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JOSE DE ESPRONCEDA.
And joyful he to see her flies,
And seeks to reach her, but in vain;
For as with anxious hands he tries
His hoped-for bliss to gain,
The illusion suddenly to break,
He finds the dream deceitful fled!
A cold stiff corpse the shape to take,
And scaffold in its stead.
And hears the mournful funeral knoll,
And hollow voice resounding nigh,
"Your alms, for prayers to rest the soul
Of him condemn'd to die!"
THE SONG OF THE PIRATE.
The breeze fair aft, all sails on high,
Ten guns on each side mounted seen,
She does not cut the sea, but fly,
A swiftly sailing brigantine;
A pirate bark, the 'Dreaded' named,
For her surpassing boldness famed,
On every sea well known and shore,
From side to side their boundaries o'er.
