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and without refuge-M. Servin concealed him-and-and-"

"Servin is a good fellow, and has done right," exclaimed Piombo; "but you do wrong, my daughter, to love any other man but your father." "It was not in my power not to love him," replied Ginevra, gently. "I did flatter myself," continued her father, "that my Ginevra would have been faithful to me till my death: that my love and that of her mother would have sufficed her, and that our tenderness would have encountered no rival in her heart."

"Did I ever reproach you for your fanatical attachment to Napoleon ?" said Ginevra; "have you loved nothing but me? Have not you been whole months away on missions and embassies, and have I not borne these separations with courage? There are certain necessities to which one must submit."

"Ginevra!""

"No, you do not love me for myself, and your reproaches betray the most intense selfishness."

"What! do you accuse your father's love?" exclaimed Piombo, with flashing eyes,

"Father! I will never accuse you," replied Ginevra, more gently than her trembling mother anticipated. "You are right in your selfishness, as I am in my love. I call Heaven to witness that no daughter ever fulfilled more scrupulously her duty towards her parents. I have never felt anything but the blessed privilege of affection, where many are compelled by a mere sense of moral obligation. For fifteen years I have not stirred from beneath your protecting wings, and it has been a pure delight to me thus far to have made your days happy; and must I necessarily be ungrateful now, because I surrender myself to the power of love, and wish to marry?"

"So, you reckon mutual debts with your father, Ginevra?" replied the old man, in a sinister tone. There was a terrible pause, which no one dared to break. At length, Bartholomeo interrupted the silence by exclaiming, in a voice of agony: "Oh, stay with us! stay! unmarried, stay by thy old father! I cannot bear to see thee love another, Ginevra! Thou wilt not have long to wait for thy freedom!"

"But, father, do remember that we shall not leave you that we shall be two instead of one to love and cherish you, and that you will thus know to whose protection you leave me at last. You will he doubly loved by me and him,-by him who is my other selfby me, who am all his."

"Oh, Ginevra, Ginevra!" exclaimed the Corsican, clenching his hands, "why did you not marry when Napoleon had accustomed me to the thought by presenting to you dukes and

counts?"

"They loved me at the word of command," said the young girl; "besides, I would not leave you, and they would have taken me away with them."

"You would not leave us!" said Piombo; "but marrying is leaving us, for I know you, my child; you will care for us no more. Maria!" added he, looking at his wife, who remained motionless and stupified; "Maria, we have lost our child! she is going to be married!"

The old man sat down, after raising his hands, as if to invoke the blessing of Heaven, and remained bowed down as though with the weight of his sorrow. Ginevra saw her father's emotion, and the moderation of his expressions touched her heart. She had expected a storm of furious passion, but she had not prepared herself for tenderness and mildness.

"Father," said she, in the most touching voice, "your Ginevra will never forsake you; but oh! do love her a little for herself. If you knew how he loves me- -he would never afflict me thus."

"Comparisons already!" cried Piombo, in a fearful tone, no, I never can endure the thought. If he loved thee as thou deservest it would kill me-and if he did not love thee so, I would murder him!" And Piombo's hands, lips, and body shook and quivered, while his eyes flashed lightning. Ginevra alone could meet such looks, for then her eyes returned their fire, and the daughter was the living reflection of the father.

"Who is worthy of loving thee?" said he; "to be thy father is infinite happiness-who shall deserve to be thy husband?"

"He," said Ginevra, "he, of whom I feel myself unworthy."

"He" mechanically repeated Pi- if I were to obey you, my heart would ombo; and who is he?"

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"You do love him, then?" exclaimed Piombo.

Ginevra gently bowed her head. "Better than you love us?" "There is no comparing the two feelings," answered she.

“Then one is stronger than the other?" persisted Piombo.

"I believe so," said Ginevra. "You shall not marry him!" This furious exclamation shook the windows.

"I shall marry him," quietly retorted Ginevra.

"Good God!" cried the terrified mother; "how will this quarrel end? Santa Virgine! come between them!" The baron, who was striding up and down the room, now came and sat down. An icy sternness darkened his countenance; he looked steadily at his daughter, and said to her, in a low and mournful voice: "No, Ginevra, vou will not marry him. Do not, oh ao not, say yes to me again to-night. Let me, at least, believe the contrary. Wouldst thou see thy old father on his Knees, with his white hairs bowed before thee? I will implore thee!"

"Ginevra Piombo," said she, "does not promise and break her word. I am your daughter."

"After all," said the baroness, "she is right. Women come into the world to marry."

"So you encourage her disobedience!"

"To refuse submission to an unjust demand, is not disobedience," replied Ginevra.

"A demand of your father's, my daughter, cannot be unjust. My child! why do you judge me? The invisible repugnance I have to this union may be a warning from above. Perhaps I am warding off misfortune from you."

"The only misfortune possible now would be his not loving me."

"Again him!-forever him!" "Yes, forever!" replied she. "He is my life, my joy, my soul! and even

remain filled with him alone."

"So, then, you love us no more!" said Piombo.

"Oh!" exclaimed Ginevra, with a movement of the head, expressive of denial.

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Well, then, forget him for awhile. Remain with us now. When we are dead-then-then-you understand—” "Father, do you want to make me wish your death?" exclaimed Gine

vra.

"I shall outlive thee; for children who honor not their parents, die early, and die miserably!" retorted her father, driven to the last degree of exasperation.

"So much the more reason for marrying at once, and being happy in the meantime!" she replied, coolly.

Her self-possession and obstinate determination completed the bewilderment of Piombo; the blood rushed violently to his head, and his face became purple. His aspect was really terrible. Ginevra shuddered; she sprang like a bird upon her father's knees, and throwing her arms with the utmost tenderness round his neck, she kissed his face and hair, exclaiming, "Oh let me, let me die first! for I never could survive thee, my dear, dear father!"

"Oh my Ginevra! my mad Ginevrina! my darling Ginevretta!” replied Piombo, whose fury melted under her caresses like ice in the sun.

"It was time to have done indeed!" cried the baroness in a voice of terror. "Poor mamma!"

"Ah Ginevretta! Ginevra bella!" and the father played with his daughter as with a child of six years old, unfastening the beautiful billowy tresses of her hair, and dandling her on his knees. The expression of his tenderness for her was almost like insanity. Presently Ginevra began to scold while she coaxed him, and sought to obtain jestingly and with the most winning entreaties permission for Louis to present himself at the house; but her father, jestingly too, persisted in his refusal. She went away and pouted, came back, left him and pouted again; but at the end of the evening she congratulated herself upon having at least impressed upon her father her love for Louis, and the possibility of her soon marrying. The next day she spoke no more of her attachment. She went

late to the drawing gallery, and returned early. She became more caressing in her manner to her father than she had ever been, and appeared grateful to him for the consent which his silence seemed to imply to her marriage. In the evening she would sing and often exclaim, "That duet wants a man's voice!" She was an Italian -which is saying everything. At the end of a week her mother beckoned her, and when she came, whispered in her ear, "I have brought your father to consent to his coming here."

Ginevra jumped for joy like a child. "Oh mother! oh how happy you make

me!"

That day therefore Ginevra had the happiness to return home leaning on Louis's arm; it was only the second time that the poor officer had ventured from his hiding place into the streets. The unremitting solicitations which Ginevra caused to be made to the Duke de Feltre, then secretary of war, had been crowned with complete success. Louis had been restored to the position of an officer eligible for future service, which was already a great step towards more prosperous prospects. The young chief-of-battalion, being informed by his mistress of all the difficulties which attended his introduction to the baron, did not dare to confess how much he feared lest he should not please him. This young man, so full of fortitude in adversity and of courage in action, actually trembled when he thought of his first entrance into Piombo's drawing room. Ginevra perceived his emotion, and guessing its cause, it was to her an additional proof of his love.

"How pale you are!" said she, when they arrived at the door of the house.

"O Ginevra, if it was only to me a question of life!"

Bartholomeo had no doubt been prepared by his wife for the formal introduction of Ginevra's lover, for when he heard his daughter's step he did not go to meet her, but remained plunged in the arm-chair which he usually occupied. He was gloomy, and the sternness of his brow had something icy in it.

"Father," said Ginevra, "I bring you one you will I am sure be glad to see. This is Monsieur Louis, who fought within four steps of the Emperor at Mont St. Jean."

The Baron di Piombo rose, cast a sidelong glance at Louis, and said in a sarcastic tone: "You wear no order, sir!"

"I never wear my Legion of Honor," timidly replied Louis, who remained humbly standing.

Ginevra, pained by her father's want of courtesy, pushed forward a chair. The officer's answer satisfied the old follower of Napoleon. Madame Piombo, perceiving that her husband's eyebrows were resuming their natural position, ventured to observe; "The gentleman's likeness to Nina Porta is wonderful. Does it not strike you that he has completely the Porta countenance?"

"That is not altogether unnatural," replied the young man, upon whom the flaming eyes of Piombo were fastened; "Nina Porta was my sister."

"Thou art Luigi Porta!" said the old man in an almost inaudible voice, but with a terrific look.

"Yes."

Bartholomeo Piombo rose; he tottered, and was obliged to lean upon a chair; he looked at his wife; Maria Piombo came to him, and both of them left the room arm in arm, in silence, abandoning their daughter with an expression of horror.

(To be concluded in our next.)

19

SPANISH BALLADS.

Translated from the Spanish,

BY EDWARD MATURIN.

BALLAD I.

ADDRESS OF COUNT FERNAN GONZALEZ, PREVIOUS TO BATTLE WITH THE MOORS.

Within the walls of Burgos' town Count Fernan hath array'd,
The vassals of the Spanish crown, with targe and lance and blade.-
The Moorish host is marshall'd too;-Almanzor leads them on :-
The cymbals clash, the sabres flash,-high waves the gonfalon !
The atabal with deadly peal, the crescent streaming bright,
The jar and clank of burnish'd steel, herald the Moorish might:-
Now face to face the armies stand, upon their spears they lean,
When a Spanish knight, with naked brand, his courser spurs between.
And scarce his barb the knight had spurred, in the midst between the foe,
When a low and stifled wail was heard, as of mourners in their woe;
For, on a sudden,-awful doom!-'neath the brave Castillian,
The earth, it op'd, like a yawning tomb, and swallowed steed and man.

It clos'd again upon its prey; nor sign, nor trace they see,-
Rider and steed are swept away, as Autumn strips the tree :-
Fear falls on ev'ry mail'd man; quivers each iron hand;
The soldier's rugged face is wan, and powerless his brand!

Count Fernan grasp'd his charger's rein, and wav'd his falchion bright

His mettled courser sped amain, as speeds the morning light;—

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Hidalgos! Sons of Burgos! why doth fear freeze every vein?

Where is the vaunted chivalry-the valour of old Spain ?"

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Though heaven and earth in one combine with dream and omen drear, Beats there within yon Spanish line a heart that quails with fear? Shame on the craven who would wheel and 'fore the crescent fly! The sturdy blood of old Castile, than yield, would rather die!" "False recreant knights! ye will not lay the honours that ye've gain'd In many a proudly foughten day, with falchions crimson-stained, In dust, forever to remain; soil'd by Oblivion's breath!

Ye renegades to God and Spain! your swords ye dare not sheathe!" "Fear ye the Moorish foe to count, because your comrade's gone? Castillians,-No! Your coursers mount ! Your host hath lost but one! Your banners raise! The Moor displays the crescent in the van! Forth every falchion! let it blaze; and stand ye man to man." "Say they're a thousand, we but ten! What! will ye turn and flee! Can Spain invoke no nobler men, no truer knights than ye? Give me one drop of Spanish blood, from a true Castillian heart, 'Tis the noblest stream that ever flow'd, beneath a Moorish dart !" "Hidalgos! Knights! your coursers spur! Give every barb the rein! The field let steed and rider skirr ! "St. Iago for old Spain!" Shame on the soul would falter now, when the Moslem is before us. What! quail ye 'fore the turban'd brow, when the Holy Cross flies o'er us!"

BALLAD II.

SEBASTIAN DIES IN BATTLE.

Who is he who rides so fast amid the dead and dying ;-
His knightly pennon, to the blast, in shatter'd fragments flying;
His armour beareth many a stain of foes now stark and cold ;-
He reels upon his steed; the rein the hero scarce can hold!

Sebastian! bravest 'mid the brave, a soldier, yet a king!
Where battle's floating banners wave on high their crimson wing,
Horseman and steed were ever found, unsheath'd the monarch's glaive,
Whose trenchant blade had made the ground full many a hero's grave.

Lo! from each quarter of the field rageth the battle-cry

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Fly, brothers, fly! Down spear and shield! the foe is on us! fly !"
The monarch checks his courser's rein; raiseth his falchion bright,
And dasheth 'mid his knights amain to stem their craven flight.

Who hath not seen the havoc made, where storm sweeps sea and land?
Thus the ruthless foe did crouch below the sweep of his naked brand;
While, yet, upon his own he calls and deals his blows around,
Reeling with wounds the courser falls, 'neath his master to the ground
Scarce had he fallen, when a knight prick'd forth his gallant steed;
Lo! spur and rein the courser strain to aid the monarch's need;
Sore press upon the knight his foes; his arms wear many a stain,
But his foemen fall beneath his blows, as the sickle sheds the grain
"Mount, mount, good king! my destrier," the gallant champion cries,
He'll bravely carry thee where 'er the foeman's banner flies;
Look round thee, king! for far and near thy harness'd champions fall,
As though, for aye, were dimm'd the star of gallant Portugal!"

"Death and dismay beset thine host-their blood it streams like water!
Good master, mount, for all is lost in this sad day of slaughter.
Fly, fly, good king! your knights implore-here master, seize the rein,
I would not have thee see the gore that streams the battle-plain.”

"Woe worth the day!" Sebastain said, "I marshall'd ye for fight;
That I should see my champions dead, or worse, in coward flight!
I take thy proffer, loyal knight! as freely as 'tis giv'n;

Be thy truth to save me from the grave, thy best reward in heaven."

The champion flingeth down the rein-dismount, he can but try,
For freshly gusheth ev'ry vein, and death doth glaze his eye.
The reeling corse the king receives-the champion's battle's o'er!
The monarch weeps, the knight, he sleeps the sleep that wakes no more!

BALLAD III.

FLERIDA LEAVES HER FATHER'S HOUSE at night, EMBARKING IN THE GALLEY

OF HER LOVER DUARDOS.

'Twas the blooming month of May when the rose and lily vie,

When the bird is singing on the spray and summer lights the sky;

The stars, they shone like happy isles amid a sea of light,

Where tears should ever change to smiles and never Day know Night!

It was a night as fresh and fair as ever dew-drops wept;
Odours floated in the air from flowers as they slept,

When a lithe and lovely form stray'd, mid the flowers' painted beds,
And tears fell from the Spanish Maid, as she rais'd their drooping heads.
"Farewell, farewell, ye children gay! for Autumn's wither'd bowers
Ye hive the sweets of scented May; nurslings of sunshine hours!
No more the nightingale's sad lay shall wake my listless ear-
Flowers! receive that holy dew, a maiden's parting-tear."

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