of many Voceros transport us from our every-day life into the world of children, of shepherds, or of the patriarchs. No poetic genius can invent these utterances of nature. Beautiful songs, like tears wept by a noble sorrow, are sometimes called pearls—I call the Voceros blood-red Corsican corals.[H] THE VOCERO, OR CORSICAN DIRGE. E come i gru van cantando lor lai.—_Dante._ VOCERO ON CHILINA OF CARCHETO D'OREZZA. (_The Mother sings._) Ah! already they sing the Ave, And I still hang weeping here— All the women are come to see thee Dress'd for death upon thy bier; Mother's darling, my Chilina, More than jewels bright and dear! Whiter wast thou than the hill-snow, Than the rice more pure and fine; Now thy body is on the tola, And thy soul where angels shine; Ah, Chilina! why this cruel Haste to leave me, daughter mine? O Chilina! thou didst keep me Like a lady of the land; Bringing water, splitting firewood, Still it was my daughter's hand; Now has death her wings unfolded, Lonely and bereaved I stand. Where are now the nimble fingers, Moving finely, moving fast, As she spun upon the spindle, Or the knots and meshes cast?— Death, the sudden thief, he snatch'd her, As he stole on tiptoe past. How, Chilina, couldst thou leave us, Go to yonder darksome place, Where no firelight and no sunlight Cheers the cold, the narrow space? Ah, Chili! mine eyes will seek thee, And they will not find thy face! All so soon to be forsaken— How could I such woe foresee? Ah! thy sister Annadea, She will meet thee joyfully— She will beam with brighter glory When she clasps her own Chili. Thou wilt go no more to Ave, Thou wilt go to mass no more; My Chilina, mother's darling, This is grief that wounds me sore— That I now must live so lonely, Who so blithely lived before. (_A girl, one of her playmates, enters, and takes up the dirge._) Now arise, arise Chilina! We have come to fetch the bride; Hark the bells! thy horse is waiting, To Carcheto thou must ride, There to stand before the altar With the bridegroom by thy side. —Thou movest not, thou speakest not, She will not ope her eyes; Thy little hands are bound, Chili, Thy little feet are bound, Chili; Sisters, she fain would go with us, Loose her, and let her rise. (_One of the women takes up the dirge._) Hush, O hush thee, Magdalena! Something I would ask the child; Sooner, haply, than her mother, She will give me answer mild. At her head the wailing mother Sobs and shrieks in grief so wild. VOCERO ON THE DEATH OF CÆSARIO AND CAPPATO.[I]