HELEN BARRON BOSTWICK.

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THE BEDOUIN’S REBUKE.

    A Bedouin of true honor, good Nebar,
    Possessed a horse whose fame was spread afar;
    No other horse was half so proud and strong;
    His feet were like the north wind swept along;
    In his curved neck, and in his flashing eye,
    You saw the harbingers of victory.

    So, many came to Nebar day by day,
    And longed to take his noble horse away;
    Large sums they offered, and with grace besought. 
    But, all in vain; the horse could not be bought.

    With these came Daher, of another tribe,
    To see if he might not the owner bribe;
    Yet purposeless,—­no money, skill, nor breath
    Could part the owner from his horse till death.

    Then Daher, who was subtle, mean, and sly,
    Concluded, next, some stratagem to try;
    So, clothed in rags, and masked in form and face,
    He as a beggar walked with limping pace,
    And, meeting Nebar with the horse one day,
    He fell, and prostrate on the desert lay.

    The ruse succeeded; for, when Nebar found
    A helpless man in sorrow on the ground,
    He took him up, and on the noble steed
    Gave him a place; but what a thankless deed! 
    For Daher shouted, laughed, and, giving rein,
    Said, “You will never see your horse again!”

    “Take him,” said Nebar, “but, for Mercy’s sake,
    Tell no man in what way you choose to take,
    Lest others, seeing what has happened me,
    Omit to do some needed charity.” 
    Pierced by these words, the robber’s keen remorse
    Thwarted his plan, and he returned the horse,
    Shame-faced and sorrowful; then slunk away
    As if he feared the very light of day!

ANON.

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FROM “THE LORD OF BUTRAGO.”

    Your horse is faint, my King, my lord! your gallant horse is sick,—­
    His limbs are torn, his breast is gored, on his eye the film is thick;
    Mount, mount on mine, O mount apace, I pray thee, mount and fly! 
    Or in my arms I’ll lift your Grace,—­their trampling hoofs are nigh!

    My King, my King! you’re wounded sore,—­the blood runs from your feet;
    But only lay a hand before, and I’ll lift you to your seat;
    Mount, Juan, for they gather fast!—­I hear their coming cry,—­
    Mount, mount, and ride for jeopardy,—­I’ll save you, though I die!

    Stand, noble steed! this hour of need,—­be gentle as a lamb;
    I’ll kiss the foam from off thy mouth,—­thy master dear I am,—­
    Mount, Juan, mount; whate’er betide, away the bridle fling,
    Drive on, drive on with utmost speed,—­My horse shall save my King!

LOCKART’S Spanish Ballads.

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