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ease my heart and plant a sting in thine.

      The lion's roar, the fierce wolf's savage howl,

      The horrid hissing of the scaly snake,

      The awesome cries of monsters yet unnamed,

      The crow's ill-boding croak, the hollow moan

      Of wild winds wrestling with the restless sea,

      The wrathful bellow of the vanquished bull,

      The plaintive sobbing of the widowed dove,

      The envied owl's sad note, the wail of woe

      That rises from the dreary choir of Hell,

      Comming led in one sound, confusing sense,

      Let all these come to aid my soul's complaint,

      For pain like mine demands new modes of song.

      No echoes of that discord shall be heard

      Where Father Tagus rolls, or on the banks

      Of olive-bordered Betis; to the rocks

      Or in deep caverns shall my plaint be told,

      And by a lifeless tongue in living words;

      Or in dark valleys or on lonely shores,

      Where neither foot of man nor sunbeam falls;

      Or in among the poison-breathing swarms

      Of monsters nourished by the sluggish Nile.

      For, though it be to solitudes remote

      The hoarse vague echoes of my sorrows sound

      Thy matchless cruelty, my dismal fate

      Shall carry them to all the spacious world.

      Disdain hath power to kill, and patience dies

      Slain by suspicion, be it false or true;

      And deadly is the force of jealousy;

      Long absence makes of life a dreary void;

      No hope of happiness can give repose

      To him that ever fears to be forgot;

      And death, inevitable, waits in hall.

      But I, by some strange miracle, live on

      A prey to absence, jealousy, disdain;

      Racked by suspicion as by certainty;

      Forgotten, left to feed my flame alone.

      And while I suffer thus, there comes no ray

      Of hope to gladden me athwart the gloom;

      Nor do I look for it in my despair;

      But rather clinging to a cureless woe,

      All hope do I abjure for evermore.

      Can there be hope where fear is? Were it well,

      When far more certain are the grounds of fear?

      Ought I to shut mine eyes to jealousy,

      If through a thousand heart-wounds it appears?

      Who would not give free access to distrust,

      Seeing disdain unveiled, and—bitter change!—

      All his suspicions turned to certainties,

      And the fair truth transformed into a lie?

      Oh, thou fierce tyrant of the realms of love,

      Oh, Jealousy! put chains upon these hands,

      And bind me with thy strongest cord, Disdain.

      But, woe is me! triumphant over all,

      My sufferings drown the memory of you.

      And now I die, and since there is no hope

      Of happiness for me in life or death,

      Still to my fantasy I'll fondly cling.

      I'll say that he is wise who loveth well,

      And that the soul most free is that most bound

      In thraldom to the ancient tyrant Love.

      I'll say that she who is mine enemy

      In that fair body hath as fair a mind,

      And that her coldness is but my desert,

      And that by virtue of the pain he sends

      Love rules his kingdom with a gentle sway.

      Thus, self-deluding, and in bondage sore,

      And wearing out the wretched shred of life

      To which I am reduced by her disdain,

      I'll give this soul and body to the winds,

      All hopeless of a crown of bliss in store.

      Thou whose injustice hath supplied the cause

      That makes me quit the weary life I loathe,

      As by this wounded bosom thou canst see

      How willingly thy victim I become,

      Let not my death, if haply worth a tear,

      Cloud the clear heaven that dwells in thy bright eyes;

      I would not have thee expiate in aught

      The crime of having made my heart thy prey;

      But rather let thy laughter gaily ring

      And prove my death to be thy festival.

      Fool that I am to bid thee! well I know

      Thy glory gains by my untimely end.

      And now it is the time; from Hell's abyss

      Come thirsting Tantalus, come Sisyphus

      Heaving the cruel stone, come Tityus

      With vulture, and with wheel Ixion come,

      And come the sisters of the ceaseless toil;

      And all into this breast transfer their pains,

      And (if such tribute to despair be due)

      Chant in their deepest tones a doleful dirge

      Over a corse unworthy of a shroud.

      Let the three-headed guardian of the gate,

      And all the monstrous progeny of hell,

      The doleful concert join: a lover dead

      Methinks can have no fitter obsequies.

      Lay of despair, grieve not when thou art gone

      Forth from this sorrowing heart: my misery

      Brings fortune to the cause that gave thee birth;

      Then banish sadness even in the tomb.

      {verse

      The "Lay of Chrysostom" met with the approbation of the listeners, though the reader said it did not seem to him to agree with what he had heard of Marcela's reserve and propriety, for Chrysostom complained in it of jealousy, suspicion, and absence, all to the prejudice of the good name and fame of Marcela; to which Ambrosio replied as one who knew well his friend's most secret thoughts, "Senor, to remove that doubt I should tell you that when the unhappy man wrote this lay he was away from Marcela, from whom he had voluntarily separated himself, to try if absence would act with him as it is wont; and as everything distresses and every fear haunts the banished lover, so imaginary jealousies and suspicions, dreaded as if they were true, tormented Chrysostom; and thus the truth of what report declares of the virtue of Marcela remains unshaken, and with her envy itself should not and cannot find any fault save that of being cruel, somewhat haughty, and very scornful."

      "That is true,"

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