And a day less or more

At sea or ashore,

We die-does it matter when?

Sink me the ship, Master Gunner-sink her, split her in twain!

Fall into the hands of God, not into the hands of Spain!"

And the gunner said "Ay, ay," but the seamen made reply:

"We have children, we have wives,

And the Lord hath spared our lives.

We will make the Spaniards promise, if we yield, to let

us go;

We shall live to fight again and to strike another blow!" And the lion there lay dying, and they yielded to the foe.

And the stately Spanish men to their flagship bore him then,

Where they laid him by the mast, old Sir Richard caught at last,

And they praised him to his face with their courtly foreign

grace;

But he rose upon their decks, and he cried:

"I have fought for Queen and Faith like a valiant man and true;

I have only done my duty as a man is bound to do:
With a joyful spirit I, Sir Richard Grenville, die!"

And he fell upon their decks, and he died.

And they stared at the dead that had been so valiant and true,

And had holden the power and glory of Spain so cheap

That he dared her with one little ship and his English few; Was he devil or man? He was devil for aught they knew, But they sank his body with honor down into the deep, And they mann'd the Revenge with a swarthier alien crew, And away she sail'd with her loss and long'd for her own; When a wind from the lands they had ruin'd awoke from sleep,

And the water began to heave and the weather to moan, And or ever that evening ended a great gale blew,

And a wave like the wave that is raised by an earthquake

grew,

Till it smote on their hulls and their sails and their masts and their flags,

And the whole sea plunged and fell on the shot-shatter'd navy of Spain,

And the little Revenge herself went down by the island

crags

To be lost evermore in the main.

MAGDALENA; OR, THE SPANISH DUEL

BY J. F. WALLER

Near the city of Sevilla,

Years and years ago—

Dwelt a lady in a villa

Years and years ago;—

And her hair was black as night,
And her eyes were starry bright;
Olives on her brow were blooming,
Roses red her lips perfuming,

And her step was light and airy
As the tripping of a fairy;

When she spoke, you thought each minute, 'Twas the trilling of a linnet;

When she sang, you heard a gush

Of full-voiced sweetness like a thrush;
And she struck from the guitar

Ringing music, sweeter far

Than the morning breezes make

Through the lime trees when they shake-
Than the ocean murmuring o'er

Pebbles on the foamy shore.
Orphaned both of sire and mother
Dwelt she in that lonely villa,
Absent now her guardian brother
On a mission from Sevilla.
Skills it little now the telling

How I wooed that maiden fair,
Tracked her to her lonely dwelling
And obtained an entrance there.
Ah! that lady of the villa!

And I loved her so,

Near the city of Sevilla,

Years and years ago.

"Twas an autumn eve; the splendor Of the day was gone,

And the twilight, soft and tender,

Stole so gently on

That the eye could scarce discover
How the shadows, spreading over,

Like a veil of silver gray,

Toned the golden clouds, sun-painted, Till they paled, and paled, and fainted

From the face of heaven away.

And a dim light rising slowly

O'er the welkin spread,

Till the blue sky, calm and holy,
Gleamed above our head.

Seated half within a bower

Where the languid evening breeze

Shook out odors in a shower

From oranges and citron trees,

Sang she from a romancero,

How a Moorish chieftain bold
Fought a Spanish caballero
By Sevilla's walls of old.

How they battled for a lady,

Fairest of the maids of SpainHow the Christian's lance, so steady, Pierced the Moslem through the brain.

Then she ceased-her black eyes moving,
Flashed, as asked she with a smile,—
"Say, are maids as fair and loving-
Men as faithful, in your isle?"

"British maids," I said, "are ever
Counted fairest of the fair;

Like the swans on yonder river
Moving with a stately air.

"Wooed not quickly, won not lightly

But, when won, forever true; Trial draws the bond more tightly, Time can ne'er the knot undo."

"And the men?"—"Ah! dearest lady,
Are quien sabe? who can say?
To make love they're ever ready,

When they can and where they may;

"Fixed as waves, as breezes steady In a changeful April dayComo brisas, como rios,

No se sabe, sabe Dios."

"Are they faithful?”—“Ah! quien sabe? Who can answer that they are? While we may we should be happy."

Then I took up her guitar,

And I sang in sportive strain,
A song to an old air of Spain.

As I sang the lady listened,
Silent save one gentle sigh;
When I ceased, a tear-drop glistened
On the dark fringe of her eye.

Then my heart reproved the feeling
Of that false and heartless strain
Which I sang in words concealing

What my heart would hide in vain.