670 The Refugee,. [JUNE, 



EARL. Credulity in them grows not with age, 

 We break the spell at fifty. Why, what a crowd 

 Of things impossible, are in your song! 



CONDE. Aye, you may banter, but as once I heard it, 

 You had yielded to its magic, and believed 

 That, and a thousand times as much, for her 

 Who sung it. Twas a black-eyed rnaid, so pale, 

 So gently thoughtful with a low soft voice, 

 That you would list to as sweet bells far off, 

 When the night wind just wafts their holy sound. 

 She took the veil soon after : as I think, 

 'Twas the last song of earth she ever sung. 



JULIA. She took the veil ! poor girl ! 



EARL. How Julia pities 



So hard a fortune ! 



CONDE. 'Twas an eve of which 



This somewhat may remind me but the air 

 Of eve in Spain Where was I ? We were seated 

 In a balcony, I was then a stripling, 

 Some three or four joyous yet gentle girls, 

 This pale one, and a reckless youth, who smiled 

 As her eye fell upon his, with a meaning 

 I knew not, yet remembered her look fell, 

 Nor sung nor said she more and I've since thought 

 'Twas the last breathing of a passionate heart, 

 That murmured in that song. 



JULIA. And he regarded not? 



CONDE. No. 



EARL. That was dull of him, eh, Julia ? 



'Twas not yourself, Conde ? 



CONDE. No, thank Heaven, I sported 



With gayer triflers ; for I was gay then, 

 Young, full of hope, one to whom chivalry 

 Comprised existence. Gallantry and fame 

 My idol and my care. 



EARL. You're yet that boy, Conde. 



CONDE. Oh that I were ! that I could once more dwell 

 Among such beauteous visions, such fair truths ! 

 To live in the romance of my own land, 

 My own beloved Spain ! Oh ! to recal 

 Its skies, its hills, its waters, its bright clime, 

 Its old accustomed manners, charities 

 Of native country, and of infant home ; 

 Its songs, its loves, its sorrows, and its mirths ! 

 I am a banished man. * * * 



