AT THE CORREGIDOR'S.

To Don Odora says Donna De Vine:

“I yield to thy long endeavor!—

At my balcony be on the stroke of nine,

And, Signor, am thine forever!”

This beauty but once had the Don descried

As she quit the confessional; followed;

“What a foot for silk! a face for a bride —

Hem —!” the rest Odora swallowed.

And with vows as soft as his oaths were sweet

Her heart he barricaded;

And pressed this point with a present meet,

And that point serenaded.

What else could the enemy do but yield

To a handsome importuning!

A gallant blade with a lute for shield

All night at her lattice mooning!

“Que es estrella! O lily of girls!

Here's that for thy fierce duenna:

A purse of pistoles and a rosary o’ pearls

And gold as yellow as henna.

“She will drop from thy balcony's rail, my sweet!

My seraph! this silken ladder;

And then — sweet then!— my soul at thy feet

No lover of lovers gladder!”

And the end of it was!— But I will not say

How he won to the room of the lady:—

Ah! to love is life and to live is gay,

For the rest — a maravedi!

Now comes her betrothed from the wars, and he,

A Count of the Court Castilian,

A Don Diabolus, sword at knee,

And moustaches — uncivilian.

And his is a jealous love; and — for

He marks that this marriage makes sadder —

He watches, and sees a robber to her,

Or gallant, ascend a ladder.

So he pushes inquiry unto her room,

With his naked sword demanding —

An Alquazil with the face of Doom,

Sure of a stout withstanding.

And weapon to weapon they foined and fought;

Diabolus’ thrusts were vicious;

Three thrusts to the floor Odora had brought,

A fourth was more malicious,

Through the offered bosom of Donna De Vine —

And this is the Count's condition...

Was he right, was he wrong? the question is mine,

To judge — for the Inquisition.