I am now sixteen, dear mother: If the noble youth should come, And call upon his little debtor, Sighing for him here at home;— Should he come with feathers dancing, Helm of steel and spurs of gold, And claim the kisses that I owe him, I—would pay him, now I’m old! “Hush, child! this is not the language Worthy a Castilian maid, One too promised to the altar, Convent’s gloom, and cloister’s shade. For thou’rt given to St. Cecil, To her holy shrine thou’rt sold;— Will not my sweet one read her missal?” “Yes!—I’ll pay him now I’m old!” Grave commentators on this ballad suggest, that if the cavalier had not been a superbly dressed cavalier, the little maiden would have forgotten her vow; and in the south of Spain, when a man is inclined to become heedless of external adornment, he is warned of the peril of losing the three kisses of St. Cecilia’s Nun. But the overture to my “opera” is extending beyond due limits; and as I have hitherto been repeating snatches from the airs of others, I will here add, to save my honour, one of my own. It is well known that Henrietta Maria mostly favoured the colour known as the Maiden’s Blush,—from the rose of that pretty name. The following lines will show HOW THE ROSE GOT ITS HUE. One starry eve, as Psyche lay Beneath a cistus bower’s shade, Tearing the flowers in idle play, Young Love came tripping by, that way, And to the girl thus, laughing, said,— The sweetest rose that ever eye Yet smiled upon I plucked but now; Pure as the stars in yon blue sky And whiter than the flowers that lie In wreaths about thy sunny brow. The sweetest rose that ever spent Its balmy store of scented bliss About thy locks, or gently bent Above thy bow’r, had ne’er the scent That lies enshrined, my soul, in this. Oh for a name, my gentle girl, That mortals fittingly may call This matchless rose, of flowers the pearl!— Look, sweet, how soft the petals curl! A name!—and thou shalt have them all. While Love thus urged his pretty suit, And to the blushing girl drew near, He softly struck his golden lute, As Psyche sat, entranced and mute, Drinking the sounds with willing ear. And when the golden lute was hush’d, And Love still nearer drew, to seek His usual meed from lips that flush’d With softer hues than ever blush’d Upon his own sweet mother’s cheek,— He whisper’d something soft and low, With arm and flower around her thrown, That call’d upon her cheeks a glow Which shed upon the leaves of snow A hue still deeper than her own. And Love, rejoicing, mark’d the rush Of soft and rosy light that came Upon the flower, which caught the flush From Psyche’s cheek, whose maiden blush Gave to the rose both hue and name.