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 down the pass. Enter a Monk. A Shepherd appears on the

rocks above.)

MONK.

Ave Maria, gratia plena. Olá! good man!

SHEPHERD.

What wilt thou give me?

MONK.

An Agnus Dei and my benediction.

(They disappear. A mounted Contrabandista passes, wrapped in his cloak, with a gun at his saddle-bow. He goes down the

SONG.

Worn with speed is my good steed,
And I march me hurried, worried;
Onward, caballito mio,

With the white star in thy forehead!

Onward, for here comes the Ronda,

And I hear their rifles crack !

pass, singing.)

(Song dies away. Enter PRECIOSA, on horseback, attended by VICTORIAN, HYPOLITO, DON CARLOS, and CHISPA, on foot, and armed.)

VICTORIAN.

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!

Oh, glorious sight!

PRECIOSA.

Most beautiful indeed!

HYPOLITO.

Most wonderful!

VICTORIAN.

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!

PRECIOSA.

And which way lies

Segovia ?

Boasting an ancient Roman aqueduct,
And an Alcázar, builded by the Moors,
Wherein, you may remember, poor Gil Blas
Was fed on pan del rey. Oh, 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!

PRECIOSA.

Oh, 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!

VICTORIAN.

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! Oh, 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.

(She weeps.)

PRECIOSA.

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.)

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

BARTOLOMÉ.

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!-Oh, my God!

(The shot is returned. BARTOLOMÉ falls.)

Translations.

THE CHILDREN OF THE LORD'S SUPPER.

FROM THE SWEDISH OF BISHOP TEGNÉR.

[THE Children of the Lord's Supper, from the Swedish of Bishop Tegnér, is a poem which enjoys no inconsiderable reputation in the North of Europe, and for its beauty and simplicity merits the attention of English readers. It is an Idyl, descriptive of scenes in a Swedish village; and belongs to the same class of poems as the Luise of Voss, and the Hermann und Dorothea of Goëthe. But the Swedish poet has been guided by a surer taste than his German predecessors. His tone is pure and elevated; and he rarely, if ever, mistakes what is trivial for what is simple.

cones.

There is something patriarchal still lingering about rural life in Sweden, which renders it a fit theme for song. Almost primeval simplicity reigns over that Northern land,—almost primeval solitude and stillness. You pass out from the gate of the city, and, as if by magic, the scene changes to a wild woodland landscape. Around you are forests of fir. Overhead hang the long, fan-like branches, trailing with moss, and heavy with red and blue Under foot is a carpet of yellow leaves; and the air is warm and balmy. On a wooden bridge you cross a little silver stream, and anon come forth into a pleasant and sunny land of farms. Wooden fences divide the adjoining fields. Across the road are gates, which are opened by troops of children. The peasants take off their hats as you pass; you sneeze, and they cry, "God bless you!" The houses in the villages and smaller towns are all built of hewn timber, and for the most part painted red. The floors of the taverns are strewn with the fragrant tips of fir-boughs. In many villages there are no taverns, and the peasants take turns in receiving travellers. The thrifty housewife shows you into the best chamber, the walls of which are hung round with rude pictures from the Bible; and brings you her heavy silver spoons,-an heirloom,-to dip the curdled milk from the pan. You have oaten cakes baked some months before; or bread with aniseed and coriander in it, or perhaps a little pine-bark.

Meanwhile the sturdy husband has brought his horses from the plough, and harnessed them to your carriage. Solitary travellers come and go in uncouth one-horse chaises. Most of them have pipes in their mouths, and hanging around their necks in front a leather wallet, in which they carry tobacco, and the great bank-notes of the country, as large as your two