XVI. SPANISH BALLADS. EVERY one of any imagination, every one at all addicted to that grand art of dreaming with the eyes open, and building what are called castles in the air, has, I suppose, his own peculiar realm of dream-land, his own chosen country, his own favorite period; and from my earliest hour of fanciful idleness, down to this present moment, Spain, as it existed when the Moors ruled over the fairest part of that fair country, has been mine. It is probable that I am not singular in my choice. Our vivacious neighbors, the Gauls, when they call their air-castles châteaux en Espagne, give some token of their preference for that romantic. locality, and the finest creations of Italian poetry, although tolerably anomalous as to place and time, may yet as a whole be referred to the same period and the same country. Who My fancy for the Moors, however, long preceded my acquaintance with Ariosto. What gave rise to it I can not tell. can analyze or put a date to any thing so impalpable! as well try to grasp a rainbow. Perhaps it arose from the melodious stanzas of "Almanzor and Zayda," the favorite of my childhood; perhaps from the ballads in "Don Quixote," or from Don Quixote himself, the darling of my youth; perhaps from an old folio translation of Mariana's history, a book which I devoured at fifteen as girls of fifteen read romances, finding the truth, if truth it were, fully as amusing as fiction; perhaps from the countless English comedies founded on Spanish subjects; perhaps from Corneille's Cid; perhaps from Le Sage's Gil Blas; perhaps from Mozart's Don Juan! Who can tell from what plant came the seed, or what wind wafted it? Certain it is that at eighteen the fancy was full blown, and that ever since it has been fed by countless hands and nurtured by innumerable streams. Lord Holland's charming book on Lope de Vega, Murphy's magnificent work on Granada, Mr. Prescott's Spanish Histories, Washington Irving's graphic Chronicles, a host of French and English travelers in Spain, a host of Spanish travelers in South America, the popular works of Ford and Borrow, of Dumas and Scribe, Southey's poetry, Sir Walter's prose-all conspired to keep alive the fancy. But beyond a doubt, the works that have most fed the flame, have been Mr. Lockhart's spirited volume of Spanish ballads, to which the art of the modern translator has given the charm of the vigorous old poets; and Mr. Ticknor's " History of Spanish Literature," that rarest of all works in these days, when literature, like every thing else, goes at railway speed, a conscientious book, which being the labor of a lifetime, will remain a standard authority for many generations. In one of his recently published letters, Southey, himself a powerful though somewhat fantastic ballad writer, denies all merit to the Spanish ballads, accusing them of sameness, of want of action and of want of interest. To this there needs but Mr. Lockhart's book to reply; even if the transmittal of so long a series of poems floating upon the memories and living in the hearts of a whole people were not answer enough even if the very materials and accessories of these ballads, the felicity of climate, the mixture of race, of Moor and Christian, of vailed beauty and armed knight, of fountained garden and pillared court, of gigantic cathedral and fantastic mosque, of mountains crowned with chestnut and cork-tree, and clothed with cistus and lavender; of streams winding through tufted oleanders, amid vineyards, orangegroves and olive-grounds, of the rich halls of the Alhambra, of the lordly towers of Seville, of shrine and abbey, of pilgrim and procession, of bull-fight and tournament, of love and of battle; of princely paladins and learned caliphs, and still more learned Jews! Why this is the very stuff of which poetry is made, and strange indeed it would have been, if born among such beauty, and happy in a language at once stately, flowing and harmonious, the great old minstrels, who, like their compeers of the Middle Ages, the equally great old architects, have bequeathed to us their works and not their names, had failed to find it. The first specimen that I shall select is the ballad which Don Quixote and Sancho Panza, when at Toboso, overheard a peasant singing as he was going to his work at daybreak. THE ADMIRAL GUARINOS. The day of Roncesvalles was a dismal day for you, Ye men of France, for there the lance of King Charles was broke in two. Ye well may curse that rueful field, for many a noble peer In fray or fight the dust did bite beneath Bernardo's spear. Then captured was Guarinos, King Charles's Admiral, Seven Moorish kings surrounded him, and seized him for their thrall; Much joy had then Marlotes, and his captive much did prize, "Now, for the sake of Allah, Lord Admiral Guarinos, Be thou a Moslem, and much love shall ever rest between us. "The one shall be thy waiting-maid, thy weary feet to lave, "If more thou wishest, more I'll give. Speak boldly what thy thought is." Thus earnestly and kindly to Guarinos said Marlotes : But not a minute did he take to ponder or to pause, Thus clear and quick the answer of the Christian Captain was. Now, God forbid! Marlotes, and Mary his dear mother, That I should leave the faith of Christ and bind me to another. I change not faith, I break not vow, for courtesy or gain." Wroth waxed King Marlotes, when thus he heard him say, With iron bands they bound his hands; that sore unworthy plight Three times alone in all the year it is the captive's doom To see God's daylight bright and clear, instead of dungeon gloom; Three times alone they bring him out, like Samson long ago, On these high feasts they bring him forth, a spectacle to be- And on that morn, more solemn yet, when the maidens strip the bowers, And gladden mosque and minaret with the first fruits of the flowers. Days come and go of gloom and show. Seven years are past and gone. Christian and Moslem tilts and jousts, to give it honor due, Marlotes in his joy and pride a target high doth rear, Below the Moorish knights must ride and pierce it with the spear; Wroth waxed King Marlotes, when he beheld them fail, The whisker trembled on his lip, and his cheek for ire was pale. The herald's proclamation made, with trumpets, through the town, "Nor child shall suck, nor man shall eat, till the mark be tumbled down!" The cry of proclamation and the trumpet's haughty sound Did send an echo to the vault where the Admiral was bound. 'Now help me, God!" the captive cries. "What means this cry so loud? O, Queen of Heaven! be vengeance given on these thy haters proud! "Oh! is it that some Paynim gay doth Marlotes' daughter wed, And that they bear my scorned fair in triumph to his bed? Or is it that the day is come-one of the hateful three When they, with trumpet, fife and drum, make heathen game of me?" These words the jailer chanced to hear, and thus to him he said: "This is the joyful morning of John the Baptist's day, When Moor and Christian feasts at home, each in his nation's way; Then out and spoke Guarinos: "Oh! soon each man should feed, "Give me my horse, my old gray horse, so be he is not dead, And give me the lance I brought from France, and if I win it not The jailer wondered at his words. Thus to the knight said he : The jailer put his mantle on and came unto the King, That were he mounted but once more on his own gallant gray, Much marveling, then said the King: "Bring Sir Guarinos forth, "Now this will be a sight indeed to see the enfeebled lord They have girded on his shirt of mail, his cuisses well they've clasped, And they've barred the helm on his visage pale, and his hand the lance hath grasped; And they have caught the old gray horse, the horse he loved of yore, And he stands pawing at the gate, caparisoned once more. When the knight came out the Moors did shout, and loudly laughed the King, For the horse he pranced and capered and furiously did fling; But Guarinos whispered in his ear, and looked into his face, Then stood the old charger, like a lamb, with calm and gentle grace. Oh! lightly did Guarinos vault into the saddle-tree, And slowly riding down made halt before Marlotes' knee; With that Guarinos, lance in rest, against the scoffer rode, |