1832.] The Refugee. 669 



Cast on the shore for pilfering slaves to spoil, &3o 



Blasting their glories with the shames of Spain. 

 I go too far, I wrong your hospitality : 

 I should be more contented. I owe much 

 To England ; but I've now no country. 



EARL. True! 



But immortality has given such names 

 To all ages, and all lands ; and such is yours. 



RIBIERO. Thanks, my lord. 



CONDE. I remember that a friend 



Of mine, an Englishman, praised once a song, 

 With which, upon our lonely bivouac 

 In the French war, near Salamanca, once 

 I wiled away the night poor Leveson ! 

 He fell next day. 



JULIA. What is it? 



CONDE. You shall hear. 



JULIA. Your lute is by your hand, you looked for it. 



CONDE. Yes, it will aid a rough voice. 



JULIA. You play well. 



. . 



The C etude's Song. 



May I not tell, oh ! gently tell, 



Feelings so kind, so pure, so true ? 

 What means the silent, fearful spell, 



That prompts, yet checks me, when I'd sue ? 



Oh read, then read, my burning cheek, 



Are mine eyes dumb ? how unlike thine ! 

 Of love, of hope, of heaven they speak 



Does nothing answer them in mine ? 



The cork-tree waveth silently, 



In the soft sighing breeze of night, 

 Fair Seville's towers pensively 



Shadow the placid moon's pale light. 



My soul is full of love and thee, 



Even nature hallows the firm spell, 

 And will not nature plead for me, 



When to my heart it speaks so well ? 



JULIA. 'Tis fanciful. 



RIBEIRO. And fancifully sung. 



EARL. Why, yes; the Conde is young, and half believes 

 Love's dreams realities. 



CONDI;. Are ihey not so? 



