My peace is gone,

And my heart is sore,

I have lost him, and lost him,
For evermore!

The place where he is not,

To me is the tomb,

The world is sadness,

And sorrow, and gloom!

My poor sick brain

Is crazed with pain,
And my poor sick heart
Is torn in twain!

My peace is gone,

And my heart is sore,
For lost is my love,

For evermore!

From the window for him
My heavy eyes roam;
To seek him, all lonely
I wander from home.

His noble form,

His step so high,
The smiles of his lip,
And the power of his eye;

And the magic tone

Of that voice of his,
His hands' soft pressure,
And oh! his kiss!

My peace is gone,

And my heart is sore;

I have lost him, and lost him,
For evermore!

Far wanders my heart
To feel him near,
Oh! could I clasp him,
And hold him here!

Hold him and kiss him,
Oh! I could die!
To feed on his kisses,
How willingly!

We are almost insensibly adding to our extracts, already too long. Margaret, that she may receive Faustus's visits without the knowledge of her mother, administers to her a sleeping

draught. The potion is given in too large a quantity, or it was poison, and the mother dies in consequence. Margaret's brother returns from the army to hear his sister's disgrace, and die by the hand of Faustus, in the attempt to avenge her. This unfortunate girl, who is represented through the entire work as of a religious disposition, now in her distress, when she is exposed to the mockery and insults of the world-when all means of human consolation are removed from her-ventures into the church-an evil spirit stands behind her-whispers to her how different was her state a few months before, then an innocent child, and now" Why dost thou come hither?

-prayest thou for thy mother's soul? She whom thy poison-draught

Murdered! Oh, she is doomed to long,
long pain-

The everlasting sufferings of the damned !
Her blood is on thy soul !

And in thy bosom is there not

A life that tortures thee?

And pangs, that, with thy present grief,
Connect the fears of future days ?"

Mar. Alas! alas!

Oh! that I could escape

Those thoughts, that chase each other thro' my mind,

And all accuse me !

Choir. Dies Iræ, dies illa

Solvet sæclum in favilla.

The agony of her own thoughtsthe voice of the evil spirit in her ears, and this hymn, that seems to express the sentence of Heaven against her crimes, is too much for Margaret to bear, and she falls down insensible.

Mephistopheles removes Faustus to the Hartz-mountains; all is haunted ground here, and it being the famous night of the first of May, the sabbath of witches, demons, &c. is held, but we dare not attempt a translation of this wonderful scene-" this whirlwind," as it has been called, "of all that can be thought and said." On his return, Faustus finds that Margaret is imprisoned and sentenced to death; with the assistance of Mephistopheles, who, however, ridicules the idea of taking any trouble on the subject, Faustus obtains the keys of the prison. As he is opening the door of her cell, he hears her singing, but from the coarse and vulgar words of the song, it is apparent that her reason is overthrown; when Faustus enters, she does not know him, and

HORE HISPANICE.

No II.

The Morning of St John the Baptist, and Don Alonzo of Aguilar.

[We have no doubt our readers will thank us for inserting the two follow ing ballads, immediately after the preceding article on the Faustus of Goethe. To say nothing of the merits of the translations themselves, it cannot but afford a delightful sensation, to pass at once from the awful dreams and terrors of the most wildly imaginative poem that has been produced in these days, to the simplicity of those natural feelings, that are painted in both the pastoral song and the warlike ballad of the old days of Spain. It is like being thrown back at once, from the midst of the agonies of disturbed and perverted reason, into the clear open daylight of external things. It is like passing from some gloomy cathedral aisle, hung round with all the emblems of human nothingness, and human vanity, into the smiling freshness of the green meadow, or the healthy breezes of the mountain. We are sensible to the relief afforded by the exchange of things tangible for things intangible, things intelligible for things unintelligible,-the "common thoughts of mother earth," for the musings and the mysteries even of the most majestic of poets.-EDITOR.]

MB EDITOR,-Since you are pleased with the specimens I formerly sent you of my translations from the Spanish Ballads, I am happy to send you two more, although I am afraid you will not regard them as equally interesting with the others. The first is a very literal version of the ballad, which has been, for many centuries, sung by the maidens on the banks of the Guadalquiver, when they go forth to gather flowers, on the morning of the day of St John the Baptist. In my former communication I had occasion to allude to the fact, that this holiday, in the old time, was equally reverenced by the Christian and the Moorish inhabitants of Andalusia, and such of your readers as are acquainted with the ballad of the Admiral Guarinos, (which Cervantes, in one of his most beautiful passages, has introduced Don Quixote as hearing sung by a peasant going to his work at daybreak) will recollect the mention that is made of it there.

"Three days alone they bring him forth a spectacle to be

The feast of Pasch and the great day of the Nativity,

And on that morn more solemn yet when the maidens strip the bowers,
And gladden mosque and minaret with the first fruits of the flowers."

Depping, in his annotations to the ballad I am about to give you, mentions that a custom, and a belief similar to those commemorated Stanza 5th, are even at this time to be found extant among the Catholic peasantry of Southern Germany. In short, the morning of St John the Baptist's day seems to have been, and still to be regarded in many parts of Europe, in something like the same light with our own Allhallows Eve, the Scottish observances and superstitions connected with which have been so beautifully treated by Burns in his Halloween.

SONG FOR THE MORNING OF THE DAY OF ST JOHN THE BAPTIST.

COME forth, come forth, my maidens, 'tis the day of good St John,
It is the Baptist's morning that breaks the hills upon,

And let us all go forth together, while the blessed day is new,
To dress with flowers the snow white wether, ere the sun has dried the dew,

Come forth, come forth, &c.

Come forth, come forth, my maidens, the hedgerows all are green,
And the little birds are singing the opening leaves between,
And let us all go forth together, to gather trefoil by the stream,
Ere the face of Guadalquiver glows beneath the strengthening beam,
Come forth, come forth, &c.

VOL. VII.

2 K

Come forth, come forth, my maidens, and slumber not away
The blessed blessed morning of John the Baptist's day;
There's trefoil on the meadow, and lilies on the lee,

And hawthorn blossoms on the bush, which you must pluck with me,

Come forth, come forth, &c.

Come forth, come forth, my maidens, the air is calm and cool,
And the violet blue far down ye'll view, reflected in the pool;
The violets and the roses, and the jasmines all together,
We'll bind in garlands on the brow of the strong and lovely wether,
Come forth, come forth, &c.

Come forth, come forth, my maidens, we'll gather myrtle boughs,
And we all shall learn from the dews of the fern, if our lads will keep their vows.
If the wether be still, as we dance on the hill, and the dew hangs sweet on the

flowers,

Then well kiss off the dew, for our lovers are true, and the Baptist's blessing

is ours.*

Come forth, come forth, my maidens, 'tis the day of good St John,

It is the Baptist's morning that breaks the hills upon;

And let us all go forth together, while the blessed day is new,

To dress with flowers the snow white wether, ere the sun has dried the dew.

The next ballad I now send you has been selected out of a great number I have lying by me, because it contains another version of that same tragic story, which has already been made familiar to all English readers, by the ballad"Gentle river, gentle river,

** Now thy streams are stained with gore.”

It follows in the Romancero general, immediately after "Rio verde, rio verde," the original of that exquisite version; but the commentators observe that, from the style both of its versification and its structure, it is probably of a much more ancient date. As it gives the details much more fully, we may, perhaps, be permitted to believe, that it gives them more exactly. This much is certain, that the pass of Sierra Nevada is expressly mentioned by the author of the Historia de las guerres civiles de Grenada, as the scene of the catastrophe for it cannot, according to his account, or to the ballad which follows, be called the battle at which the gallant Alonzo of Aguilar lost his life.

THE DEATH OF DON ALONZO OF AGUILAR.

Fernando, King of Arragon, before Grenada lies,

With dukes and barons many a one, and champions of emprize;
With all the captains of Castille that serve his lady's crown,
He chaces Zagal from his gates, and plucks the crescent down.

The cross is reared upon the towers, for our Redeemer's sake;
The king assembles all his powers his triumph to partake,
Yet at the royal banquet there's trouble in his eye-

Now speak thy wish, it shall be done, great king, the lordlings cry.

Then spake Fernando, Hear, grandees! which of ye all will
And give my banner in the breeze of Alpuxar to blow?

Those heights along, the Moors are strong, now who, by dawn of day,
Will plant the cross their cliffs among, and drive the dogs away?

Then champion on champion high, and count on count doth look;
And faultering is the tongue of lord, and pale the cheek of duke;
Till starts up brave Alonzo, the knight of Aguilar,

The lowmost at the royal board, but foremost still in war.

"They enclose the wether in a hut of heath," says Depping," and if he remains quiet while the girl sings, all is well, but if he puts his horns through the frail wall or door, then the lover is false hearted."