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But your true father has returned to Spain

Laden with wealth. You are no more a

Gypsy.

Vict. Strange as a Moorish tale!
Chispa. And we have all

Been drinking at the tavern to your health,

As wells drink in November, when it rains.

Vict. Where is the gentleman?
Chispa. As the old song says,

His body is in Segovia,
His soul is in Madrid.

Prec. Is this a dream 1 O, if it be a dream,

Let me sleep on, and do not wake me yet!

Repeat thy story! Say I'm not deceived!

Say that I do not dream! I am awake; This is the Gypsy camp; this is Victorian,

And this his friend, Hypolito! Speak! speak!

Let me not wake and find it all a dream!

Vict. It is a dream, sweet child! a

waking dream, A blissful Certainty, a vision bright Of that rare happiness, which even on

earth

Heaven gives to those it loves. Now

art thou rich, As thou wast ever beautiful and good; And I am now the beggar.

Prec, (i/iving him her hand). I have still A hand to give.

Chispa (aside). And I have two to take.

I've heard my grandmother say, that

Heaven gives almonds To those who have no teeth. That's

nuts to crack. I've teeth to spare, but where shall I

find almonds? Vict. What more of this strange

story?

Chispa. Nothing more.

Your friend, Don Carlos, is now at the village

Showing to Pedro Crespo, the Alcalde, The proofs of what I tell you. The old hag,

Who stole you in your childhood, has confessed;

And probably they 'll hang her for the crime,

To make the celebration more complete. Vict. No ; let it be a day of general

joy;

Fortune comes well to all, that comes

not late. Now let us join Don Carlos.

Hyp. So farewell,

The student's wandering life! Sweet

serenades,

Sung under ladies' windows in the night,

And all that makes vacation beautiful!
To you, ye cloistered shades of Alcala,
To you, ye radiant visions of romance,
Written in books, but here surpassed by
truth,

The Bachelor Hypolito returns,
And leaves the 6ypsy with the Spanish
Student.

Scene VI. — A pass in the Guadarrama mountains. Early morning. A muleteer crosses t/ie stage, sitting sideways ml his mule, anil lighting a paper cigar with JUnt and stecl.

SONG.

If thou art sleeping, maiden,

Awake and open thy door, 'T is the break of day, and we must away,

O'er meadow, and mount, and moor.

Wait not to find thy slippers,

But come with thy naked feet; We shall have to pass through the dewy grass,

And waters wide and fleet.

(Disappears dorni the pass. Enter a Monk. A shepherd a1,pears on the rocks above.)

Monk. Ave Maria, gratia plena. Ola! good man! Shcp. Ola!

Monk. Is this the road to Segovia? Shcp. It is, your reverence. Monk. How far is it? Shcp. I do not know. Monk. What is that yonder in the valley?

Shep. San Ildefonso.

Monk. A long way to breakfast.

Shcp. Ay, marry.

Monk. Are there robbers in these mountains?

Shep. Yes, and worse than that.

Monk. What?
Shcp. Wolves.

Monk. Santa Maria! Come with me to San Iltlefouso, and thou shalt be well rewarded.

Shep. What wilt thou give me?

Monk. An Agnus Dei and my benediction.

(They disappear. A mounted Contrabandist! passes, wrapped in his cloak, and a gun at his saddle-bow. He goes down the pass singing.)

sono.

Worn with speed ia my good steed,

And I march nie hurried, worried;

Onward, eaballito mio,

With the white star in thy forehead!

Onward, for here comes the Rouda,

And I hear their rifles crack!

Ay, jaleo! Ay, ay, jaleo!

Ay, jaleo! They cross our track.

(Snug dies aicay. Enter Preciosa, on horseback, attended by Victorian, HyPolito, Don Carlos, and Chispa, on foot, and armed.)

Vict. This is the highest point. Here let us rest. See, Preciosa, see how all about us Kneeling, like hooded friars, the misty

mountains
Receive the benediction of the sun!
O glorious sight!
Prec. Most beautiful indeed!

Hyp. Most wonderful!
Vict. And in the vale below,

Where yonder steeples flash like lifted halberds,

San Ildefonso, from its noisy belfries,
Sends up a salutation to the morn,
As if an army smote their brazen shields,
And shouted victory!

Prec. And which way lies

Segovia?

Viet. At a great distance yonder. Dost thou not see it?

Prec. No. I do not see it.

Vict. The merest flaw that dents the horizon's edge. There, yonder!

Hyp. 'T is a notable old town,

Boasting an ancient Roman aqueduct, And an Alcazar, builded by the Moors, Wherein, you may remember, poor Gil Rlas

Was fed on Pan del Rcy. O, many a time

Out of its grated windows have I looked Hundreds of feet plumb down to the Eresma,

That, like a serpent through the valley

creeping, Glides at its foot.

Prec. O yes! I see it now,

Yet rather with my heart than with mine

eyes,

So faint it is. And all my thoughts

sail thither, Freighted with prayers and hopes, and

forward urged Against all stress of accident, as in The Eastern Tale, against the wind and

tide

Great ships were drawn to the Magnetic

Mountains, And there were wrecked, and perished

in the sea! (Sli e wecps.) Vict. O gentle spirit! Thou didst

bear unmoved Blasts of adversity and frosts of fate! But the first ray of sunshine that falls on

thee

Melts thee to tears! O, let thy weary heart

Lean upon mine ! and it shall faint no more,

Nor thirst, nor hunger; but be comforted

And filled with my affection.

Prec. Stay no longer!

My father waits. Methinks I see him there,

Now looking from the window, and now watching

Each sound of wheels or footfall in the street,

And saying, ** Hark! she comes!" O

father! father! (They descend the pass. Chispa remains bchind.)

Chispa. I have a father, too, but he is a dead one. Alas and alack-a-day! Poor was I born, and poor do I remain. I neither win nor lose. Thus I wag through the world, half the time on foot, and the other half walking; and always as merry as a thunder-storm in the night. And so we plough along, as the fly said to the ox. Who knows what may happen f Patience, and shuffle the cards! I am not yet so bald that you can see my brains ; and perhaps, after all, I shall some day go to Rome, and come back Saint Peter. Benedicite! [Exit.

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CARILLON.

Is the ancient town of Bruges,
In the quaint old Flemish city,
As the evening shades descended,
Low and loud and sweetly blended,
Low at times and loud at times,
And changing like a poet's rhymes,
Rang the beautiful wild chimes
From the Belfry in the market
Of the ancient town of Bruges.

Then, with deep sonorous clangor
Calmly answering their sweet anger,
When the wrangling bells had ended,
Slowly struck the clock eleven,
And, from out the silent heaven,
Silence on the town descended.
Silence, silence everywhere,
On the earth and in the air,
Save that footsteps here and there
Of some burgher home returning,
By the street lamps faintly burning,
For a moment woke the echoes
Of the ancient town of Bruges.

But amid my broken slumbers
Still l heard those magic numbers,
As they loud proclaimed the flight
And stolen marches of the night;
Till their chimes in sweet collision
Mingled with each wandering vision,
Mingled with the fortune-telling
Gypsy-bands of dreams and fancies,
Which amid the waste expanses
Of the silent land of trances
Have their solitary dwelling;
All else seemed asleep in Bruges,
In the quaint old Flemish city.

1 And I thought how like these chimes
Are the poet's airy rhymes,
All his rhymes and roundelays,
His conceits, and songs, and ditties,
From the belfry of his brain,
Scattered downward, though in vain,
On the roofs and stones of cities!
For by night the drowsy ear
Under its curtains cannot hear,
And by day men go their ways,
Hearing the music as they pass,
But deeming it no more, alas!
Than the hollow sound of brass.

Yet perchance a sleepless wight,
Lodging at some humble inn
In the narrow lanes of life,
When the dusk and hush of night
Shut out the incessant din
Of daylight and its toil and strife,
May listen with a calm delight
To the poet's melodies,
Till he hears, or dreams he hears,
Intermingled with the song,
Thoughts that he has cherished long;
Hears amid the chime and singing
The bells of his own village ring-
ing,

And wakes, and finds his slumberous

eyes

Wet with most delicious tears.

Thus dreamed I, as by night I lay
In Bruges, at the Fleur-de-Ble,
Listening with a wild delight
To the chimes that, through the night,
Rang their changes from the Belfry
Of that quaint old Flemish city.

THE BELFRY OF BRUGES.

In the market-place of Bruges stands the belfry old and brown;

Thrice consumed and thrice rebuilded, still it watches o'er the town.

As the summer morn was breaking, on that lofty tower I stood,

And the world threw off the darkness, like the weeds of widowhood.

Thick with towns and hamlets studded, and with streams and vapors gray,

Like a shield embossed with silver, round and vast the landscape lay.

At my feet the city slumbered. From its chimneys, here and there,

Wreaths of snow-white smoke, ascending, vanished, ghost-like, into air.

Not a sound rose from the city at that

early morning hour, But I heanl a heart of iron beating in

the ancient tower.

From their nests beneath the rafters sang the swallows wild and high;

And the world, beneath lue sleeping, seemed more distant than the sky.

Then most musical and solemn, bringing

back the olden times, With their strange, unearthly changes

rang the melancholy chimes,

Like the psalms from some old cloister, when the nuns sing in the choir;

And the great bell tolled among them, like the chanting of a friar.

Visions of the days departed, shadowy phantoms filled my brain;

They who live in history only seemed to walk the earth again;

All the Foresters of Flanders, — mighty

Baldwin Bras de Fer, Lyderick du Bucq and Cressy Philip,

Guy de Dampierre.

I beheld the pageants splendid that adorned those days of old;

Stately dames, like queens attended, knights who bore the Fleece of Gold

Lombard and Venetian merchants with

deep-laden argosies; Ministers from twenty nations; more

than royal pomp and ease.

I beheld proud Maximilian, kneeling humbly on the ground;

I beheld the gentle Mary, hunting with her hawk and hound;

And her lighted bridal-chamber, where a duke slept with the queen,

And the armed guard around them, and the sword unsheathed between.

I beheld the Flemish weavers, with Na

mur and Juliers bold, Marching homeward from the bloody

battle of the Spurs of Gold;

Saw the fight at Minnewater, saw the White Hoods moving west,

Saw great Artevelde victorious scale the Golden Dragon's nest.

And again the whiskered Spaniard all the land with terror smote;

And again the wild alarum sounded from the tocsin's throat;

Till the bell of Ghent responded o'er lagoon and dike»of sand,

"I am Roland! I am Roland ! there is victory in the land!"

Then the sound of drums aroused me.

The awakened city's roar Chased the phantoms I had summoned

back into their graves once more.

Hours had passed away like minutes;

and, before I was aware, Lo! the shadow of the belfry crossed

the sun-illumined square.

MISCELLANEOUS.

A GLEAM OF SUNSHINE.

This is the place. Stand still, my steed,

Let me review the scene,
And summon from the shadowy Past

The forms that once have heen.

The Past and Present here unite
Beneath Time's flowing tide,

Like footprints hidden by a brook,
But seen on either side.

Here runs the highway to the town;

There the green lane descends, Through which I walked to church with thee,

O gentlest of my friends!

The shadow of the linden-trees

Lay moving on the grass; Between them and the moving boughs,

A shadow, thou didst pass.

Thy dress was like the lilies,
And thy heart as pure as they:

One of God's holy messengers
Did walk with me that day.

I saw the branches of the trees
Bend down thy touch to meet,

The clover-blossoms in the grass
Rise up to kiss thy feet.

"Sleep, sleep to-dfty, tormenting cares,

Of earth and folly born!" Solemnly sang the village choir

On that sweet Sabbath morn.

Through the closed blinds the golden sun

Poured in a dusty beam, Like the celestial ladder seen

By Jacob in his dream.

And ever and anon, the wind,
Sweet-scented with the hay,
Turned o'er the hymn-book's fluttering
leaves

That on the window lay.

Long was the good man's sermon,

Yet it seemed not so to me;
For he spake of Ruth the beautiful,

And still I thought of thee.

Long was the prayer he uttered,
Yet it seemed not so to me;

For in my heart I prayed with him,
And still I thought of thee.

But now, alas ! the place seems changed;

Thou art no longer here:
Part of the sunshine of the scene

With thee did disappear.

Though thoughts, deep-rooted in my heart,

Like pine-trees dark and high, Subdue the light of noon, and breathe A low and ceaseless sigh;

This memory brightens o'er the past,

As when the sun, concealed Behind some cloud that near us hangs,

Shines on a distant field.

THE ARSENAL AT SPRINGFIELD.

This is the Arsenal. From floor to ceiling.

Like a huge organ, rise the burnished arms;

But from their silent pipes no anthem pealing

Startles the villages with strange alarms.

Ah ! what a sound will rise, how wild and dreary, When the death-angel touches those swift keys! What loud lament and dismal Miserere Will mingle with their awful symphonies!

I hear even now the infinite fierce chorus,

The cries of agony, the endless groan, Which, through the ages that have gone before us, In long reverberations reach our own.

On helm and harness rings the Saxon hammer,

Through Cimbrie forest roars the Norseman's song,

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