passed the coffin, until it was embedded in their bright colours, forming a startling contrast to the dark hue death was spreading over that little face. The room was full, and the wild song commenced; each singing a verse in rotation to the inspiring accompaniment of the guitar and the shout of “Bien cantao Morena!“ “Bien! salero!“ “Viva la gracia!“ &c., issued from the men as a witty or loving verse struck their fancy. Soon, however, the castanets were adjusted, and Juanito sprang from his seat. A fandango was called for, and he claimed his promised partner.
No one who has not witnessed it can conceive the mad enthusiasm of the lower orders in Spain for their national music and dances. They are the language of love in all its phases. The verses which commenced in rotation became a chorus; every one keeping time by clapping their hands, if they had no castanets; until Juanito and Pepa sat down breathless with their exertions, amidst a round of applause.
“Boleras, Sequidillas, and Zapateados“ followed, when Dolores (or the “Arab-eyed,” as she was generally named), was called upon to dance the “Vito.” She was about eighteen years of age, rather short in stature, but might have served as a model to a sculptor, so round and bcautifully moulded was every limb; and so elastic her step, that she scarcely seemed to rest her diminutive foot on the ground as she walked. She stood up, and took from Juanito his hat and neckerchief; the first she put on her head, the second round her throat, and threw herself into all kinds of beautiful and graceful attitudes, sometimes using the hat as a tambourine, the neckerchief as a wreath, her large dark eyes full of fire, or disdain; now soft as a summer breeze, full of tenderness and love, now wooingly advancing, now coquettishly retreating, until at last, of the hat she made a shield, and the neckerchief she twisted up as a sword, and feigned to kill Juanito. Alas! no feigning for him; his heart and soul lay prostrate at her feet, but she loved another. Her affections were fixed on the sailor boy she had known from her infancy, and to whom she was betrothed. Deafening was the burst of enthusiasm when the “Vito” was finished.
“Blessed be the God who formed anything so divine. We adore him in adoring you.”
“Well may the sun say as you look up, ‘Fly, for you, you burn me,' and hide behind a cloud.“
“The houris Mahomet promises to the faithful can’t be compared to you, glory of my soul.“
“The land the Blessed Virgin favours must bring forth divine flowers.”
Such were some of the exclamations that could be heard amidst the din of voices. The only silent one was Juanito. Where was his ready wit? Deep feeling had paralysed it, but his dark eye dilated as he gazed on her; his cheek was pale— his lips tightly compressed, to keep back the longing, hopeless sigh that burned in his heart. He clenched his hands, and turned quickly to the adjoining room and gulped a large tumbler of cold water. The rest followed and partook of the frugal refreshments above described.
* * * * *
But what sound broke on their ears, at a momentary pause in their merry-making?
The young mother apostrophising and sobbing over her first-born and lost babe. She had left the merry circle as soon as the song commenced; and, unseen and unheeded, had sat down to pray, with her rosary in her hand, at the foot of the coffin; but when they retired to the next room, and she was alone, the rush of feeling so long pent up burst forth. ’Tis true her darling’s soul was in Heaven, but was she not on earth? She saw before her the little form that a few hours ago she had hugged to her heart warm with life, buoyant in health.
With such agony she had brought it into the world; with such love had welcomed it! One passing convulsion seized it whilst nestled in her bosom, and in one short hour she gazed, for the first time, on Death!
Silently they gathered round her, and the eyes which, a few minutes since, sparkled with mirth, were suffused with tears as they bade her good-night and left her.
The men returned the next morning to accompany the babe to its last resting-place.
Soy Yo.
TAMISE RIPE.
“——A praty town by Tamise ripe.”
Leland.
I.
Of “Tamise ripe” old Leland tells;
I read, and many a thought ups wells
Of Nature in her gentlest dress,
Of peaceful homes of happiness,
Deep-meadow’d farms, sheep-sprinkled downs,
Fair bridges with their “praty towns,”
By Tamise ripe.
II.
Stirr’d by the pulse of many oars
That glide between the summer shores,
I love the waters fresh and clear,
And all the changes of the year,
Down to late autumn’s ruddy woods, —
The volume of the winter floods,
By Tamise bright.
III.
The waving tresses of the weeds,
The water’s ripple in the reeds,
The plunging “lasher,” cold and bright,
Making sweet music to the night,
Old spires, and many a lordly grove
All these there are, and more to love,
On Tamise ripe.
IV.
Fair Oxford with her crown of towers,
Fair Eton in her happy bowers,
The “reach“ by Henley broadly spread,
High Windsor, with her royal dead,
And Richmond’s lawns, and Hampton’s glades; —
What shore has memories and shades
Like Tamise ripe?
V.
Not vine-crown’ d Rhine, nor Danube’s flood,
Nor sad Ticino, red with blood;
Not ice-born Rhone, or laughing Seine,
Nor all the golden streams of Spain: —
Far dearer to our English eyes,
And bound with English destinies,
Is Tamise ripe.
