LEORA.

A BALLAD OF SPAIN.

At her lattice sits Leora,

In the long and mellow June,

What time when whitely westward

Shines the round and pendent moon.

Sits she silent, sits she sadly,

With her head upon her hand,

Looking outward where the Ebro

Throws its ripples on the sand.

Never lighter blew the breezes

In the vales of Aragon,

Never smiled Hesperia’s heavens

With more lovely glories on.

Such an evening ’tis as gladdens

Cavaliers of sunny Spain—

Such an evening ’tis when maidens

Recount their loves again.

Now more restless grows Leora,

Fair Leora, gentle maid,

With sweet eyes so dark and fervent,

And each tress of nightly shade.

Heaves her bosom fast and wildly

Like a billow snowed with foam,

For there’s something boding tells her

That Almagro will not come.

Clouds are passing swiftly o’er her,

On her heart their shadows rest,

And the tear-drops from their fountains

Fall embittered to her breast.

Listens now she to the gallop

Of a steed adown the vale;

Now with hope her face is radiant,

Now with fear her cheek is pale.

But no lover rideth swiftly,

Swiftly to the trysting bower,

And Leora still is waiting

Through the long and dreary hour.

And the tears cease not to gather,

And the tears cease not to flow,

And she feels like one abandoned

On the haunted paths of wo.

Where a mountain streamlet gurgles,

From that watcher leagues away—

Where the hours amid the valleys

Listen to the waters’ play—

Faithless Almagro is breathing

Vows of deeply passioned love,

To a maiden on his bosom

In the sweetness of a dove.

And he tells her how he never

To another gave his heart,

Till her innocence is fallen

In the meshes of his art.

Till another than the midnight

Throws a darkness o’er her soul,

Leaving there a troubled fountain,

Leaving there a broken bowl.

Softly sigh the sleeping branches

On the bosom of the breeze,

Sweetly stars are gazing downward

To earth’s blue, unclouded seas:

And in fragrance dream the blossoms

Pure and taintless as before—

But heart-flowers have been gathered

That shall blossom nevermore.

Lowly westward walketh Dian,

On her watches with the night,

And the hours far have stolen

To the gateways of the light.

But, ah! wo is thee, Leora,

Though hopeless, hoping on,

Till Aurora up the Orient,

Rosy-fingered, leads the dawn.

But less wo is thee, Leora,

By thy lattice weary worn—

More’s the wo for thee, Estella,

When thou wakest at the morn.