THE GOOD PART,

THAT SHALL NOT BE TAKEN AWAY.

SHE dwells by Great Kenhawa's side,
In valleys green and cool;
And all her hope and all her pride
Are in the village school.

Her soul, like the transparent air

That robes the hills above, Though not of earth, encircles there All things with arms of love.

And thus she walks among her girls
With praise and mild rebukes;
Subduing e'en rude village churls
By her angelic looks.

She reads to them at eventide
Of One who came to save;
To cast the captive's chains aside
And liberate the slave.

And oft the blessed time foretells When all men shall be free; And musical, as silver bells,

Their falling chains shall be.

And following her beloved Lord,
In decent poverty,

She makes her life one sweet record
And deed of charity.

For she was rich, and gave up all
To break the iron bands
Of those who waited in her hall,
And labored in her lands.

Long since beyond the Southern Sea
Their outbound sails have sped,
While she, in meek humility,
Now earns her daily bread.

It is their prayers, which never cease,
That clothe her with such grace;
Their blessing is the light of peace
That shines upon her face.

THE SLAVE IN THE DISMAL SWAMP.

In dark fens of the Dismal Swamp
The hunted Negro lay;

He saw the fire of the midnight camp,
And heard at times a horse's tramp

And a bloodhound's distant bay.

Don C. She is a Gypsy girl. Lara. The easier.

Don C.

You forget

And therefore won

Nay, not to be won at all! The only virtue that a Gypsy prizes Is chastity. That is her only virtue. Dearer than life she holds it. I remember

A Gypsy woman, a vile, shameless bawd, Whose craft was to betray the young and fair;

And yet this woman was above all bribes. And when a noble lord, touched by her beauty,

The wild and wizard beauty of her race, Offered her gold to be what she made others,

She turned upon him, with a look of

scorn,

As beautiful as a saint's in Paradise. Lara. May not a saint fall from her Paradise,

And be no more a saint?

Don C.
Why do you ask?
Lara. Because I have heard it said
this angel fell,

And though she is a virgin outwardly,
Within she is a sinner; like those panels
Of doors and altar-pieces the old monks
Painted in convents, with the Virgin
Mary

On the outside, and on the inside Venus! Don C. You do her wrong; indeed, you do her wrong!

She is as virtuous as she is fair.

Lara. How credulous you are! Why

look you, friend, There's not a virtuous woman in Madrid, In this whole city! And would you persuade me

That a mere dancing-girl, who shows herself,

Nightly, half naked, on the stage, for money,

And with voluptuous motions fires the blood

Of inconsiderate youth, is to be held
A model for her virtue?

Holds something sacred, something un

defiled,

Some pledge and keepsake of her higher nature,

And, like the diamond in the dark, retains

Some quenchless gleam of the celestial light!

Lara. Yet Preciosa would have taken the gold.

Don C. (rising). I do not think so.
Lara.
I am sure of it.
But why this haste? Stay yet a little
longer.

And fight the battles of your Dulcinea.
Don C. 'Tis late. I must begone,
for if I stay
You will not be persuaded.
Lara.
Yes; persuade me.
Don C. No one so deaf as he who will
not hear!

Lara. No one so blind as he who will
not see!

Don C. And so good night. I wish you pleasant dreams,

And greater faith in woman. [Exit. Lara. Greater faith! I have the greatest faith; for I believe Victorian is her lover. I believe

after

Fran.

None, my lord.

SCENE II. - A street in Madrid. Enter CHISPA, followed by musicians, with a bagpipe, guitars, and other instruments.

Chispa. Abernuncio Satanas! and a plague on all lovers who ramble about at night, drinking the elements, instead of sleeping quietly in their beds. Every dead man to his cemetery, say I; and every friarto his monastery. Now, here's my master, Victorian, yesterday a cowkeeper, and to-day a gentleman; yesterday a student, and to-day a lover; and I must be up later than the nightingale, for as the abbot sings so must the sacristan respond. God grant he may soon be married, for then shall all this serenading cease. Ay, marry marry! marry! Mother, what does marry mean? It means to spin, to bear children, and to weep, my daughter! And, of a truth, there is something more in matrimony than the wedding-ring. (To the musicians.) And now, gentlemen, Pax vobiscum! as the ass said to the cabbages. Pray, walk this way; and don't lang down your heads. It is no disgrace to have an old father and a ragged shirt.

lead the life of crickets; you enjoy hunger by day and noise by night. Yet, I beseech you, for this once be not loud, but pathetic; for it is a serenade to a damsel in bed, and not to the Man in the Moon. Your object is not to arouse and terrify, but to soothe and bring lulling dreams. Therefore, each shall not play upon his instrument as if it were the only one in the universe, but gently, and with a certain modesty, according with the others. Pray, how may I call thy name, friend?

First Mus. Gerónimo Gil, at your service.

Chispa. Every tub smells of the wine that is in it. Pray, Gerónimo, is not Saturday an unpleasant day with thee? First Mus. Why so?

Chispa. Because I have heard it said that Saturday is an unpleasant day with those who have but one shirt. Moreover, I have seen thee at the tavern, and if thou canst run as fast as thou canst drink, I should like to hunt hares with thee. What instrument is that?

First Mus. An Aragonese bagpipe. Chispa. Pray, art thou related to the bagpiper of Bujalance, who asked maravedí for playing, and ten for leav ing off?

a

What other

First Mus. No, your honor. Chispa. I am glad of it. instruments have we?

Second and Third Musicians.

play the bandurria.

We

Chispa. A pleasing instrument. And thou?

Fourth Mus. The fife.

Chispa. I like it; it has a cheerful, soul-stirring sound, that soars up to my lady's window like the song of a swallow. And you others?

Other Mus. We are the singers, please your honor.

Chispa. You are too many. Do you think we are going to sing mass in the cathedral of Córdova? Four men can make but little use of one shoe, and I see not how you can all sing in one song. But follow me along the garden wall. That is the way my master climbs to the lady's window. It is by the Vicar's skirts that the Devil climbs into the belfry. Come, follow me, and make no noise.

[Exuent.