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Can such offence your anger wake ?
’T was beauty caused the bold mistake;
Those cherry lips that breathe perfume,
That cheek so ripe with youthful bloom,
Made me with strong desire pursue
The fairest peach that ever grew.”
“ Strike him not, Jenny,” Doris cries,
“ Nor murder wasps like vulgar flies ;
For though he's free, to do him right,
The creature's civil and polite.”
In ecstasies away he posts,
Where'er he goes, the favour boasts ;
Brags how her sweetest tea he sips,
And shews the sugar on his lips:
The hint alarmed the forward crew;
Sure of success, away they flew :
They share the dainties of the day,–
Round her with airy music play;
And now they flutter, now they rest,
Now soar again, and skim her breast:

Nor were they banished, till she found · That wasps have stings—and felt the wound.




Oh no- it never crossed my heart

To think of thee with love, For we are severed far apart

As earth and the sky above; And though in many a midnight dream Ye’ve prompted fancy's brightest theme, I never thought that you could be More than that midnight dream to me.

A something bright and beautiful

Which I must teach me to forget,
Ere I can turn to meet the dull

Realities that linger yet. A something girt with summer flowers, And laughing eyes and sunny hours; While I - too well I know will be Not even a midnight dream to thee!



It was one of those clear, bright days, peculiar to a Spanish summer, when the deep blue skies seem to reflect their warmth of radiance over the earth; a slumberous influence hung over the tranquil streets of Madrid, and although it was still early in the morning, the fervid rays of the sun gave a certain indication of the meridian power he was about to display in a few hours.

Such was the day appropriated for the splendid and soul-stirring celebration of a bull-fight; and accordingly, the inhabitants soon began, by an unusual bustle, to evince the absorbing interest they are accustomed to take in this favourite amusement. Before the hour of nine, the beautiful street of Alcala was thronged with a promiscuous multitude, eager to witness the first exhibition of the morning; the Spanish bull-fight being in fact composed of two acts, if I may so term them, the morning and the evening encounters.

On such days, a general cessation of labour takes place throughout the city, and the whole population is occupied with speculations on the approaching festival. On the morning in question, the inhabitants of Madrid, the lower classes in particular, attired in their holiday finery, began at an early hour to issue from their narrow and obscure dormitories, and, with tolerably cleanly appearance and much importance of demeanour, to take up a position in that famous Puerta del sol which, on less momentous occasions, seems destined only as a lounge for all the ennuyés, news-hunters, and petit-maitres of Madrid. The Manolos, too, began to congregate in great numbers, casting around those terrible glances of recklessness and conscious courage, which, in the esti. mation of foreigners, are the certain prognostics of as many concealed daggers.

I soon made up my mind to add one to the vast concourse now on the alert to witness this grand and terrific spectacle, although, for many reasons, I prudently resolved to postpone my share of the entertainment until the evening.

It is at this hour that the higher classes prefer visiting the arena: a number of the more desperate amateurs, however, regardless of the influence of a meridian sun, do not hesitate to present themselves at the morning exhibitions.

At about four in the afternoon, the Calle de Alcala was, if possible, more crowded than it had been in the morning. This majestic street, which commands a full view of the superb triumphal arch which bears its name,

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