ella era, y tan desventurada, no merecia vivir en el mundo con tanta deshonra, mayormente aviendo sido causa de tanto mal y destruicion. Y luego les dixo, Padres, en memoria de mi desdicha, de aqui adelante no se llame esta ciudad, Villavicioso, sino Malaca; Oy se acaba en ella la mas mala muger que huvo en el mundo. Y acabadas estas palabras, sin mas oir á sus padres, ni á nadie de los que estavan presentes, por muchos ruegos que la hizieron, y amonestaciones que no se echasse abaxo, se dexó caer en el suelo; y llevada medio muerta, vivió como tres dias, y luego murió. Fue causa este desastre y desesperacion de mucho escandalo, y notable memoria, entre los Moros y Christianos: y desde alle adelante se llamo aquella ciudad Malaga corruptamente por los Christianos; de los Arabes fue llamada Malaca, en memoria de aquellas palabras que dixo quando se echó de la torre, no se llame Villaviciosa, sino Malaca, porque ca, en lenguaje Español quiere dezir porque; y porque dixo, ca, oy se acaba en ella la mas mala muger que huvo en el mundo, se compuso este nombre de Mala y ca." Cap. xviii. pp. 81, 83.

y

Bleda, who has incorporated Miguel de Luna's story in his "Cronica de los Moros de España," pp. 193, 194, has the following curious passage concerning La Caba:

"Fue la hermosura desta dama no menos dañosa á España, que la de Elena á Troya. Llamaronla los Moros por mal nombre La Cava; y nota el Padre Fray Estevan de Salazar, Cartuxo, en los discursos doctissimos sobre el Credo, que esto no fue sin mysterio: porque el nombre de nuestra primera madre en el Hebreo no se pronuncia Eva, sino Cavah: de suerte que tuvieron un mesmo nombre dos mugeres que fueron ruyna de los hombres, la una en todo el mundo, y la otra en España." - Bleda, p. 146.

Morales supposes that the gate at Malaga derived its name, not from the death of La Caba, but from her having passed through it on her way to Africa.

"En Malaga he visto la puerta en el muro, que llaman de La Cava, y dicen le quedó aquel nombre, habiendo salido esta vez por ella embarcarse. Y la gran desventura que luego sucedió, dexó tristemente notable aquel lugar.” — Morales,

1. xii. cap. lxvii. § 4.

The very different view which I have taken of this subject, when treating it upon a great scale, renders it proper to substitute for Julian in this earlier production the name of Illan, for which the "Cronica de España" affords authority, and to call his daughter as she is named in that spirited ode by P. Luis de Leon, of which a good translation may be found in Russell's poems.

FATHER! Count Illan! here—what here I say, Aloft look up!— ay, father, here I stand,

Safe of my purpose now!

The way

is barred:

Thou need'st not hasten hither!

Ho! Count Illan,

I tell thee I have barred the battlements;

I tell thee that no human power can curb

A desperate will. The poison and the knife, These thou couldst wrest from me; but here I stand Beyond thy thrall, free mistress of myself. Though thou hadst wings, thou couldst not overtake My purpose. I command my destiny.

Would I stand dallying on Death's threshold here, If it were possible that hand of man

Could pluck me back?

Why didst thou bring me here

To set my foot, reluctant as I was,

On this most injured and unhappy land?
Yonder in Afric, on a foreign shore,

I might have lingered out my wretched life,
I might have found some distant lurking-place,
Where my accursed tale was never known;
Where Gothic speech would never reach my ear;
Where, among savages, I might have fled
The leprous curse of infamy. But here,

In Spain, in my own country, night and morn
Where all good people curse me in their prayers;
Where every Moorish accent that I hear
Doth tell me of my country's overthrow,
Doth stab me like a dagger to the soul;

Here, here, in desolated Spain, whose fields [sons
Yet reek to heaven with blood, whose slaughtered
Lie rotting in the open light of day,

My victims: said I mine? Nay, nay, Count Illan,
They are thy victims! at the throne of God,
Their spirits call for vengeance on thy head;
Their blood is on thy soul. Even I myself,
I am thy victim too; and this death more
Must yet be placed in hell to thy account.

O my dear country! O my mother Spain !
My cradle and my grave! for thou art dear;
And, nursed to thy undoing as I was,

Still, still I am thy child, and love thee still.
I shall be written in thy chronicles

The veriest wretch that ever yet betrayed
Her native land! From sire to son, my name
Will be transmitted down for infamy!
Never again will mother call her child
La Caba: an Iscariot curse will lie

Upon the name, and children in their songs
Will teach the rocks and hills to echo with it
Strumpet and traitoress!

This is thy work, father!

Nay, tell me not my shame is washed away,

That all this ruin and this misery

Is vengeance for my wrongs. my wrongs.

I asked not this; I called for open, manly, Gothic vengeance.

Thou wert a vassal, and thy villain lord

Most falsely and most foully broke his faith;
Thou wert a father, and the lustful king

By force abused thy child! Thou hadst a sword : Shame on thee to call in the cimeter

To do thy work! Thou wert a Goth, a Christian,

Son of an old and honorable house:

It was my boast, my proudest happiness,

To think I was the daughter of Count Illan.

Fool that I am to call this African

By that good name! Oh, do not spread thy hands
To me! and put not on that father's look!
Moor! turbaned misbeliever! renegade!
Circumcised traitor! Thou Count Illan, thou!
Thou my dear father? Cover me, O Earth!
Hell, hide me from the knowledge!

BRISTOL, 1802.

THE AMATORY POEMS OF ABEL

SHUFFLEBOTTOM.

SONNET I.

DELIA AT PLAY.

SHE held a Cup and Ball of ivory white,
Less white the ivory than her snowy hand!
Enrapt, I watched her from my secret stand,
As now, intent, in innocent delight,

Her taper fingers twirled the giddy ball,

Now tossed it, following still with EAGLE sight,
Now on the pointed end infixed its fall.
Marking her sport I mused, and musing sighed.
Methought the BALL she played with was my

ᎻᎬᎪᎡᎢ ;

(Alas! that sport like that should be her pride!) And the keen point which steadfast still she eyed Wherewith to pierce it, that was CUPID's dart: Shall I not, then, the cruel fair condemn

Who on that dart IMPALES my BOSOM'S GEM?