In his mercy rest accord. Early of a morning tide They unclosed a window wide, Heaven’s beacon to descry, And a gentle dove let fly, Of the world to seek some trace, And in two short hours’ space It returns with eyes that glow, In its beak an olive bough. With a loud and mighty sound, They exclaim: ‘The world we’ve found.’ To a mountain nigh they drew, And when there themselves they view, Bound they swiftly on the shore, And their fervent thanks outpour, Lowly kneeling to their God; Then their way a couple trod, Man and woman, hand in hand, Bent to populate the land, To the Moorish region fair— And another two repair To the country of the Gaul; In this manner wend they all, And the seeds of nations lay. I beseech ye’ll credence pay, For our father, high and sage, Wrote the tale in sacred page, As a record to the world, Record sad of vengeance hurl’d. I, a low and humble wight, Beg permission now to write Unto all that in our land Tongue Egyptian understand. May our Virgin Mother mild Grant to me, her erring child, Plenteous grace in every way, And success. Amen I say. THE PESTILENCE I’m resolved now to tell In the speech of Gypsy-land All the horror that befell In this city huge and grand. In the eighteenth hundred year In the midst of summertide, God, with man dissatisfied, His right hand on high did rear, With a rigour most severe; Whence we well might understand He would strict account demand Of our lives and actions here. The dread event to render clear Now the pen I take in hand. At the dread event aghast, Straight the world reform’d its course; Yet is sin in greater force, Now the punishment is past; For the thought of God is cast All and utterly aside, As if death itself had died. Therefore to the present race These memorial lines I trace In old Egypt’s tongue of pride. As the streets you wander’d through How you quail’d with fear and dread, Heaps of dying and of dead At the leeches’ door to view. To the tavern O how few To regale on wine repair; All a sickly aspect wear. Say what heart such sights could brook— Wail and woe where’er you look— Wail and woe and ghastly care. Plying fast their rosaries, See the people pace the street, And for pardon God entreat Long and loud with streaming eyes. And the carts of various size, Piled with corses, high in air, To the plain their burden bear. O what grief it is to me Not a friar or priest to see In this city huge and fair. ON THE LANGUAGE OF THE GITÁNOS