou wast forced to bow

In bitter anguish, ay, endure the smart The more because thou worest a smiling brow While the dark arrow canker'd at thy heart? Yet jeer her not: if 'twere a folly, she Hath paid (how firmly paid) Love's penalty.

LXVI.

Uft would she sit and look upon the sky,

When rich clouds in the golden sun-set lay Basking, and loved to hear the soft winds sigh That come like music at the close of day Trembling amongst the orange blossoms, and die As 'twere from very sweetness. She was gay, Meekly and calmly gay, and then her gaze Was brighter than belongs to dying days.

LXVII.

And on her young thin cheek a vivid flush,
A clear transparent colour sate awhile:
Twas like, a bard would say, the morning's
blush,

And 'round her mouth there play'd a gentle smile,

Which though at first it might your terrors hush,

It could not, though it strove, at last beguile; And her hand shook, and then rose the blue vein Branching about in all its windings plain.

Her wait awhile for him, for that he meant To follow quickly; then his face he hid,

And 'gainst the margin of the coffin leant
In mute and idle anguish: not a breath
Or sound was heard. He was alone, with Death.
LXXII.

At last they drew him like a child, away;
And spoke in soothing sorrow of the dead,
Placing her sweet acts out in kind array,
And mourn'd that one so gracious should have
fled

As 'twere before her time; though she would

say,

Poor girl (and often to that talk she led,) That to die early was a happy lot, And, cheering, said she should be "soon forgot."

LXXIII.

She left one letter for her love: they gave

The feeble scrawl into his hand, and told How when she found that medicine could not

save

And love had come too late, she grew more

bold,

And bade, when she was quiet in her grave (I think the phrase was "when her hand was

cold,")

That they should give that letter to the Lord Diego, her first love; or some such word.

LXXX.

It was a soothing place: the summer hours Pass'd there in quiet beauty; and at night The moon ran searching thro' the woodbine bowers

And shook er all the leaves her kisses bright, O'er lemon blossoms, and faint myrtle flowers, And there the west wind often took his flight When heaven's clear eye was closing, while above

Pale Hesper 'rose, the evening light of love.
LXXXI.

How sweet it is to see that courier star

(Which like the spirit of the twilight shines)
Come stealing up the broad blue heaven afar,
Until his mistress in her brighter car
Silvering the dark tops of the distant pines,

But sweetest when in lonely spots we see
Enters the sky, and then his light declines:
The gentle, watchful, amorous deity.

LXXXII.

He comes more lovely than the Hours: his look Sheds calm refreshing light, and eyes that burn

With glancing at the sun's so radiant book,

Unto his softer page with pleasure turn:
'Tis like the murmur of some shaded brook,
Or the soft welling of a Naiad's urn,
After the sounding of the vast sea-waves.

LXXVII.

He grew familiar with the bird; the brute
Knew well its benefactor, and he'd feed
And make acquaintance with the fishes mute,
And, like the Thracian Shepherd, as we read,
Drew, with the music of his stringed lute,

Behind him winged things, and many a tread
And tramp of animal: and in his hall
He was a Lord indeed, beloved by all.

LXXVIII.

In a high solitary turret where

None were admitted would he muse, when first

The young day broke, perhaps because he there
Had in his earliest infancy been nursed,
Or that he felt more pure the morning air,
Or loved to see the great Apollo burst
From out his cloudy bondage, and the night
Hurry away before the conquering light.

LXXIX.

But oftener to a gentle lake that lay

Cradled within a forest's bosom, he Would, shunning kind reproaches, steal away, And, when the inland breeze was fresh and free,

There would he loiter all the livelong day,

Tossing upon the waters listlessly.

The swallow dash'd beside him, and the deer
Drank by his boat and eyed him without fear.

LXXXIII.

Then bashful boys stammer their faint fond

Vows;

Then like a whisper music seems to float Around us: then from out the thicket boughs And then the young girl listens, and allows Cometh the nightingale's so tender note, (Moved by the witching of the sweet bird's throat)

To passion its first kiss:-but of these things
He thought not in his moody wanderings.

LXXXIV.

'Twas solitude he loved where'er he strayed,
No danger daunted and no pastime drew,
And ever on that fair heart-broken maid
(Aurora) who unto the angels flew
Away so early, with grief unallayed

He thought, and in the sky's eternal blue Would look for shapes, till at times before him she

'Rose like a beautiful reality.

LXXXV.

-But he hath passed away, and there remains
Scarcely the shadow of his name: the sun,
The soft breeze, and the fierce autumnal rains
Fall now alike upon him: he hath done
With Life and cast away its heavy chains,
And in his place another spirit may run
Its course (thus live, love, languish, and thus

die.)

Through every maze of dim mortality.