My kerchief white was wetted there,
While the stream roll'd smiling on;
And the flowers which on its border were,
When I look'd again were gone.

I'll stay-I'll stay in our village, mother,
For it stained me as I past—

That wave is fled-O fear no other,-
That danger was the last.

Romancero General, 2d part, p. 81.

COUNT, AND THOU ART CALLED TO DIE.

"Pesame de vos el Conde."

COUNT, and thou art call'd to die,
O! it grieves my soul to see:-
Thou hast err'd-but yet I thought
Pardon might be found for thee.
For the errors love commits
For love's sake might pardon'd be ;
Suppliant, I implored the king—
Suppliant, for thy liberty:

But he turn'd with frowns away,
And with angry words from me,
Said the sentence had been given-
Could not be revoked-for he

Would not clear the Infanta's guard,
Who had stolen her chastity.

Youth!-who trusts to woman's words,

Is by pain rewarded well;

He who sacrificest most,

Shall the longest sorrows tell:
Death, or shame, or ruin, Count!
Still with woman's favour dwell,
And their fairest smile of heaven
Soon becomes a frown from hell!

Nay, sir knight!-O say not so!
Words like these I'll ne'er forgive-
For I'd rather die for them

Than without their favours live.

Cancionero General de Valencia, 1511, p. 131.

D

THE CONDEMNED KNIGHT.

"Decid me vos pensamiento."

TELL me, my busy thoughts, O tell,
Whither are fled my troubling woes?
Whence was that voice of peace and joy
That loud in my silent breast arose?
Say-are the captive's fetters riven?
Say-do his days of sorrow close?
Say-does some light of comfort come

From where thy plaint of darkness goes?

No! for no captive's chains are riven-
No! for no days of sorrow close-

No! for no light of comfort comes

From where thy plaint of darkness goes. 'Tis the fair dawn of Juan's day,

Bright o'er the morning hills it rose,

And on the forehead of content

All its gay streams of bliss it throws But to the wretched mourning ones Darker it makes their wants and woes.

Hapless one! why should I talk to thee? Thou to the changing world art dead; Thou wert the vain world's glory onceNow is thy glory perished.

And thou must die: some envy thee,
Others shall pity's dew-drop shed:
Thou wilt die bravely-fear and shame
Never shall bend thy noble head-
And they shall say-" for faults like his
Why was he to the scaffold led?”

Cancionero de Valencia, 1511, p. 134.