“Red lips repeat the hero’s name,
    White hands are scattering flowers;
  Honor be his and deathless fame,
    And gratitude be ours!

  “Delightful land of orange blooms,
    Of chivalry and song,
  Whose memory the past perfumes—­
    O! how for thee I long!

  “Where’er may stray my wandering feet,
    I never will forget,
  Or Guadalquiver’s maidens sweet,
    Or merry castanet.

  “When sun, and moon, and stars turn pale,
    On Nature’s funeral pyre,
  O’er all Spain’s glory shall prevail,
    An eagle soaring higher.”

“You have well profited by your opportunities, Sir Christopher,” said Arundel, at its conclusion.  “By mine honor, such sweet and artful notes never waked the echoes of a mighty forest.  I seemed to mingle in the graceful fandango, and to taste the exhilarating Xeres in your song.”

“Ah!” replied the Knight, with a half sigh.  “It is only a reminiscence of youthful follies.  But now it is thy turn again.  I warrant me there is store of ravishing melodies in the treasury whence thou didst take thine.”

“I dare not,” said the young man modestly, “sing after thee.  My poor notes would sound like those of the croaking raven, in comparison with the warblings of the yellow minstrel of the Canaries.”

“Out with thee, hyperbolical flatterer!  Believe me—­I set a higher value on thy nature than on my art.  Come, pipe up once more, and I will, meanwhile, try to recall another ditty.”

“If such is to be my reward, I will not refuse, although I do thereby only expose my own incapacity.  Here is a serenade: 

  “I stand beneath thy window, love,
    To tell my pleasing pain: 
  O, flowers below, and stars above,
    Bear to her heart my strain! 
  Say that the charms of earth and sky
  Are waiting for her company,
  And all sweet things my fair invite,
  To rise and perfect make the night.

  “Yet, no!  I would no earthly sound
    Might mar that tranquil sleep,
  O’er which the angels, standing round,
    Admiring vigil keep. 
  With these bright guards I choose to share
  The watching of my jewel rare;
  For though their love may be divine,
  I know it cannot equal mine.

  “I see her as she chastely lies
    Upon the linen white;
  Was ne’er to man’s or angel’s eyes
    So beautiful a sight! 
  O, mark her bosom’s fall and swell,
  (Profane it were of more to tell.)
  While hover round her rose-leaf mouth,
  Sweets that excel the Arabian South.

  “Listen! she murmurs in her dreams,
    And music puts to shame: 
  O, can it be I she breathes, meseems,
    My too—­too happy name! 
  O cease, bliss-crowded heart, to beat
  So fast, lest like some India fleet
  Surcharged with spices, thou outright
  Founder, o’erfreighted with delight!”