THE SPANISH MAIDEN.
Reading edition
———
BY MRS. AGNES S. COLEMAN.
———
A wanderer o’er the hills of Spain,
I stood one balmy summer’s night,
To see come down on hill and plain,
Streamlet and tower fair Luna’s light;
While traced on the bright waters deep
Were forest dun, dark mountain hoar,
Old ruined tower and castle keep,
Reflected from the emerald shore.
But swift winged thought, so prone to stray,
Was hov’ring o’er a western strand,
When lo! came minstrel’s gentle lay.
In tones as from Elysian land.
A Seville girl with jeweled hair
Was near her trellised window leaning,
And pouring on the balmy air,
This song of love’s own gentle dreaming.
“How many an hour, bright Guadalquiver,
I’ve stood beside thy flowing tide,
And wished my home might be forever,
Near where thy silver waters glide—
Were Carlos near, with brow of snow
His noble intellect revealing,
And that dark eye whose radiant glow
Is lit by high and holy feeling.
“For like fair Eden’s early flowers,
Thy groves are in perpetual bloom,
And Love’s own wing fans the bright bowers
Of orange, bergamot and broom.
O’er all this region of delight
Spring reigns like one unending day,
No storms its opening blossoms blight,
Nor shades on its pure waters play.
“And when the orb of day hath gone
Down o’er Morena’s dusky height,
How beautiful the stars come on,
The blue ethereal arch of night.
Ah this fair earth hath many a scene
By pure and genial breezes fanned,
Yet boasts no realm cloudless, serene,
Like my own Andalusian land.
“But dull to me the fairest clime,
Cheerless its landscapes to my view,
Unless another’s eye with mine,
Can gaze upon its beauty too;
And vain to me the rich perfume
Floating on all the ambient air,
From Seville’s gardens in their bloom,
Unless a voice I love is there.
“Were India’s realm before me laid,
I’d give it all might I recline
My saddened brow, my weary head,
Carlos, on that dear heart of thine—
And hear thy soft, low tones again
Fall like sweet music on my ear,
With strange bland influence to sustain
My timid heart, my spirit cheer.”
The Spanish maiden ceased her lay,
And slowly from my vision past,
Like some sweet dream in summer’s day,
Too bright and beautiful to last—
Yet oft methinks when moonlight clear
Falleth on stream, and tower, and tree,
Again that soft low voice I hear
Murmuring its plaintive melody.