THE SPANISH STUDENT.

Nor thirst, nor hunger; but be comforted
And filled with my affection.

223

Pre. Stay no longer! My father waits. Methinks I see him there, Now looking from the window, and now watching Each sound of wheels or foot-fall in the street, And saying," Hark! she comes!" O father! father! [They descend the pass. CHISPA remains behind.] Chis. 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? 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. [A pause.

Bart.

Then enter BARTOLOMÉ wildly, as if in pursuit, with a carbine in his hand.]

They passed this way! I hear their horses hoofs !

Yonder I see them! Come, sweet caramillo,
This serenade shall be the Gipsy's last!
[Fires down the pass.]

Ha ha! Well whistled, my sweet caramillo! Well whistled!--I have missed her!-O, my God! [The shot is returned. BARTOLOMÉ falls.]

CARILLON.

In 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 I heard those magic numbers,
As they loud proclaimed the flight
And stolen marches of the night;
Till their chimes in sweet collision