Old Ballad, A. D. 1584.

One more glance at the golden tropic sea, and the golden tropic
evenings, by the shore of New Granada, in the golden Spanish Main.

The bay of Santa Marta is rippling before the land-breeze one sheet of
living flame. The mighty forests are sparkling with myriad fireflies.
The lazy mist which lounges round the inner hills shines golden in
the sunset rays; and, nineteen thousand feet aloft, the mighty peak of
Horqueta cleaves the abyss of air, rose-red against the dark-blue
vault of heaven. The rosy cone fades to a dull leaden hue; but only for
awhile. The stars flash out one by one, and Venus, like another moon,
tinges the eastern snows with gold, and sheds across the bay a long
yellow line of rippling light. Everywhere is glory and richness. What
wonder if the earth in that enchanted land be as rich to her inmost
depths as she is upon the surface? The heaven, the hills, the sea, are
one sparkling garland of jewels--what wonder if the soil be jewelled
also? if every watercourse and bank of earth be spangled with emeralds
and rubies, with grains of gold and feathered wreaths of native silver?

So thought, in a poetic mood, the Bishop of Cartagena, as he sat in
the state cabin of that great galleon, The City of the True Cross, and
looked pensively out of the window towards the shore. The good man was
in a state of holy calm. His stout figure rested on one easy-chair, his
stout ankles on another, beside a table spread with oranges and limes,
guavas and pine-apples, and all the fruits of Ind.

An Indian girl, bedizened with scarfs and gold chains, kept off the
flies with a fan of feathers; and by him, in a pail of ice from the
Horqueta (the gift of some pious Spanish lady, who had "spent" an Indian
or two in bringing down the precious offering), stood more than one
flask of virtuous wine of Alicant. But he was not so selfish, good man,
as to enjoy either ice or wine alone; Don Pedro, colonel of the soldiers
on board, Don Alverez, intendant of his Catholic majesty's customs at
Santa Marta, and Don Paul, captain of mariners in The City of the
True Cross, had, by his especial request, come to his assistance that
evening, and with two friars, who sat at the lower end of the table,
were doing their best to prevent the good man from taking too bitterly
to heart the present unsatisfactory state of his cathedral town, which
had just been sacked and burnt by an old friend of ours, S