yes,
And shaded her own:
This serge cloak stifled her sweet little cries,
When I kissed her mouth!

The pale olive trees on the distant plain,
The jagged blue rocks,
The vaporous sea-like mountain chain,
Dropped into the night.

We saw the lights in the palace flare;
The musicians played:
The red guards slashed and sabred the stair,
And cursed the old king.

In the long black shade of the palace wall,
We sat the night through;
Under my cloak--but I cannot tell all--
The queen may have seen!

MERCEDES.

Under a sultry, yellow sky,
On the yellow sand I lie;
The crinkled vapors smite my brain,
I smoulder in a fiery pain.

Above the crags the condor flies;
He knows where the red gold lies,
He knows where the diamonds shine;--
If I knew, would she be mine?

Mercedes in her hammock swings;
In her court a palm-tree flings
Its slender shadow on the ground,
The fountain falls with silver sound.

Her lips are like this cactus cup;
With my hand I crush it up;
I tear its flaming leaves apart;--
Would that I could tear her heart!

Last night a man was at her gate;
In the hedge I lay in wait;
I saw Mercedes meet him there,
By the fireflies in her hair.

I waited till the break of day,
Then I rose and stole away;
But left my dagger in the gate;--
Now she knows her lover's fate!

THE BULL-FIGHT.

Eleven o'clock:
Here are our cups of chocolate.
Montez will fight the bulls to-day--
All Madrid knows that:
Queen Christina is going in state:
Dolores will go with her little fan!

Lace up my shoe;
Put on my Basquina;
Can you see my black eyes?
I am Manuel's duchess.

In front of the box of the Queen and the Duke
Dolores sits, flirting her fan;
The church of St. Agnes stands on the right,
And its shadow falls on the picadors;
On their lean steeds they prance in the ring,
Hidalgo-fashion, their hands on their hips.

"_Ha! Toro! Toro!_"
Hoh! the horses are gored;
Now for the men.
"_Ha! Toro! Toro!_"
Every man over the barrier!

Not so; for there the bull-fighter stands;
Some little applause from the royal box,
And "_Montez! Montez!_" from a thousand throats!

The bull bows fine, though snorting with rage,
His fore-leg makes little holes in the