me was the very name of Spain! I envied
the winds which blew towards it: And when the Spanish Sailor chaunted
some well-known air as He past my window, tears filled my eyes while I
thought upon my native land. Gonzalvo too ... My Husband ...'.

Elvira paused. Her voice faltered, and She concealed her face with her
handkerchief. After a short silence She rose from the Sopha, and
proceeded.

'Excuse my quitting you for a few moments: The remembrance of what I
have suffered has much agitated me, and I need to be alone. Till I
return peruse these lines. After my Husband's death I found them among
his papers; Had I known sooner that He entertained such sentiments,
Grief would have killed me. He wrote these verses on his voyage to
Cuba, when his mind was clouded by sorrow, and He forgot that He had a
Wife and Children.

What we are losing, ever seems to us the most precious: Gonzalvo was
quitting Spain for ever, and therefore was Spain dearer to his eyes
than all else which the World contained. Read them, Don Lorenzo; They
will give you some idea of the feelings of a banished Man!'

Elvira put a paper into Lorenzo's hand, and retired from the chamber.
The Youth examined the contents, and found them to be as follows.

THE EXILE

Farewell, Oh! native Spain! Farewell for ever!
These banished eyes shall view thy coasts no more;
A mournful presage tells my heart, that never
Gonzalvo's steps again shall press thy shore.

Hushed are the winds; While soft the Vessel sailing
With gentle motion plows the unruffled Main,
I feel my bosom's boasted courage failing,
And curse the waves which bear me far from Spain.

I see it yet! Beneath yon blue clear Heaven
Still do the Spires, so well beloved, appear;
From yonder craggy point the gale of Even
Still wafts my native accents to mine ear:

Propped on some moss-crowned Rock, and gaily singing,
There in the Sun his nets the Fisher dries;
Oft have I heard the plaintive Ballad, bringing
Scenes of past joys before my sorrowing eyes.

Ah! Happy Swain! He waits the accustomed hour,
When twilight-gloom obscures the closing sky;
Then gladly seeks his loved paternal bower,
And shares the feast his native fields supply:

Friendship and Love, his Cottage Guests, receive him
With honest welcome and with smile sincere;
No threatening woes of present joys bereave him,
No sigh his bosom owns, his cheek no tear.

Ah! Happy