'Twas an autumn eve; the splendor
Of the day was gone,
And the twilight, soft and tender,
Stole so gently on
That the eye could scarce discover
How the shadows, spreading over,
Like a veil of silver gray,
Toned the golden clouds, sun-painted,
Till they paled, and paled, and fainted
From the face of heaven away.
And a dim light rising slowly
O'er the welkin spread,
Till the blue sky, calm and holy,
Gleamed above our head;
And the thin moon, newly nascent,
Shone in glory meek and sweet,
As Murillo paints her crescent
Underneath Madonna's feet.
And we sat outside the villa
Where the waters flow
Down to the city of Sevilla-
Years and years ago.
There we sat-the mighty river
Wound its serpent course along
Silent, dreamy Guadalquiver,
Famed in many a song.
Silver gleaming 'mid the plain
Yellow with the golden grain,
Gliding down through deep, rich meadows,
Where the sated cattle rove,
Stealing underneath the shadows
Of the verdant olive grove;
With its plenitude of waters,
Ever flowing calm and slow,
Loved by Andalusia's daughters,
Sung by poets long ago.
Seated half within a bower,
Where the languid evening breeze
Shook out odors in a shower
From oranges and citron trees,
Sang she from a romancero,
How a Moorish chieftain bold
Fought a Spanish caballero
By Sevilla's walls of old,-
"The breeze of the evening that cools the hot air,
That kisses the orange and shakes out thy hair,
Is its freshness less welcome, less sweet its perfume,
That you know not the region from which it is come)
Whence the wind blows, where the wind goes,
Hither and thither and whither-who knows?
Who knows?
Hither and thither-but whither-who knows?
"The river forever glides singing along,
The rose on the bank bends adown to its song;
And the flower, as it listens, unconsciously dips,
Till the rising wave glistens and kisses its lips.
But why the wave rises and kisses the rose,
And why the rose stoops for those kisses-who knows.
Who knows?
And away flows the river-but whither-who knows?
"Let me be the breeze, love, that wanders along
The river that ever rejoices in song;
Be thou to my fancy the orange in bloom,
The rose by the river that gives its perfume.
Would the fruit be so golden, so fragrant the rose,
If no breeze and no wave were to kiss them?
If no breeze and no wave were to kiss them?
Who knows?"
As I sang, the lady listened,
Silent save one gentle sigh:
When I ceased, a tear-drop glistened
On the dark fringe of her eye.
Then my heart reproved the feeling
Of that false and heartless strain,
Which I sang in words concealing
What my heart would hide in vain.
Up I sprang. What words were uttered
Bootless now to think or tell-
Tongues speak wild when hearts are fluttered
By the mighty master spell.
Love, avowed with sudden boldness,
Heard with flushings that reveal,
Spite of woman's studied coldness,
Thoughts the heart cannot conceal.
Words half-vague and passion-broken,
Meaningless, yet meaning all
That the lips have left unspoken,
That we never may recall.
By the river's bank that night,
Foot to foot in strife,
Fought we in the dubious light
A fight of death or life.
Don Camillo slashed my shoulder,
With the pain I grew the bolder,
Close, and closer still I pressed;
Fortune favored me at last,
I broke his guard, my weapon passed
Through the caballero's breast.
Down to the earth went Don Camillo
Guzman Miguel Pedrillo
De Xymenes y Ribera
Y Santallos y Herrera
Y de Rivas y Mendoza
Y Quintana y de Rosa
Y Zorilla y-One groan
And he lay motionless as stone.
The man of many names went down,
Pierced by the sword of PETER Brown!
Kneeling down, I raised his head;
The caballero faintly said,
"Signor Ingles, fly from Spain
With all speed, for you have slain
A Spanish noble, Don Camillo
Guzman Miguel Pedrillo
De Xymenes y Ribera
Y Santallos y Herrera
Y de Rivas y Mendoza
Y Quintana y de Rosa
Y Zorilla y"-He swooned
With the bleeding from his wound.
If he be living still or dead,
I never knew, I ne'er shall know. That night from Spain in haste I fled, Years and years ago.
Oft when autumn eve is closing,
Pensive puffing a cigar
As I sit alone, reposing,
Musing half, and half a-dozing,
Comes a vision from afar
Of that lady of the villa
In her satin fringed mantilla,
And that haughty caballero
With his capa and sombrero,
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