MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING, Act IV. Scene I.

For time at last sets all things even-
And if we do but watch the hour,
There never yet was human power
Which could evade, if unforgiven,
The patient search and vigil long

Of him who treasures up a wrong.
MAZEPPA.

I.

SHE was a peasant's daughter blithe and fair,

Her cheeks fresh as the rose of Paradise,

Locks like the raven's wing, dark languid eyes,
And young and beautiful beyond compare-
An airy flitting bird, aye soft and meek,

Modest and gentle as the timid fawn,

When first it ventures forth upon the lawn

Sought and beloved was young ZENEL: but like

* Pronounced Thanail.

The radiant sunbeam prisoned in a cloud
Ere it has traversed all its missioned way
From the metropolis of light and day—

A meteor seen, then lost in night's dim shroud—
The rainbow's bright but evanescent glow

Was the

pure maiden's sad career below.

II.

THE summer moon is shining bright
Far o'er the dark Sierra's height,'
And crag, and peak, and snowy crest,
Where the wild eagle builds his nest ;

2

The myrtle groves, and palms, and flowers,

Are smiling through their leafy bowers,
And sloping hills and green-wood aisles

Are gleaming in her quivering smiles;

And clear above, the soft blue sky

Spreads its celestial drapery,

Bespangled with ten thousand stars,

While by their sheen

Afar are seen

Angels careering in their cars,

Making the weary spirit long

To doff its frail mortality,

And join the bright seraphic throng
That sweeps along the starry sky;
The dew begems the verdant trees,
The air with balmy odor breathes;
Along the spicy-scented vale

Sings low and sweet the nightingale,

3

Where lovers stroll beside the streams, Lost in their first Elysian dreams,

Or there have stol'n an hour to rove

And plight anew the vows of love,

And secretly lament the wo

That bids them happiness forego;

To tread earth's chequered paths apart, Weary, and lone, and sick at heart.

Along Alhambra's dreary halls
Full many a hollow footstep falls
Of victim closely prisoned there
To pine out life in lone despair;
While sounds of wild festivity,

And royal mirth, and music's swell

Descendeth through his loathsome cell

In mockery of his misery;

4

And on the Vega's moonlit green,

While lingers yet the evening star

Amidst the balmy air serene,

Trip small feet to the light guitar
And the low tinkling castanet,
Which ever glads the Spanish fête;
And musically wends the rill
Along the olive-shaded hill

To mingle with the bright Xenil,®

And golden Darro's gentle tide,

That onward pensively doth glide—

A scene so bright—divinely fair,

5

That one might deem Crime lurked not there,

And War had never shook that plain,

8

Nor blood from noble Zegri's vein

Sprinkled the sod like heavy rain,

Nor helm nor shield had strown it o'er,
And many a brave and ghastly Moor.
But by yon dark and pine-clad hill
Hark! to the Pirate's whistle shrill-

See! by that rock-embattled shore

His gliding skiff and muffled oar !

III.

ALAS! there is no land on earth

Where Sin and Crime have not had birth,