SPANISH SONG. Air-Viva el Rey FERNANDO. The chains of Spain are breaking- Her standard o'er us arching Behold yon burning valley- Let them come, let them come! For vengeance and freedom rally, And, Spaniards! onward for Spain ! Remember, remember Barossa- And strike for the cause of Spain Remember your own Saragossa, And onward, onward for Spain ! The following little tale may serve to shew with what feeling and refinement of taste he entered into the spirit of our national melodies. It was designed as a characteristic introduction to the well-known and admired song,-" The "last Rose of Summer." "This is the grave of Dermid :-he was the best minstrel among us all,-a youth of a romantic genius, and of the most tremulous and yet the most impetuous feeling. He knew all our old national airs, of every character and description: according as his song was in a lofty or a mournful strain, the village represented a camp or a funeral; but if Dermid were in his merry mood, the lads and lasses were hurried into dance with a giddy and irresistible gaiety. One day our chieftain committed a cruel and wanton outrage against one of our peaceful villagers. Dermid's harp was in his hand when he heard it. With all the thoughtlessness and independent sensibility of a poet's indignation, he struck the chords that never spoke without response,-and the detestation became universal. He was driven from amongst us by our enraged chief; and all his relations, and the maid he loved, attended our banished minstrel into the wide world. For three years there were no tidings of Dermid, and the song and dance were silent; when one of our little boys came running in and told us that he saw Dermid approaching at a distance. Instantly the whole village was in commotion; the youths and maidens assembled in the green, and agreed to celebrate the arrival of their poet with a dance; they fixed upon the air he was to play for them; it was the merriest of his collection. The ring was formed;-all looked eagerly towards the quarter from which he was to arrive, determined to greet their favourite bard with a cheer. But they were checked the instant he appeared; he came slowly and languidly and loiteringly along ;his countenance had a cold, dim, and careless aspect, very different from that expressive tearfulness which marked his features, even in his more melancholy moments: his harp was swinging heavily upon his arm;-it seemed a burden to him; it was much shattered, and some of the strings were broken. He looked at us for a few moments,-then, relapsing into vacancy, advanced, without quickening his pace, to his accustomed stone, and sat down in silence. After a pause, we ventured to ask him for his friends-he first looked up sharply in our faces,-next, down upon his harp,-then struck a few notes of a wild and desponding melody, which we had never heard before; but his hand dropped, and he did not finish it. Again we paused-then, knowing well that if we could give the smallest mirthful impulse to his feelings, his whole soul would soon follow, we asked him for the merry air we had chosen. We were surprised at the readiness with which he seemed to comply;-but it was the same wild and heart-breaking strain he had commenced. In fact, we found that the soul of the minstrel had become an entire void, except one solitary ray, that vibrated sluggishly through its very darkest part: it was like the sea in a dark calm, which you only know to be in motion by the panting which you hear; he had totally forgotten every trace of his former strains, not only those that were more gay and airy, but even those of a more pensive cast; and he had got in their stead that one dreary, single melody; it was about a lonely rose that had outlived all his companions; this he continued singing and playing from day to day, until he spread an unusual gloom over the whole village: he seemed to perceive it, for he retired to the churchyard, and remained singing it there to the day of his death. The afflicted constantly repaired to hear it, and he died singing it to a maid who had lost her lover. The orphans have learnt it, and still chant it over poor Dermid's grave." Another of his favourite melodies was the popular Irish air, "Gramachree." He never heard it without being sensibly affected by its deep and tender expression; but he thought that no words had ever been written for it which came up to his idea of the peculiar pathos which pervades the whole strain. He said they all appeared to him to want individuality of feeling. At the desire of a friend he gave his own conception of it in these verses, which it seems hard to read, perhaps impossible to hear sung, without tears. |