That charming time has utterly vanish’d, And all those pleasures for ever are banish’d; And, ah! they have stolen the garland so fair That I was then wont on my head to wear. The garland is gone that my locks shaded over, But how it happen’d, I ne’er could discover; Yet since that beauteous garland they stole, My spirit has seem’d deprived of its soul. The ghosts of the world, with looks dimly staring, Gaze on me, and heaven seems barren and glaring, A churchyard blue, its deities gone; I roam in the forest, depress’d and alone. From the forest have vanish’d the elves with their graces Horns hear I, and yelping of dogs in their places; While hid in the thicket, the trembling roe Is licking her wounds with tearful woe. And where are the mandrakes? Methinks they are biding In clefts of the rocks, as a safe place of hiding; My dear little friends, I’m returning again, But reft of my garland and joy I remain. O where is the fairy, with hair long and golden, First beauty to whom I was ever beholden? The oak-tree wherein her lifetime she pass’d Stands mournfully stripp’d, and bared by the blast. The waves of the streamlet run sad as the Styx’s; Beside its lone banks sits one of the nixes, As pale and as mute as a figure of stone, While marks of deep grief o’er each feature are thrown. I softly approach’d her with heartfelt compassion,-- She arose and gazed on me in singular fashion, And then she fled with a terrified mien, As if she some fearful spectre had seen. SPANISH LYRICS. ’Twas on Hubert’s day--the year was Thirteen hundred, three and eighty-- That the king a banquet gave us In the castle at Segovia. These state banquets just the same are Everywhere, and at the tables Of all princes sov’reign tedium Yawns with uncontested vigour. Everywhere the same silk rabble, Gaily dress’d, and proudly nodding, Like a bed of gorgeous tulips; Different only are the sauces. Whispers all the time and buzzing Lull the senses like the poppy, Till the sound of trumpets wakes us From our state of chewing deafness. Near me, by good luck, was sitting Don Diego Albuquerque, From whose lips the conversation Flow’d in one unbroken torrent. He with wondrous skill related Bloody stories of the palace, Of the times of old Don Pedro, Whom they call’d the cruel monarch. When I ask’d him why Don Pedro Caused his brother Don Fredrego To be secretly beheaded, With a sigh my neighbour answer’d: Ah, Señor! the tales believe not Jingled on their vile guitars by Balladsingers and muledrivers In posadas, beershops, taverns. And believe not what they chatter Of the love of Don Fredrego And Don Pedro’s wife so beauteous, Donna Blanca of Bourbon.