THE DUKE DE RIVAS.

I twineMy hopes of being remember’d in my lineWith my land’s language;

I twine

My hopes of being remember’d in my line

With my land’s language;

and in such aspirations may the Duke de Rivas indulge in the retrospect of his past labours to ensure for him a like future remembrance.

Passing by the poems written under the influence of an adhesion to the rules of the classical school, we find the poem of the ‘Moro Esposito,’ or ‘Cordova and Burgos in the fifteenth century,’ well-deserving of being classed with the poetical romances of Sir Walter Scott, on the model of which it was written. The subject is the History of the Seven Infantes of Lara, made known to the English reader by Southey and Lockhart, and it contains many passages of extraordinary merit, though severe criticism would point out many faults. “To make felt,” says his biographer, “or to record all the beauties of this book, a book as large would be necessary, and they may well compensate for the defects, notwithstanding that at times those same beauties make us see at what small cost the author might have sent forth his work more finished.” As in every-day life, he has joined in his narration scenes of the most opposite character, the most magnificent descriptions with what is most ludicrous, and the tenderest with what is oppressing to sensibility. The passages referring to his native city of Cordova are peculiarly beautiful, and show the feelings of the exile, as they lean to his country, in all ages and under all circumstances,—to “sweet Argos” or sacred Athens—

γενοίμαν,ἵν’ ὑλᾶεν ἔπεστι πόντουπρόβλημ’ ἁλίκλυστον, ἄκρανὑπὸ πλάκα Σουνίου,τὰς ἱερὰς ὅπως προσείποιμεν Ἀθάνας.

γενοίμαν,

ἵν’ ὑλᾶεν ἔπεστι πόντου

πρόβλημ’ ἁλίκλυστον, ἄκραν

ὑπὸ πλάκα Σουνίου,

τὰς ἱερὰς ὅπως προσείποιμεν Ἀθάνας.

The dedication to Mr. Frere has the singularity of beingwritten in the English language.

The ‘Ode to the Lighthouse at Malta’ is another exemplification of the Duke’s patriotic feeling, as well as the poem of ‘The Exile,’ which has been translated into English by Mr. Reade. One of his latest works is in the form of a drama, but, like those of Lord Byron, it is not intended for the stage. It is entitled, ‘Undeception in a Dream,’ and represents the life of man, contrasting its vicissitudes and events with his hopes and desires. Like the tragedy of ‘Alvaro,’ it is a highly poetical conception, and worthy of the reputation of the noble writer.

It has already been intimated that the most popular of the Duke’s works is one published at Madrid in 1841, ‘Historical Romances,’ from which has been taken, for translation, the ‘Alcazar of Seville.’ These romances are, in fact, ballads on various subjects in Spanish history, written in the ballad measure of octosyllabic lines, with asonante rhymes for the second and fourth of each quatrain, similar to our own ballads. In the prologue to this work the Duke has written a defence of this measure, which required no defence beyond his own adoption of it, with the example of such writers in it as Melendez and Arriaza in modern times, and almost all the best writers in the language previously. Ochoa has praised “above all” the romance of the Conde de Villa Mediana, and readers generally find most interesting the ‘Tale of a Veteran,’ so that it may require an explanation for the choice of the one taken, that the character ofPedro, surnamed the Cruel, was best known to the English public, as associated with English history. That of the Conde de Villa Mediana is a lively description of some scenes which led to his assassination by order of the king, who was influenced by jealousy; the ‘Tale of the Veteran’ gives an account of an adventure in a nunnery, where a nun invites an officer to her cell and poisons him in revenge for his slight to her sister. She then shows him the corpse of a brother officer, who had already fallen a victim to herarts for the like wrong to herself, and she tells him the whole history of her motives and conduct, while she induces him to dig a grave for the first victim, with whom, she tells her second, that he is also to be placed.

Few writers have given the world so many works of a superior order, distinguishable separately for varied excellence, as the Duke de Rivas. He has concentrated in his later productions all the chief merits of a poet, in the choice of his subjects, in the delineation of character and the power of maintaining throughout the interest of the narrative. If he has failed too often in the mechanical execution, in attending to the harmony of verse or poetic expression of the thoughts, these are faults which we may hope will be corrected in subsequent editions, so as to leave him still greater claims on the admiration of his readers.

I.Magnificent is the Alcazar,For which Seville is renown’d,Delicious are its gardens,With its lofty portals crown’d.With woods all carved elaborate,In a thousand forms about,It raises high its noble frontWith cornice jutting out;And there in ancient charactersA tablet may be seen,Don Pedro built these palaces,The sculptures placed between.But ill beseem in its saloonsThe modern triflings rear’d,And in its proud courts men withoutThe antique vest or beard.How many a soft and balmy eve,In pleasant converse there,Have I with Seville’s mirthful sons,And Seville’s daughters fair,Traversed those blooming bowers along,On entering which are rudeGigantic shapes in myrtles cut,Of various attitude;And rose-bay trees, in long arcades,With oranges unite,And shady labyrinths form, the whichTo thefts of love invite;And hidden jets of water springAll sudden from the floor,When trod the painted pebbles laidIn rich mosaic o’er,That sprinkle on the stranger there,While shouts of laughter rise,From those who warn’d by former fateNow shun such pleasantries!In summer time, at close of day,When mid the light cloud’s fold,The sun declines, encircling themWith scarlet and with gold,That bright transparent heaven above,With purple mists o’erspread,Cut in a thousand varied hues,By softest zephyrs led,That glowing atmosphere, in whichOne seems to breathe of fire,How temper they the languid frame,And soul divine inspire!The view too of those baths, that gainFrom all who know them praise,And that proud edifice which MoorsAnd Goths combined to raise,In some parts harsh, in some more light,Here ruins, there repair’d,The different dominations pass’dAre thus by each declared;With records, and remembrancesOf ages long pass’d by,And of more modern years alikeTo arrest the fantasy.The lemon’s and the jasmine’s flowers,While they the eyes enchant,Embalm the circumambient airWith sweets they lavish grant.The fountains’ murmurs, and afarThe city’s varied cries,With those that from the river near,Or Alameda rise,From Triana, and from the bridge,All lost, confused amain,With sound of bells vibrating loudIn high Hiralda’s fane;—A scene that never is forgotEnchanted forms the whole,The thoughts of which unceasing causeTo beat my heart and soul.Many delicious nights, when yetMy now all-frozen breastBeat warmly, have I seen those hallsBy youthful footsteps press’d;Fill’d with a chosen concourse gayIn country dance to meet,Or light quadrille, while festive soundsThe orchestras repeat:And from the gilded roofs reboundThe steps, the laugh perchanceAnd talk of happy pairs, by loveUnited in the dance;With sound of music mix’d the while,Confused and blended o’er,As sent according echos forthFrom the enamell’d floor.Yet, ah! those lovely bowers alongI never once have stray’d,But saw as in a mental dreamPadillia’s gentle shade,Flitting before my view to pass,Heaving a sigh profound,Light as a vapour, or a cloudThat skims the trees around.Nor ever enter’d I those halls,But fancying ariseI saw the founder’s phantom, stain’dWith blood congeal’d the dyes.Nor in that vestibule obscure,Where with the cornice blendThe portraits of the kings, arrangedIn columns to extend,To that which is blue-tiled below,And enamell’d is on high,Which shows on every side aroundA rich-set balcony,And gilded lattice roof aboveThat crowns it with dark shade,But thought I saw upon the groundA lifeless body laid!Yet on that pavement may be seenA dark stain to this day!Indelible, which ages passAnd never wash away:’Tis blood that dark tenacious stain;Blood of the murder’d dead:Alas! how many throng it o’er,Nor think on what they tread!II.Five hundred years shone youngerThe Alcazar to the day,Its lofty walls yet lustrous,And faultless its array;And brilliant were the enamelsWhich its gilded roofs reveal,It showed itself the mansion fitOf the king of proud Castile;When on one balmy morn it chancedOf florid May betide,In that saloon whose balconyIs on the plaza’s side,Two persons of illustrious mienIn silence deep were there;One was a Cavalier, and oneA Lady passing fair.A Barbary carpet richly woveUpon the floor was laid,The gift or tribute which the MoorGranada’s king had paid;A silken curtain, bright with flowers,And ribbons curious wrought,With various eastern colours deck’d,Which to our Spain had broughtVenetian galleys, as perchanceHer Doge’s gift of state,Was thrown across the balcony,The light to moderate.In the recess in front, with woodsWell carved, and richly gracedWith mother-o’-pearl inlayings,Was an Oratory placed;Where of the sovereign VirginThe image stood devout,The sculpture somewhat rude, but yetAttractions not without;Which with a plate of silver,For ornament was crown’d,Its rim reflecting amethysts,And emeralds around.A manuscript of holy prayers,Which miniatures adorn,Precious with gold and ivoryUpon its coverings borne,Was seen there placed upon a stand,Form’d of an angel’s wings,The figure badly sculptured,But with neat finishings.And on the floor of gold brocadeA cushion one might see,Which by its sunken pressure show’dThe marks of bended knee.And on the pure white walls were hungBright arms along the space,And interspersed were banners,And trophies of the chase.An ornamental table stoodIn the middle of the floor,On which a well-tuned lute was placed,Though partly covered o’er;A rich-cut board for game of draughts,And a coffer by its sideOf silver filigree, and jarsWith chosen flowers supplied.The Lady near the balconySat very pensively,In a great gilded chair of state,Whose back was form’d to beA canopy, or cover o’er,And in gay curvings downWere lions, castles, and the wholeSurmounted with a crown.Her dress a silken robe of green,Which show’d a various tinge,In twisted threads, with pearls and goldThe embroidery and fringe.Her head-dress than the snow appear’dEv’n whiter to behold,And covering o’er the fine clear lawnHer long dark tresses roll’d.Her face was heavenly, and her neckDivine, but in their hueLike wax, the colour which fear paints,And long-known sorrow too.Her eyes were like two beaming sunsBeneath their lashes tall,Where shone two precious pearly dropsAs ready down to fall.She was a lily fair, whom deathWas rudely threatening seen,For a corroding worm the heartWas tearing deep within.Now in her thin pale hands, convulsedIt seems with fear or doubt,Her kerchief white, of border’d laceAnd points, she twists about;Or with absorb’d distracted mienShe agitates the air,With fan, whose feathers ArabyHad sent, the choicest there.The Cavalier was slightly form’d,And of the middle size,With reddish beard, a restless mouth,And most unquiet eyes.His visage pale and dry appear’d,Nose sharp and of a crook,Noble his port, but sinisterAnd terrible his look.In a red mantle he was wrapp’d,With golden plates o’erspread,And gracefully his cap was placedOn one side on his head.With measured steps, from end to end,He paced along the room,And different passions o’er his faceThough silent seem’d to come.At times he reddens,darting roundFierce looks, that seem to tell,As flames cast forth from eyes of fire,The very deeds of hell.And now a fierce and bitter smileThe extended lip displays,Or on the gilded roof he fix’dA darkly lowering gaze.Now hastening on his course, from headTo foot he trembles o’er,And now proceeds his noble mienOf calmness to restore.Thus have I seen a tiger fierce,Now tranquil, now with rageRevolve himself each side across,And round his narrow cage.Thus pacing o’er the carpet thereHis footsteps are not heard,But soundless they, yet were distinctAs ever that he stirr’d,The crackling of his arms and knees:In distant lands, ’tis said,That with like noise has Heaven supplied,For man to shun in dread,O, wonder rare! a serpent, namedThence Rattlesnake, that springsQuick at the moment it comes nigh,And kills whome’er it stings.The Lady was Padillia,That sat in mournful strain;And the stern silent CavalierDon Pedro, King of Spain.III.As round some solitary tower,At setting of the sun,Fierce birds of prey are whirling seen,Revolving one by one,Thus with Don Pedro in their turnHave various thoughts a trace,Whose shadows darken as they passThe expression of his face.Now occupies his angry mindHis brother’s power and state,Of those whose mother he had slain,And birth would criminate.Now of unquietnesses borne,Great scorn and insult shown,Or of his failing treasury,Nor means to fill it known.Now of the fair Aldonza’s charms,His fortune ’twas to gain,Or of the blood-stain’d forms of thoseHe had unjustly slain.Now some projected enterprise,Some treaty to defeat,Faith-breaking with Granada’s Moor,Or treason or deceit.But as the birds the lonely tower,The broken heights between,Are all at length, as one by one,Retiring hiding seen;And constant only one remains,Revolving it infest,The fiercest, strongest on the wing,That will admit no rest;Thus all that multitude confusedOf passions wild and strange,Of which Don Pedro for a whileWas tangled in the range,At length from breast and head alikeFled finding a retreat,And living left distinct alone,With horror great replete,The image of Fadrique,His eldest brother famed,The pride of knights and Master thoseOf Santiago named.Now from Humillia’s conquer’d walls,With matchless courage won,In triumph had Fadrique comeO’er vanquish’d Aragon.Where erst the bars, the castles nowHe floating left abroad,And to present the keys he bringsHis brother, king and lord.Well knows the king no rebel he,But friend and ally true,And more than Tello madly hates,And more than Henry too.’Twas he Fadrique had the chargeFrom France to bring the queen,The Lady Blanche, but he allow’dA year to intervene.With her in Narbonne he delay’d,And rumours thus of those,Which whether true or false alikeAre poisonous, arose.And in Medina’s tower the priceThe Lady Blanche now pays,Of all the palace whisperings,And journey’s long delays.And on his shoulders yet untouch’dHis head Fadrique wears,Because of his great wealth and powerAnd honour’d name he bears.But, woe for him! the ladies allHim as their idol own,For his gay port and gallant mien,And manly courage known.And if he cause the throne no fear,In his fidelity,He gives what’s worse, though that were bad,The heart strong jealousy.Meanwhile the fair Padillia,Whose judgement clear and great,Her royal lover’s secret thoughts,Though deepest penetrate,In whom the goodness of her heartThe enchantment still excels,That in her beauteous face and formSo marvellously dwells,Unhappy victim lives of fears,That ever her attend,Because she loves the king, and seesHis course in evil end:She knows that based in blood and grief,And persecution’s train,A palace never is secure,No throne can fix’d remain.And she has two young tender girls,Who with another sire,Whate’er their lot, might all have gain’dTheir hearts could best require;And in Fadrique’s worth she seesA stay and partisan.She knows he comes to Seville now,And as from words can scanHer fierce lord’s brow dark lowering,In evil hour he came,And to allay suspicions,Or give them higher aim,At length, though with a trembling lip,The silence breaking daredTo speak, and thus the words that pass’dBetween the two declared:“Your brother then, Fadrique,Triumphant comes today?”“And certainly in coming,The wretch makes long delay.”“He serves you well, and hero-like,As does Humillia show,Of loyalty gives proofs, and braveHe is”—“Sufficient so.”“You may be sure, Sire, that his heartWill ever true remain.”“Tomorrow still more sure of that.”Both silent were again.IV.With joy the Master to receive,Through Seville’s streets along,Great rumour spreads, and arms resound,And men and horses throng.And shouts of welcoming, amidstRepeated echoes rise,Which from Hiralda’s lofty towerAre scattered to the skies.Now comes the crowd approaching near,But less the shouts resound,And now the palace gates they reachMid silence all around:As if the Alcazar had enjoy’dThe privilege to appear,In sight, and still the enthusiast flow,And turn it into fear.Thus mute and breathless, motionless,The people stood in dread,As if with magical respectThe plaza’s bounds to tread;And enters there the Master now,With but a scanty train,And of his order some few knights,The palace gates to gain.And forward on his course directs,As one without alarms,Who goes to meet a brother kind,With open heart and arms:Or as some noble chieftain comes,For glorious deeds the cause,From grateful monarch to receiveDue honours and applause.Upon a dark and mettled steed,That breathes of foam and fire,And while the bridle scarce restrains,Seems proud of its attire,With a white mantle o’er him cast,Flung loosely to the air,O’er which the collar and red crossHis dignity declare;And cap of crimson velvet girtHis brows, whereon unfoldThe winds the feathers’ snowy plumes,And tassels bound with gold.All pale as death, the furious KingHis brother saw from far,When on the plaza entering first,And fix’d as statues are,Awhile he stood upon the floor,And from his angry eyesSeem’d burning horrid lightning thenceIn flashes to arise.But starting soon, himself aroundHe turn’d the room to leave,As if he would some welcome guestRight affably receive.When thus Padillia saw him turn,Her heart beyond reliefOf anguish full, and countenanceSo beauteous mark’d with grief,She rose, and to the balconyWent troubled, by the square,And to the Master motions wild,With gestures to declare,In evil hour he comes, and wavesHer kerchief him away,And by mute signs thus bids him seekSafety without delay.Nothing of this he comprehends,But for saluting takesThe warning, and discreetly thusA gallant answer makes.And to the open’d portal comes,With guards and bowmen lined,Who give him passage free, but leaveHis followers behind.If he knew not Padillia’s signs,Don Pedro knew them well,As he before the chamber doorA moment seem’d to dwell,In deep suspense o’er his resolve,When turning back his eye,He saw the Lady warn him thusBy motions thence to fly.O, heaven! then was that noble act,Of pure intent to beWhat call’d the executioners forth,And seal’d the stern decree.Follow’d by two esquires alone,The Master scarce in hasteUpon the royal vestibuleHis foot confiding placed,Where various men-at-arms were seen,In double iron barr’d,Pacing along as sentinelsThe entrance stairs to guard,When over from the balcony,Like fiendish shape of ill,The King looks out, and “Mace-bearers,”He shouts, “the Master kill.”Quick as the lightning in a stormComes ere the thunders call,Six well-appointed maces downOn Don Fadrique fall.He raised his hand to grasp his sword,But in his tabard’s girdThe hilt was bound, impossibleTo draw it at the word.He fell, a sea of blood aroundRan from the shattered brain,Raising a cry which reached to heaven,And doubtless not in vain.Of deed so horrible the newsAt once around was spread,And thence the brotherhood and knightsTogether quickly fled.To hide them in their houses fledThe people, trembling soreWith horror, and the Alcazar’s boundsWere desert as before.V.’Tis said, the sight of blood so muchIs wont to infuriateThe tiger, that he still rends onWith stomach satiate;Solely because ’tis his delightWith blood the earth to stain,So doubtless with the King it wasSuch feelings grew amain.For when he saw Fadrique laid,Thus prostrate on the ground,After the squires in search he ranThe palace all around;Who tremblingly and livid fledThe apartments various o’er,Nor find they any hiding-place,Or whence to fly a door.One happily at length succeeds,To hide or fly outright;The other, Sancho Villiegas,Less happy or adroit,Seeing the King still follow him,Enter’d half dead with fearWhere was Padillia on her couch,With her attendants near;They trembling, as she senseless laid,And by her side reclinedHer two young tender girls, who wereAngels in form and mind.The unhappy youth still seeing thereThe spectre following nigh,That even this asylum mocks,In his arms quickly highSnatches the Lady Beatrice,Who scarce six years has known,The child for whom the King has e’erThe most affection shown.But, ah! naught serves him this resource,As in the desert naughtThe holy cross avails, that claspsThe pilgrim hapless caught;When roars the south wind, burns the sky,And seems as if up-drivenA frightful sea, of waves of sand,Commingling earth and heaven;Thus with the child between his arms,And on his knees compress’d,The furious dagger of the KingWas planted in his breast.As if that day had witness’d naughtThe palace new or rare,The King sat at the table calmTo eat as usual there;Play’d afterwards a game of draughts,Then went out pacing slowTo see the galleys, arming soonTo Biscay’s shores to go.And when the night the hemisphereHad with its mantle veil’d,He enters in the Golden Tower,Where he shut up has heldThe fair Aldonza, whom he tookFrom Santa Clara’s walls,And as in blind idolatryWho now his heart enthralls.With Levi then his treasurer,Who though a Hebrew vileHas all his confidence, he goesOn state affairs awhile;And very late retires to rest,With no attendants nigh,Only a Moor, a wretch perforce,His favourite waiting by.Enter’d the lofty vestibule,The Alcazar’s tranquil bound,One moment paused the King and pass’dHis gaze in turn around.A large lamp from the vaulted roofWas hanging loose, and castNow lights, now shadows, as it swung,As by the breezes pass’d.Between the polish’d columns placedTwo men in armour were,But only two dark figures show’d,Watching in silence there.And still was Don Fadrique laidExtended on the ground,With his torn mantle o’er him spread,In a lake of blood around.The King approach’d him, and awhileAttentively survey’d,And seeing that his brother yetWas not entirely dead,Since he perchance as breathing seem’d,His breast a heave to make,He gave him with his foot a push,Which made the body shake;Whereon he, giving to the MoorHis sharpen’d dagger bare,Said, “Finish him,” and quietlyTo sleep went up the stair.

Magnificent is the Alcazar,For which Seville is renown’d,Delicious are its gardens,With its lofty portals crown’d.With woods all carved elaborate,In a thousand forms about,It raises high its noble frontWith cornice jutting out;And there in ancient charactersA tablet may be seen,Don Pedro built these palaces,The sculptures placed between.But ill beseem in its saloonsThe modern triflings rear’d,And in its proud courts men withoutThe antique vest or beard.How many a soft and balmy eve,In pleasant converse there,Have I with Seville’s mirthful sons,And Seville’s daughters fair,Traversed those blooming bowers along,On entering which are rudeGigantic shapes in myrtles cut,Of various attitude;And rose-bay trees, in long arcades,With oranges unite,And shady labyrinths form, the whichTo thefts of love invite;And hidden jets of water springAll sudden from the floor,When trod the painted pebbles laidIn rich mosaic o’er,That sprinkle on the stranger there,While shouts of laughter rise,From those who warn’d by former fateNow shun such pleasantries!

Magnificent is the Alcazar,

For which Seville is renown’d,

Delicious are its gardens,

With its lofty portals crown’d.

With woods all carved elaborate,

In a thousand forms about,

It raises high its noble front

With cornice jutting out;

And there in ancient characters

A tablet may be seen,

Don Pedro built these palaces,

The sculptures placed between.

But ill beseem in its saloons

The modern triflings rear’d,

And in its proud courts men without

The antique vest or beard.

How many a soft and balmy eve,

In pleasant converse there,

Have I with Seville’s mirthful sons,

And Seville’s daughters fair,

Traversed those blooming bowers along,

On entering which are rude

Gigantic shapes in myrtles cut,

Of various attitude;

And rose-bay trees, in long arcades,

With oranges unite,

And shady labyrinths form, the which

To thefts of love invite;

And hidden jets of water spring

All sudden from the floor,

When trod the painted pebbles laid

In rich mosaic o’er,

That sprinkle on the stranger there,

While shouts of laughter rise,

From those who warn’d by former fate

Now shun such pleasantries!

In summer time, at close of day,When mid the light cloud’s fold,The sun declines, encircling themWith scarlet and with gold,That bright transparent heaven above,With purple mists o’erspread,Cut in a thousand varied hues,By softest zephyrs led,That glowing atmosphere, in whichOne seems to breathe of fire,How temper they the languid frame,And soul divine inspire!The view too of those baths, that gainFrom all who know them praise,And that proud edifice which MoorsAnd Goths combined to raise,In some parts harsh, in some more light,Here ruins, there repair’d,The different dominations pass’dAre thus by each declared;With records, and remembrancesOf ages long pass’d by,And of more modern years alikeTo arrest the fantasy.The lemon’s and the jasmine’s flowers,While they the eyes enchant,Embalm the circumambient airWith sweets they lavish grant.The fountains’ murmurs, and afarThe city’s varied cries,With those that from the river near,Or Alameda rise,From Triana, and from the bridge,All lost, confused amain,With sound of bells vibrating loudIn high Hiralda’s fane;—A scene that never is forgotEnchanted forms the whole,The thoughts of which unceasing causeTo beat my heart and soul.

In summer time, at close of day,

When mid the light cloud’s fold,

The sun declines, encircling them

With scarlet and with gold,

That bright transparent heaven above,

With purple mists o’erspread,

Cut in a thousand varied hues,

By softest zephyrs led,

That glowing atmosphere, in which

One seems to breathe of fire,

How temper they the languid frame,

And soul divine inspire!

The view too of those baths, that gain

From all who know them praise,

And that proud edifice which Moors

And Goths combined to raise,

In some parts harsh, in some more light,

Here ruins, there repair’d,

The different dominations pass’d

Are thus by each declared;

With records, and remembrances

Of ages long pass’d by,

And of more modern years alike

To arrest the fantasy.

The lemon’s and the jasmine’s flowers,

While they the eyes enchant,

Embalm the circumambient air

With sweets they lavish grant.

The fountains’ murmurs, and afar

The city’s varied cries,

With those that from the river near,

Or Alameda rise,

From Triana, and from the bridge,

All lost, confused amain,

With sound of bells vibrating loud

In high Hiralda’s fane;—

A scene that never is forgot

Enchanted forms the whole,

The thoughts of which unceasing cause

To beat my heart and soul.

Many delicious nights, when yetMy now all-frozen breastBeat warmly, have I seen those hallsBy youthful footsteps press’d;Fill’d with a chosen concourse gayIn country dance to meet,Or light quadrille, while festive soundsThe orchestras repeat:And from the gilded roofs reboundThe steps, the laugh perchanceAnd talk of happy pairs, by loveUnited in the dance;With sound of music mix’d the while,Confused and blended o’er,As sent according echos forthFrom the enamell’d floor.

Many delicious nights, when yet

My now all-frozen breast

Beat warmly, have I seen those halls

By youthful footsteps press’d;

Fill’d with a chosen concourse gay

In country dance to meet,

Or light quadrille, while festive sounds

The orchestras repeat:

And from the gilded roofs rebound

The steps, the laugh perchance

And talk of happy pairs, by love

United in the dance;

With sound of music mix’d the while,

Confused and blended o’er,

As sent according echos forth

From the enamell’d floor.

Yet, ah! those lovely bowers alongI never once have stray’d,But saw as in a mental dreamPadillia’s gentle shade,Flitting before my view to pass,Heaving a sigh profound,Light as a vapour, or a cloudThat skims the trees around.Nor ever enter’d I those halls,But fancying ariseI saw the founder’s phantom, stain’dWith blood congeal’d the dyes.Nor in that vestibule obscure,Where with the cornice blendThe portraits of the kings, arrangedIn columns to extend,To that which is blue-tiled below,And enamell’d is on high,Which shows on every side aroundA rich-set balcony,And gilded lattice roof aboveThat crowns it with dark shade,But thought I saw upon the groundA lifeless body laid!Yet on that pavement may be seenA dark stain to this day!Indelible, which ages passAnd never wash away:’Tis blood that dark tenacious stain;Blood of the murder’d dead:Alas! how many throng it o’er,Nor think on what they tread!

Yet, ah! those lovely bowers along

I never once have stray’d,

But saw as in a mental dream

Padillia’s gentle shade,

Flitting before my view to pass,

Heaving a sigh profound,

Light as a vapour, or a cloud

That skims the trees around.

Nor ever enter’d I those halls,

But fancying arise

I saw the founder’s phantom, stain’d

With blood congeal’d the dyes.

Nor in that vestibule obscure,

Where with the cornice blend

The portraits of the kings, arranged

In columns to extend,

To that which is blue-tiled below,

And enamell’d is on high,

Which shows on every side around

A rich-set balcony,

And gilded lattice roof above

That crowns it with dark shade,

But thought I saw upon the ground

A lifeless body laid!

Yet on that pavement may be seen

A dark stain to this day!

Indelible, which ages pass

And never wash away:

’Tis blood that dark tenacious stain;

Blood of the murder’d dead:

Alas! how many throng it o’er,

Nor think on what they tread!

Five hundred years shone youngerThe Alcazar to the day,Its lofty walls yet lustrous,And faultless its array;And brilliant were the enamelsWhich its gilded roofs reveal,It showed itself the mansion fitOf the king of proud Castile;When on one balmy morn it chancedOf florid May betide,In that saloon whose balconyIs on the plaza’s side,Two persons of illustrious mienIn silence deep were there;One was a Cavalier, and oneA Lady passing fair.

Five hundred years shone younger

The Alcazar to the day,

Its lofty walls yet lustrous,

And faultless its array;

And brilliant were the enamels

Which its gilded roofs reveal,

It showed itself the mansion fit

Of the king of proud Castile;

When on one balmy morn it chanced

Of florid May betide,

In that saloon whose balcony

Is on the plaza’s side,

Two persons of illustrious mien

In silence deep were there;

One was a Cavalier, and one

A Lady passing fair.

A Barbary carpet richly woveUpon the floor was laid,The gift or tribute which the MoorGranada’s king had paid;A silken curtain, bright with flowers,And ribbons curious wrought,With various eastern colours deck’d,Which to our Spain had broughtVenetian galleys, as perchanceHer Doge’s gift of state,Was thrown across the balcony,The light to moderate.In the recess in front, with woodsWell carved, and richly gracedWith mother-o’-pearl inlayings,Was an Oratory placed;Where of the sovereign VirginThe image stood devout,The sculpture somewhat rude, but yetAttractions not without;Which with a plate of silver,For ornament was crown’d,Its rim reflecting amethysts,And emeralds around.A manuscript of holy prayers,Which miniatures adorn,Precious with gold and ivoryUpon its coverings borne,Was seen there placed upon a stand,Form’d of an angel’s wings,The figure badly sculptured,But with neat finishings.And on the floor of gold brocadeA cushion one might see,Which by its sunken pressure show’dThe marks of bended knee.And on the pure white walls were hungBright arms along the space,And interspersed were banners,And trophies of the chase.An ornamental table stoodIn the middle of the floor,On which a well-tuned lute was placed,Though partly covered o’er;A rich-cut board for game of draughts,And a coffer by its sideOf silver filigree, and jarsWith chosen flowers supplied.

A Barbary carpet richly wove

Upon the floor was laid,

The gift or tribute which the Moor

Granada’s king had paid;

A silken curtain, bright with flowers,

And ribbons curious wrought,

With various eastern colours deck’d,

Which to our Spain had brought

Venetian galleys, as perchance

Her Doge’s gift of state,

Was thrown across the balcony,

The light to moderate.

In the recess in front, with woods

Well carved, and richly graced

With mother-o’-pearl inlayings,

Was an Oratory placed;

Where of the sovereign Virgin

The image stood devout,

The sculpture somewhat rude, but yet

Attractions not without;

Which with a plate of silver,

For ornament was crown’d,

Its rim reflecting amethysts,

And emeralds around.

A manuscript of holy prayers,

Which miniatures adorn,

Precious with gold and ivory

Upon its coverings borne,

Was seen there placed upon a stand,

Form’d of an angel’s wings,

The figure badly sculptured,

But with neat finishings.

And on the floor of gold brocade

A cushion one might see,

Which by its sunken pressure show’d

The marks of bended knee.

And on the pure white walls were hung

Bright arms along the space,

And interspersed were banners,

And trophies of the chase.

An ornamental table stood

In the middle of the floor,

On which a well-tuned lute was placed,

Though partly covered o’er;

A rich-cut board for game of draughts,

And a coffer by its side

Of silver filigree, and jars

With chosen flowers supplied.

The Lady near the balconySat very pensively,In a great gilded chair of state,Whose back was form’d to beA canopy, or cover o’er,And in gay curvings downWere lions, castles, and the wholeSurmounted with a crown.Her dress a silken robe of green,Which show’d a various tinge,In twisted threads, with pearls and goldThe embroidery and fringe.Her head-dress than the snow appear’dEv’n whiter to behold,And covering o’er the fine clear lawnHer long dark tresses roll’d.Her face was heavenly, and her neckDivine, but in their hueLike wax, the colour which fear paints,And long-known sorrow too.Her eyes were like two beaming sunsBeneath their lashes tall,Where shone two precious pearly dropsAs ready down to fall.She was a lily fair, whom deathWas rudely threatening seen,For a corroding worm the heartWas tearing deep within.Now in her thin pale hands, convulsedIt seems with fear or doubt,Her kerchief white, of border’d laceAnd points, she twists about;Or with absorb’d distracted mienShe agitates the air,With fan, whose feathers ArabyHad sent, the choicest there.

The Lady near the balcony

Sat very pensively,

In a great gilded chair of state,

Whose back was form’d to be

A canopy, or cover o’er,

And in gay curvings down

Were lions, castles, and the whole

Surmounted with a crown.

Her dress a silken robe of green,

Which show’d a various tinge,

In twisted threads, with pearls and gold

The embroidery and fringe.

Her head-dress than the snow appear’d

Ev’n whiter to behold,

And covering o’er the fine clear lawn

Her long dark tresses roll’d.

Her face was heavenly, and her neck

Divine, but in their hue

Like wax, the colour which fear paints,

And long-known sorrow too.

Her eyes were like two beaming suns

Beneath their lashes tall,

Where shone two precious pearly drops

As ready down to fall.

She was a lily fair, whom death

Was rudely threatening seen,

For a corroding worm the heart

Was tearing deep within.

Now in her thin pale hands, convulsed

It seems with fear or doubt,

Her kerchief white, of border’d lace

And points, she twists about;

Or with absorb’d distracted mien

She agitates the air,

With fan, whose feathers Araby

Had sent, the choicest there.

The Cavalier was slightly form’d,And of the middle size,With reddish beard, a restless mouth,And most unquiet eyes.His visage pale and dry appear’d,Nose sharp and of a crook,Noble his port, but sinisterAnd terrible his look.In a red mantle he was wrapp’d,With golden plates o’erspread,And gracefully his cap was placedOn one side on his head.With measured steps, from end to end,He paced along the room,And different passions o’er his faceThough silent seem’d to come.At times he reddens,darting roundFierce looks, that seem to tell,As flames cast forth from eyes of fire,The very deeds of hell.And now a fierce and bitter smileThe extended lip displays,Or on the gilded roof he fix’dA darkly lowering gaze.Now hastening on his course, from headTo foot he trembles o’er,And now proceeds his noble mienOf calmness to restore.Thus have I seen a tiger fierce,Now tranquil, now with rageRevolve himself each side across,And round his narrow cage.Thus pacing o’er the carpet thereHis footsteps are not heard,But soundless they, yet were distinctAs ever that he stirr’d,The crackling of his arms and knees:In distant lands, ’tis said,That with like noise has Heaven supplied,For man to shun in dread,O, wonder rare! a serpent, namedThence Rattlesnake, that springsQuick at the moment it comes nigh,And kills whome’er it stings.

The Cavalier was slightly form’d,

And of the middle size,

With reddish beard, a restless mouth,

And most unquiet eyes.

His visage pale and dry appear’d,

Nose sharp and of a crook,

Noble his port, but sinister

And terrible his look.

In a red mantle he was wrapp’d,

With golden plates o’erspread,

And gracefully his cap was placed

On one side on his head.

With measured steps, from end to end,

He paced along the room,

And different passions o’er his face

Though silent seem’d to come.

At times he reddens,darting round

Fierce looks, that seem to tell,

As flames cast forth from eyes of fire,

The very deeds of hell.

And now a fierce and bitter smile

The extended lip displays,

Or on the gilded roof he fix’d

A darkly lowering gaze.

Now hastening on his course, from head

To foot he trembles o’er,

And now proceeds his noble mien

Of calmness to restore.

Thus have I seen a tiger fierce,

Now tranquil, now with rage

Revolve himself each side across,

And round his narrow cage.

Thus pacing o’er the carpet there

His footsteps are not heard,

But soundless they, yet were distinct

As ever that he stirr’d,

The crackling of his arms and knees:

In distant lands, ’tis said,

That with like noise has Heaven supplied,

For man to shun in dread,

O, wonder rare! a serpent, named

Thence Rattlesnake, that springs

Quick at the moment it comes nigh,

And kills whome’er it stings.

The Lady was Padillia,That sat in mournful strain;And the stern silent CavalierDon Pedro, King of Spain.

The Lady was Padillia,

That sat in mournful strain;

And the stern silent Cavalier

Don Pedro, King of Spain.

As round some solitary tower,At setting of the sun,Fierce birds of prey are whirling seen,Revolving one by one,Thus with Don Pedro in their turnHave various thoughts a trace,Whose shadows darken as they passThe expression of his face.Now occupies his angry mindHis brother’s power and state,Of those whose mother he had slain,And birth would criminate.Now of unquietnesses borne,Great scorn and insult shown,Or of his failing treasury,Nor means to fill it known.Now of the fair Aldonza’s charms,His fortune ’twas to gain,Or of the blood-stain’d forms of thoseHe had unjustly slain.Now some projected enterprise,Some treaty to defeat,Faith-breaking with Granada’s Moor,Or treason or deceit.But as the birds the lonely tower,The broken heights between,Are all at length, as one by one,Retiring hiding seen;And constant only one remains,Revolving it infest,The fiercest, strongest on the wing,That will admit no rest;Thus all that multitude confusedOf passions wild and strange,Of which Don Pedro for a whileWas tangled in the range,At length from breast and head alikeFled finding a retreat,And living left distinct alone,With horror great replete,The image of Fadrique,His eldest brother famed,The pride of knights and Master thoseOf Santiago named.

As round some solitary tower,

At setting of the sun,

Fierce birds of prey are whirling seen,

Revolving one by one,

Thus with Don Pedro in their turn

Have various thoughts a trace,

Whose shadows darken as they pass

The expression of his face.

Now occupies his angry mind

His brother’s power and state,

Of those whose mother he had slain,

And birth would criminate.

Now of unquietnesses borne,

Great scorn and insult shown,

Or of his failing treasury,

Nor means to fill it known.

Now of the fair Aldonza’s charms,

His fortune ’twas to gain,

Or of the blood-stain’d forms of those

He had unjustly slain.

Now some projected enterprise,

Some treaty to defeat,

Faith-breaking with Granada’s Moor,

Or treason or deceit.

But as the birds the lonely tower,

The broken heights between,

Are all at length, as one by one,

Retiring hiding seen;

And constant only one remains,

Revolving it infest,

The fiercest, strongest on the wing,

That will admit no rest;

Thus all that multitude confused

Of passions wild and strange,

Of which Don Pedro for a while

Was tangled in the range,

At length from breast and head alike

Fled finding a retreat,

And living left distinct alone,

With horror great replete,

The image of Fadrique,

His eldest brother famed,

The pride of knights and Master those

Of Santiago named.

Now from Humillia’s conquer’d walls,With matchless courage won,In triumph had Fadrique comeO’er vanquish’d Aragon.Where erst the bars, the castles nowHe floating left abroad,And to present the keys he bringsHis brother, king and lord.Well knows the king no rebel he,But friend and ally true,And more than Tello madly hates,And more than Henry too.’Twas he Fadrique had the chargeFrom France to bring the queen,The Lady Blanche, but he allow’dA year to intervene.With her in Narbonne he delay’d,And rumours thus of those,Which whether true or false alikeAre poisonous, arose.And in Medina’s tower the priceThe Lady Blanche now pays,Of all the palace whisperings,And journey’s long delays.And on his shoulders yet untouch’dHis head Fadrique wears,Because of his great wealth and powerAnd honour’d name he bears.But, woe for him! the ladies allHim as their idol own,For his gay port and gallant mien,And manly courage known.And if he cause the throne no fear,In his fidelity,He gives what’s worse, though that were bad,The heart strong jealousy.

Now from Humillia’s conquer’d walls,

With matchless courage won,

In triumph had Fadrique come

O’er vanquish’d Aragon.

Where erst the bars, the castles now

He floating left abroad,

And to present the keys he brings

His brother, king and lord.

Well knows the king no rebel he,

But friend and ally true,

And more than Tello madly hates,

And more than Henry too.

’Twas he Fadrique had the charge

From France to bring the queen,

The Lady Blanche, but he allow’d

A year to intervene.

With her in Narbonne he delay’d,

And rumours thus of those,

Which whether true or false alike

Are poisonous, arose.

And in Medina’s tower the price

The Lady Blanche now pays,

Of all the palace whisperings,

And journey’s long delays.

And on his shoulders yet untouch’d

His head Fadrique wears,

Because of his great wealth and power

And honour’d name he bears.

But, woe for him! the ladies all

Him as their idol own,

For his gay port and gallant mien,

And manly courage known.

And if he cause the throne no fear,

In his fidelity,

He gives what’s worse, though that were bad,

The heart strong jealousy.

Meanwhile the fair Padillia,Whose judgement clear and great,Her royal lover’s secret thoughts,Though deepest penetrate,In whom the goodness of her heartThe enchantment still excels,That in her beauteous face and formSo marvellously dwells,Unhappy victim lives of fears,That ever her attend,Because she loves the king, and seesHis course in evil end:She knows that based in blood and grief,And persecution’s train,A palace never is secure,No throne can fix’d remain.And she has two young tender girls,Who with another sire,Whate’er their lot, might all have gain’dTheir hearts could best require;And in Fadrique’s worth she seesA stay and partisan.She knows he comes to Seville now,And as from words can scanHer fierce lord’s brow dark lowering,In evil hour he came,And to allay suspicions,Or give them higher aim,At length, though with a trembling lip,The silence breaking daredTo speak, and thus the words that pass’dBetween the two declared:“Your brother then, Fadrique,Triumphant comes today?”“And certainly in coming,The wretch makes long delay.”“He serves you well, and hero-like,As does Humillia show,Of loyalty gives proofs, and braveHe is”—“Sufficient so.”“You may be sure, Sire, that his heartWill ever true remain.”“Tomorrow still more sure of that.”Both silent were again.

Meanwhile the fair Padillia,

Whose judgement clear and great,

Her royal lover’s secret thoughts,

Though deepest penetrate,

In whom the goodness of her heart

The enchantment still excels,

That in her beauteous face and form

So marvellously dwells,

Unhappy victim lives of fears,

That ever her attend,

Because she loves the king, and sees

His course in evil end:

She knows that based in blood and grief,

And persecution’s train,

A palace never is secure,

No throne can fix’d remain.

And she has two young tender girls,

Who with another sire,

Whate’er their lot, might all have gain’d

Their hearts could best require;

And in Fadrique’s worth she sees

A stay and partisan.

She knows he comes to Seville now,

And as from words can scan

Her fierce lord’s brow dark lowering,

In evil hour he came,

And to allay suspicions,

Or give them higher aim,

At length, though with a trembling lip,

The silence breaking dared

To speak, and thus the words that pass’d

Between the two declared:

“Your brother then, Fadrique,

Triumphant comes today?”

“And certainly in coming,

The wretch makes long delay.”

“He serves you well, and hero-like,

As does Humillia show,

Of loyalty gives proofs, and brave

He is”—“Sufficient so.”

“You may be sure, Sire, that his heart

Will ever true remain.”

“Tomorrow still more sure of that.”

Both silent were again.

With joy the Master to receive,Through Seville’s streets along,Great rumour spreads, and arms resound,And men and horses throng.And shouts of welcoming, amidstRepeated echoes rise,Which from Hiralda’s lofty towerAre scattered to the skies.Now comes the crowd approaching near,But less the shouts resound,And now the palace gates they reachMid silence all around:As if the Alcazar had enjoy’dThe privilege to appear,In sight, and still the enthusiast flow,And turn it into fear.Thus mute and breathless, motionless,The people stood in dread,As if with magical respectThe plaza’s bounds to tread;And enters there the Master now,With but a scanty train,And of his order some few knights,The palace gates to gain.And forward on his course directs,As one without alarms,Who goes to meet a brother kind,With open heart and arms:Or as some noble chieftain comes,For glorious deeds the cause,From grateful monarch to receiveDue honours and applause.Upon a dark and mettled steed,That breathes of foam and fire,And while the bridle scarce restrains,Seems proud of its attire,With a white mantle o’er him cast,Flung loosely to the air,O’er which the collar and red crossHis dignity declare;And cap of crimson velvet girtHis brows, whereon unfoldThe winds the feathers’ snowy plumes,And tassels bound with gold.

With joy the Master to receive,

Through Seville’s streets along,

Great rumour spreads, and arms resound,

And men and horses throng.

And shouts of welcoming, amidst

Repeated echoes rise,

Which from Hiralda’s lofty tower

Are scattered to the skies.

Now comes the crowd approaching near,

But less the shouts resound,

And now the palace gates they reach

Mid silence all around:

As if the Alcazar had enjoy’d

The privilege to appear,

In sight, and still the enthusiast flow,

And turn it into fear.

Thus mute and breathless, motionless,

The people stood in dread,

As if with magical respect

The plaza’s bounds to tread;

And enters there the Master now,

With but a scanty train,

And of his order some few knights,

The palace gates to gain.

And forward on his course directs,

As one without alarms,

Who goes to meet a brother kind,

With open heart and arms:

Or as some noble chieftain comes,

For glorious deeds the cause,

From grateful monarch to receive

Due honours and applause.

Upon a dark and mettled steed,

That breathes of foam and fire,

And while the bridle scarce restrains,

Seems proud of its attire,

With a white mantle o’er him cast,

Flung loosely to the air,

O’er which the collar and red cross

His dignity declare;

And cap of crimson velvet girt

His brows, whereon unfold

The winds the feathers’ snowy plumes,

And tassels bound with gold.

All pale as death, the furious KingHis brother saw from far,When on the plaza entering first,And fix’d as statues are,Awhile he stood upon the floor,And from his angry eyesSeem’d burning horrid lightning thenceIn flashes to arise.But starting soon, himself aroundHe turn’d the room to leave,As if he would some welcome guestRight affably receive.When thus Padillia saw him turn,Her heart beyond reliefOf anguish full, and countenanceSo beauteous mark’d with grief,She rose, and to the balconyWent troubled, by the square,And to the Master motions wild,With gestures to declare,In evil hour he comes, and wavesHer kerchief him away,And by mute signs thus bids him seekSafety without delay.Nothing of this he comprehends,But for saluting takesThe warning, and discreetly thusA gallant answer makes.And to the open’d portal comes,With guards and bowmen lined,Who give him passage free, but leaveHis followers behind.

All pale as death, the furious King

His brother saw from far,

When on the plaza entering first,

And fix’d as statues are,

Awhile he stood upon the floor,

And from his angry eyes

Seem’d burning horrid lightning thence

In flashes to arise.

But starting soon, himself around

He turn’d the room to leave,

As if he would some welcome guest

Right affably receive.

When thus Padillia saw him turn,

Her heart beyond relief

Of anguish full, and countenance

So beauteous mark’d with grief,

She rose, and to the balcony

Went troubled, by the square,

And to the Master motions wild,

With gestures to declare,

In evil hour he comes, and waves

Her kerchief him away,

And by mute signs thus bids him seek

Safety without delay.

Nothing of this he comprehends,

But for saluting takes

The warning, and discreetly thus

A gallant answer makes.

And to the open’d portal comes,

With guards and bowmen lined,

Who give him passage free, but leave

His followers behind.

If he knew not Padillia’s signs,Don Pedro knew them well,As he before the chamber doorA moment seem’d to dwell,In deep suspense o’er his resolve,When turning back his eye,He saw the Lady warn him thusBy motions thence to fly.O, heaven! then was that noble act,Of pure intent to beWhat call’d the executioners forth,And seal’d the stern decree.Follow’d by two esquires alone,The Master scarce in hasteUpon the royal vestibuleHis foot confiding placed,Where various men-at-arms were seen,In double iron barr’d,Pacing along as sentinelsThe entrance stairs to guard,When over from the balcony,Like fiendish shape of ill,The King looks out, and “Mace-bearers,”He shouts, “the Master kill.”Quick as the lightning in a stormComes ere the thunders call,Six well-appointed maces downOn Don Fadrique fall.He raised his hand to grasp his sword,But in his tabard’s girdThe hilt was bound, impossibleTo draw it at the word.He fell, a sea of blood aroundRan from the shattered brain,Raising a cry which reached to heaven,And doubtless not in vain.Of deed so horrible the newsAt once around was spread,And thence the brotherhood and knightsTogether quickly fled.To hide them in their houses fledThe people, trembling soreWith horror, and the Alcazar’s boundsWere desert as before.

If he knew not Padillia’s signs,

Don Pedro knew them well,

As he before the chamber door

A moment seem’d to dwell,

In deep suspense o’er his resolve,

When turning back his eye,

He saw the Lady warn him thus

By motions thence to fly.

O, heaven! then was that noble act,

Of pure intent to be

What call’d the executioners forth,

And seal’d the stern decree.

Follow’d by two esquires alone,

The Master scarce in haste

Upon the royal vestibule

His foot confiding placed,

Where various men-at-arms were seen,

In double iron barr’d,

Pacing along as sentinels

The entrance stairs to guard,

When over from the balcony,

Like fiendish shape of ill,

The King looks out, and “Mace-bearers,”

He shouts, “the Master kill.”

Quick as the lightning in a storm

Comes ere the thunders call,

Six well-appointed maces down

On Don Fadrique fall.

He raised his hand to grasp his sword,

But in his tabard’s gird

The hilt was bound, impossible

To draw it at the word.

He fell, a sea of blood around

Ran from the shattered brain,

Raising a cry which reached to heaven,

And doubtless not in vain.

Of deed so horrible the news

At once around was spread,

And thence the brotherhood and knights

Together quickly fled.

To hide them in their houses fled

The people, trembling sore

With horror, and the Alcazar’s bounds

Were desert as before.

’Tis said, the sight of blood so muchIs wont to infuriateThe tiger, that he still rends onWith stomach satiate;Solely because ’tis his delightWith blood the earth to stain,So doubtless with the King it wasSuch feelings grew amain.For when he saw Fadrique laid,Thus prostrate on the ground,After the squires in search he ranThe palace all around;Who tremblingly and livid fledThe apartments various o’er,Nor find they any hiding-place,Or whence to fly a door.One happily at length succeeds,To hide or fly outright;The other, Sancho Villiegas,Less happy or adroit,Seeing the King still follow him,Enter’d half dead with fearWhere was Padillia on her couch,With her attendants near;They trembling, as she senseless laid,And by her side reclinedHer two young tender girls, who wereAngels in form and mind.The unhappy youth still seeing thereThe spectre following nigh,That even this asylum mocks,In his arms quickly highSnatches the Lady Beatrice,Who scarce six years has known,The child for whom the King has e’erThe most affection shown.But, ah! naught serves him this resource,As in the desert naughtThe holy cross avails, that claspsThe pilgrim hapless caught;When roars the south wind, burns the sky,And seems as if up-drivenA frightful sea, of waves of sand,Commingling earth and heaven;Thus with the child between his arms,And on his knees compress’d,The furious dagger of the KingWas planted in his breast.

’Tis said, the sight of blood so much

Is wont to infuriate

The tiger, that he still rends on

With stomach satiate;

Solely because ’tis his delight

With blood the earth to stain,

So doubtless with the King it was

Such feelings grew amain.

For when he saw Fadrique laid,

Thus prostrate on the ground,

After the squires in search he ran

The palace all around;

Who tremblingly and livid fled

The apartments various o’er,

Nor find they any hiding-place,

Or whence to fly a door.

One happily at length succeeds,

To hide or fly outright;

The other, Sancho Villiegas,

Less happy or adroit,

Seeing the King still follow him,

Enter’d half dead with fear

Where was Padillia on her couch,

With her attendants near;

They trembling, as she senseless laid,

And by her side reclined

Her two young tender girls, who were

Angels in form and mind.

The unhappy youth still seeing there

The spectre following nigh,

That even this asylum mocks,

In his arms quickly high

Snatches the Lady Beatrice,

Who scarce six years has known,

The child for whom the King has e’er

The most affection shown.

But, ah! naught serves him this resource,

As in the desert naught

The holy cross avails, that clasps

The pilgrim hapless caught;

When roars the south wind, burns the sky,

And seems as if up-driven

A frightful sea, of waves of sand,

Commingling earth and heaven;

Thus with the child between his arms,

And on his knees compress’d,

The furious dagger of the King

Was planted in his breast.

As if that day had witness’d naughtThe palace new or rare,The King sat at the table calmTo eat as usual there;Play’d afterwards a game of draughts,Then went out pacing slowTo see the galleys, arming soonTo Biscay’s shores to go.And when the night the hemisphereHad with its mantle veil’d,He enters in the Golden Tower,Where he shut up has heldThe fair Aldonza, whom he tookFrom Santa Clara’s walls,And as in blind idolatryWho now his heart enthralls.With Levi then his treasurer,Who though a Hebrew vileHas all his confidence, he goesOn state affairs awhile;And very late retires to rest,With no attendants nigh,Only a Moor, a wretch perforce,His favourite waiting by.

As if that day had witness’d naught

The palace new or rare,

The King sat at the table calm

To eat as usual there;

Play’d afterwards a game of draughts,

Then went out pacing slow

To see the galleys, arming soon

To Biscay’s shores to go.

And when the night the hemisphere

Had with its mantle veil’d,

He enters in the Golden Tower,

Where he shut up has held

The fair Aldonza, whom he took

From Santa Clara’s walls,

And as in blind idolatry

Who now his heart enthralls.

With Levi then his treasurer,

Who though a Hebrew vile

Has all his confidence, he goes

On state affairs awhile;

And very late retires to rest,

With no attendants nigh,

Only a Moor, a wretch perforce,

His favourite waiting by.

Enter’d the lofty vestibule,The Alcazar’s tranquil bound,One moment paused the King and pass’dHis gaze in turn around.A large lamp from the vaulted roofWas hanging loose, and castNow lights, now shadows, as it swung,As by the breezes pass’d.Between the polish’d columns placedTwo men in armour were,But only two dark figures show’d,Watching in silence there.And still was Don Fadrique laidExtended on the ground,With his torn mantle o’er him spread,In a lake of blood around.The King approach’d him, and awhileAttentively survey’d,And seeing that his brother yetWas not entirely dead,Since he perchance as breathing seem’d,His breast a heave to make,He gave him with his foot a push,Which made the body shake;Whereon he, giving to the MoorHis sharpen’d dagger bare,Said, “Finish him,” and quietlyTo sleep went up the stair.

Enter’d the lofty vestibule,

The Alcazar’s tranquil bound,

One moment paused the King and pass’d

His gaze in turn around.

A large lamp from the vaulted roof

Was hanging loose, and cast

Now lights, now shadows, as it swung,

As by the breezes pass’d.

Between the polish’d columns placed

Two men in armour were,

But only two dark figures show’d,

Watching in silence there.

And still was Don Fadrique laid

Extended on the ground,

With his torn mantle o’er him spread,

In a lake of blood around.

The King approach’d him, and awhile

Attentively survey’d,

And seeing that his brother yet

Was not entirely dead,

Since he perchance as breathing seem’d,

His breast a heave to make,

He gave him with his foot a push,

Which made the body shake;

Whereon he, giving to the Moor

His sharpen’d dagger bare,

Said, “Finish him,” and quietly

To sleep went up the stair.

In the country of Lope de Vega and Calderon de la Barca, it was not to be supposed, that on the general revival of the national literature, the drama could be left neglected, in a state unworthy of its ancient reputation. From the time of those great writers until the present, notwithstanding the predilection of the Spanish people for the stage, and the encouragement consequently given for genius to exert itself, no dramas had been produced to equal them in the public admiration. The younger Moratin, who may be justly termed the Spanish Molière, had rather introduced into Spain a new style of drama, that which we call genteel comedy, than followed the track of the ancient masters. It was reserved for a later writer, the subject of this notice, to appear as a rival to them in the exuberance of composition, and possession of popular favour, though it may be a question for future ages to decide on his relative merit.

Breton de los Herreros was born at Quel, a small village in the province of Logronio, the 19th December, 1796. Of his early history, we are only informed that he was educated at the school of San Antonio Abad at Madrid, and that he entered a regiment of infantry as a volunteer, when yet a boy of fourteen. The world at large may be considered to be,with regard to contemporary characters of another nation, in the relation of posterity, making distance have, as Bishop Atterbury remarked to Lord Bolingbroke, the effect of time; and they will thus inquire eagerly into the particulars of the life of one distinguished for genius, however humble his birth, while they will pass heedlessly by the noblest born personage, who has given them no peculiar right of interest in his history. But, as on reading the life of the Duke de Rivas, we feel it a subject of congratulation, that the lance of a French marauder did not cut off one who was destined to be the ornament of his country’s literature, so we rejoice again equally that the chance passed away favourably, when a stray ball might have deprived the world of the works of Breton de los Herreros. Serving in his humble line, he was present at various skirmishes with the invaders on their final expulsion from Valencia and Catalonia, at the same time composing patriotic songs on the national triumphs. In 1812, when yet a boy of fifteen, he wrote an Ode to the Constitution, and distinguished himself as an orator among his comrades on the popular subjects of discussion. On the return of Ferdinand VII. to absolute power, he must have been compelled to restrain his tendencies for liberalism, and it may be supposed that his time was at least as well employed in noting the characters of those around him, and the scenes he had to witness, as a storehouse of useful observations for his future writings.

In 1822 he obtained his discharge from the army, and after various attempts made to obtain an eligible employment in the provinces, he went to Madrid, in the summer of 1824, for the same purpose. There again he was equally unsuccessful, and as a last resource, took to the director of the theatre, a comedy which he had written some years previously for pastime. Fortunately for him, the director happened to be in want of a new piece to bring out on the king’s birthday, and thinking the one presented would answer his purpose, he undertook its production with more than usual care, on account of the occasion. It was accordingly performed on the 24th October, 1824, and met with such decided success, that the literary fame of the author was at once secured.

The profits accruing from the representation of his comedies were exceedingly trifling; but his natural inclinations led him to writing for the stage, where he now found himself respected as a successful writer; and as he had no other resource for maintenance, he applied himself to this labour with better hopes. A succession of pieces he wrote were equally successful, produced with a rapidity that reminded the world of the fertility that had characterized the genius of Lope de Vega or Calderon. One of his pieces was so much relished, that at the close, the audience insisted on its being repeated all over a second time, with which extraordinary demand the actors had to comply. In 1831 he brought out his comedy of ‘Marcela, or Which of the Three?’—the most popular of all his productions, the subject being, which of three lovers, all unworthy of her, the heroine, who is amiability personified, should accept. It was repeated at all the theatres in the kingdom, and went through six editions on publication, besides several surreptitious ones, having some of the verses even passing into “household words,” as popular expressions.

In the same year, 1831, he published a small volume of poems, containing lyrical and miscellaneous pieces, and has since written many more of the same character in the different periodicals of Madrid. None of these are, however, deserving of note, except the satirical ones, many of which abound with the wit and humour for which his comedies are remarkable. He is now engaged in publishing at Madrid a collection ofall his works, the last volume being intended to contain the miscellaneous poems, which, corrected and collected together from the different papers in which they at first appeared, will no doubt prove to be more worthy of his fame than those published in 1831. In the lyrical poems he is avowedly a follower of the so-called classical school, and rises no higher than those of the same class that had preceded him; their utmost praise being to be characterized as—

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