guitars and Moorish roundelay mingled with cigarra's voice and warbling nightingale!
The task is vain. The wayward pen is powerless to describe the thousand varied beauties of this Paradise—the charming Lanjaron.
But even the contemplation of natural beauty must cease in deference to the sterner calls of eating, drinking, and sleeping. There is no hotel at Lanjaron—not even a venta, or a casa di pupilos, only a posada. Do not fear to enter that posada—you shall come to no harm. There, in an enormous shed, elevated with Arab arches, and fretted with carved arabesques, amidst scores of donkeys, mules, and horses, pedlars, gipsies, gentlemen of the capa parda and long gun—highwaymen perhaps, or professed bull-fighters — slip your saddles, unpack your beds, eat and drink whatever you have got, or whatever you can get, go to sleep and dream of Lanjaron. Don't fear that black-looking gentleman in the corner; he may be a cut-throat—he may be one of the Cuadrilla of bull-fighters on thmr way to Granada. In the mountain, had he met you, possibly you would have been considered fair game, but you are sacred under this roof, so take your rest!
THE DRUID PRIESTESS.
FROM THE DANISH OF HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN.
By Mrs. Bushby.
Within yon consecrated grove 'tis night,
And all is ready for the sacred rite;
Red flames are flashing midst the foliage round,
Whilst solemn chaunts through the calm air resound.
Beyond the holy altar's rustic pile,
The silent-fettered victim stands the while.
All now is still—
And the mate priestess comes, prepared to kill
The destined offering, and her task fulfil.
Yes! as bright Freia, beautiful is she;
From human feeling is she also free?
Calm is the gaze of that dark lustrous eye.
But from the heart escapes a struggling sigh;
The victim starts as if from some deep trance.
And casts on her a speaking, burning glance.
The cold steel gleams—
And now it strikes, and forth his red blood streams,
While Freia's self, to him, the lovely priestess seems!
