 | 1. |
|
|
| 1. |
| 2. |
|
|
|
| 1. |
| 2. |
| 3. |
| 4. |
AT THE CORREGIDOR'S |
| 2. |
|
|
| 1. |
| 1. |
| 2. |
| 3. |
| 4. |
| 5. |
| 6. |
| 7. |
| 8. |
| 9. |
| 10. |
| 11. |
| 12. |
| 13. |
| 14. |
| 15. |
| 16. |
| 17. |
| 18. |
| 2. |
| 1. |
| 2. |
| 3. |
| 4. |
| 5. |
| 6. |
| 7. |
| 8. |
| 9. |
| 10. |
| 11. |
| 12. |
| 13. |
| 14. |
| 15. |
| 16. |
| 17. |
| 3. |
| 1. |
| 2. |
| 3. |
| 4. |
| 5. |
| 6. |
| 7. |
| 8. |
| 9. |
| 10. |
| 11. |
| 12. |
| 4. |
| 1. |
| 2. |
| 3. |
| 4. |
| 5. |
| 6. |
| 7. |
| 8. |
| 9. |
| 10. |
| 5. |
| 1. |
| 2. |
| 3. |
| 4. |
| 5. |
| 6. |
| 7. |
| 8. |
| 9. |
|
| 1. |
| 2. |
| 3. |
| 4. |
| 5. |
| 6. |
|
| 1. |
| 2. |
| 3. |
| 4. |
| 5. |
| 6. |
| 7. |
| 8. |
| 9. |
| 10. |
| 11. |
| 12. |
| 13. |
| 14. |
| 15. |
| 16. |
| 17. |
| 18. |
| 19. |
| 20. |
| 21. |
| 22. |
| 23. |
|
| 1. |
| 2. |
| 3. |
| 4. |
| 5. |
| 6. |
| 7. |
|
| 1. |
| 2. |
| 3. |
| 4. |
|
| 3. |
|
|
| 1. |
| 2. |
| 3. |
| 4. |
|
|
|
| 1. |
| 2. |
| 3. |
|
|
| 1. |
| 2. |
| 3. |
|
| 1. |
| 2. |
| 3. |
| 4. |
| 4. |
|
|
| 1. |
| 2. |
|
|
| 1. |
| 2. |
|
|
| 1. |
| 2. |
| 3. |
| 4. |
| 5. |
| 6. |
| 7. |
| 8. |
| 5. |
|
|
| 1. |
| 2. |
| 3. |
| 4. |
| 5. |
| 6. |
| 7. |
| 8. |
| 9. |
| 10. |
| 11. |
| 12. |
| 13. |
| 14. |
| 15. |
| 16. |
| 17. |
| 18. |
| 19. |
| 20. |
| 21. |
| 22. |
| 23. |
| 24. |
| 25. |
| 26. |
| 27. |
| 28. |
| 29. |
| 30. |
| 31. |
| 32. |
| 33. |
| 34. |
| 35. |
| 36. |
| 37. |
| 38. |
| 39. |
| 40. |
| 41. |
| 42. |
| 43. |
| 44. |
| 45. |
| 46. |
| 47. |
| 48. |
| 49. |
| 50. |
| 51. |
| 52. |
| 53. |
| 54. |
| 55. |
| 56. |
| 57. |
| 58. |
| 59. |
| 60. |
| 61. |
| 62. |
| 63. |
| 64. |
| 65. |
| 66. |
| 67. |
|
|
| 1. |
| 2. |
| 3. |
| 4. |
| 5. |
| 6. |
| 7. |
| 8. |
| 9. |
| 10. |
| 11. |
| 12. |
| 13. |
| 14. |
| 15. |
|
 | The poems of Madison Cawein |  |
437
AT THE CORREGIDOR'S
The young advocate Don Sebastian Lopez, between three pinches of snuff, lays the facts of the case before his friend, Don Emanuel de Cordova, chief magistrate of the City of Valladolid.
To Don Odora said Donna De Vine,
“I yield to thy long endeavor!—
At my balcony be on the stroke of nine,
And, Señor, I'm thine forever!” . . .
“I yield to thy long endeavor!—
At my balcony be on the stroke of nine,
And, Señor, I'm thine forever!” . . .
This beauty at first had the Don descried
As she quit the confessional: followed:
“What a face! what a form! what a foot!” he sighed,
And more that he, smiling, swallowed.
As she quit the confessional: followed:
“What a face! what a form! what a foot!” he sighed,
And more that he, smiling, swallowed.
And with vows as soft as his oaths were sweet
Her heart he barricaded;
And pressed this point with a present meet,
And that point serenaded.
Her heart he barricaded;
And pressed this point with a present meet,
And that point serenaded.
438
What else could the enemy do but yield
To such handsome importuning?
A gallant blade with a lute for shield
All night at her lattice mooning!
To such handsome importuning?
A gallant blade with a lute for shield
All night at her lattice mooning!
“Que es estrella! thou star of all girls!
Here's that for thy fierce duenna:
A purse of pistoles and a rosary o' pearls,
And gold as yellow as henna.
Here's that for thy fierce duenna:
A purse of pistoles and a rosary o' pearls,
And gold as yellow as henna.
“She will drop from thy balcony's rail, my sweet,
My seraph! this silken ladder:
And then—sweet then!—my soul at thy feet,
What angel in Heaven gladder!”
My seraph! this silken ladder:
And then—sweet then!—my soul at thy feet,
What angel in Heaven gladder!”
And the end of it was—But I will not say
How he won to the room of the lady.—
Ah! to love is to live! and with youth—why, hey!
For the rest,—a maravedi!
How he won to the room of the lady.—
Ah! to love is to live! and with youth—why, hey!
For the rest,—a maravedi!
Now comes her betrothed from the wars; and he,
A Count of the Court Castilian,
A Don Diabolus! sword at knee,
And face and hair—vermilion.
A Count of the Court Castilian,
A Don Diabolus! sword at knee,
And face and hair—vermilion.
439
And his is a jealous love; and—for
The story grows sadder and sadder—
He watches, and sees—a robber? to her,
Or gallant? ascend a ladder.
The story grows sadder and sadder—
He watches, and sees—a robber? to her,
Or gallant? ascend a ladder.
So he pushes inquiry into her room;
With his naked sword demanding:
An alguazil, with a face like doom,
Sure of a stout withstanding.
With his naked sword demanding:
An alguazil, with a face like doom,
Sure of a stout withstanding.
And weapon to weapon they foined and fought:
The Count's first thrusts were vicious:
Three thrusts to the floor Odora had brought:
And one through the white, capricious.
The Count's first thrusts were vicious:
Three thrusts to the floor Odora had brought:
And one through the white, capricious.
The naked bosom of Donna De Vine—
And this is the Count's condition. . . .
Was he right? was he wrong?—the question is mine;—
To judge—for the Inquisition.
And this is the Count's condition. . . .
Was he right? was he wrong?—the question is mine;—
To judge—for the Inquisition.
| The poems of Madison Cawein | |