But it is not in the pages of Lockhart alone that we should look for good translations of the Spanish romanceros. John Bowring in his Ancient Poetry and Romances of Spain (1824) has undoubtedly done much to render some of the lesser lyrics of Castilian balladeers into successful English verse. His translation of the celebrated "Fonte Frida" is, perhaps, the best version of that much-discussed poem to be met with in our language. It is clear that Ticknor's rendition of this piece is practically a paraphrase of Bowring's translation, of which I give the first two verses: Fount of freshness, fount of freshness, Fount of freshness and of love, Where the little birds of spring-time Seek for comfort as they rove; All except the widow'd turtle, Widow'd, sorrowing turtle-dove. There the nightingale, the traitor, Lingered on his giddy way; And these words of hidden treachery To the dove I heard him say: "I will be thy servant, lady, I will ne'er thy love betray." But no English translation, however fine, can possibly do justice to this beautiful lyric: Fonte frida, fonte frida, Fonte frida, y con amor, Do todas las avezicas Van tomar consolacion, Sino es la tortolica Que esta viuda y con dolor, Por ay fue a passar El traydor del ruyseñor Las palabras que el dezia Llenas son de traicion: "Si tu quisiesses, Señora, Yo seria tu servidor." Ticknor speaks truly when he says of the Spanish ballads: "To feel their true value and power we must read large numbers of them, and read them, too, in their native language; for there is a winning freshness in the originals, as they lie embedded in the old romanceros, that escapes in translations, however free, or however strict." The romancero entitled "Sale la estrella de Venus" recounts a tragic story. A Moorish warrior, flying from the city of Sidonia because of the cruelty of his lady, who had taunted him with poverty and had bestowed her hand upon another, makes the rocks and hills re-echo with his plaints. He pronounces a terrible and bitter curse upon the proud and wanton maiden who has spurned him. Maddened, he seeks the palace of the Alcalde to whom his faithless fair one is to be espoused that night. The building is bright with torches and gay with song. And the crowds make way before him While he pays his courtesies. Ha! his bloody lance has traversed The Alcalde's fluttering breast, And his life-blood now is flowing, Flowing through his purple vest. O what horror! What confusion, Desolation and dismay! While the stern, unnoticed murderer, To Medina takes his way.