The sun’s red glowing disk already downward Was hast’ning, and its purple rays were beaming Over the trees and flowers, and o’er the river That flow’d majestically in the distance. “See’st thou the large and golden eye that’s floating “In the blue water?” cried Maria quickly. “Hush, thou poor creature!” said I, as I spied In the dim twilight a strange wondrous motion. Figures of mist arose from out the plain, And with white tender arms embraced each other; The violets eyed each other tenderly, The lily cups with yearning bent together; A loving glow in every rose was gleaming, The pinks would fain in their own breath be kindled, In blissful odours revell’d every flower, And every one wept silent tears of rapture, And all exulting shouted: Love! Love! Love! The butterflies were fluttering, and the shining Gold beetles humm’d their gentle fairy songs, The winds of evening whisper’d, and the oaks All rustled, and the nightingale sang sweetly; And amid all the whispering, rustling, singing, Prated away, with thin cold soundless voice, The faded woman hanging on my arm: “I know your nightly longing for the castle; “Every long shadow is a simpleton, “That nods and signs precisely as one wishes; “The blue coat is an angel; but the red coat “With his drawn sword, is very hostile to you.” And many other things in this strange fashion Continued she to say, till, tired at length, She sat down with me on the mossy bank That stands beneath the ancient noble oak-tree. Together there we sat, both sad and silent, And gazed upon each other, growing sadder. The oak, as with a dying sigh, was murmuring; Deep-grieving, sang the nightingale down on us. But through the leaves a ruddy light was piercing, And flicker’d round Maria’s pallid face, And lured a glow from out her rigid eyes, Until with her old darling voice thus spoke she: “How knewest thou that I am so unhappy? “I read it lately in thy strange wild numbers.” An ice-cold feeling pierced my breast, I shudder’d At my own mad delirium, which the future Saw through, my brain grew giddy with alarm, And through sheer terror I awoke from sleep. DONNA CLARA. In the evening-shaded garden Rambles the Alcalde’s daughter; Kettle-drums and trumpets loudly Echo from the lofty castle. “Wearisome I find the dances, “And the honied words of flatt’ry, “And the knights, who so gallantly “Tell me I the sun resemble. “Everything is hateful to me “Since I by the beaming moonlight “Saw the Knight whose lute allured me “To the window every evening. “As he stood, so slim, but daring, “And his eyes shot lightning glances “From his pale and noble features, “Truly he Saint George resembled.”