As you "For the King." (NORTHERN MEXICO, 1640.) look from the plaza at Leon west You can see her house, but the view is best From the porch of the church where she lies at rest, Where much of her past still lives, I think, To the waxen saints that, yellow and lank, In the gouty pillars, whose cracks begin A soul of earth in a whitewashed skin. And I think that the moral of all, you'll say, "Por el Rey!" Well, the king is gone Shot-but the Rock of the Church lives on. VOL. I. "Por el Rey!" What matters, indeed, If king or president succeed To a country haggard with sloth and greed, As long as one granary is fat, And yonder priest, in a shovel hat, Peeps out from the bin like a sleek brown rat? What matters ? Nought, if it serves to bring Two hundred years ago, they say, Grave, as befitted Spain's grandee, Yet, from his black plume's curving grace Two hundred years ago-e'en so— The Marquis stopped where the lime-trees blow, While Leon's seneschal bent him low, And begged that the Marquis would that night take His humble roof for the royal sake, And then, as the custom demanded, spake The usual wish, that his guest would hold Be sure that the Marquis, in his place, Nor raised his head till his black plume swept And then (I know not how nor why) Burned through his lace and titled wreath, Burned through his body's jewelled sheath, Till it touched the steel of the man beneath! (And yet, mayhap, no more was meant Than to point a well-worn compliment, And the lady's beauty, her worst intent.) Howbeit, the Marquis bowed again : Be sure that night no pillow pressed Watched from the wall till he saw the square Fill with the moonlight, white and bare,Watched till he saw two shadows fare Out from his garden, where the shade Few words spoke the seneschal as he turned To his nearest sentry: "These monks have learned That stolen fruit is sweetly earned. "Myself shall punish yon acolyte Who gathers my garden grapes by night; Yet not till the sun was riding high Did the sentry meet his commander's eye, To the lovers of grave formalities The seneschal feared, as the wind was west, That cares of state, and-he dared to say- Had marred his rest. Yet he trusted much A theme so fine-the bride, perchance, Be sure that the seneschal, in turn, "Last night, to her father's dying bed By a priest was the lady summoned ; Nor know we yet how well she sped, "But hope for the best." The grave Viceroy (Though grieved his visit had such alloy) Must still wish the seneschal great joy Of a bride so true to her filial trust! "Nay," said the seneschal, "at least, To mend the news of this funeral priest, The Viceroy bowed. Then turned aside "And list! Should anything me befall, Mischance of ambush or musket-ball, Cleave to his saddle yon seneschal ! "No more." Then gravely in accents clear Took formal leave of his late good cheer; Whiles the seneschal whispered a musketeer, Carelessly stroking his pommel top: So these, with many a compliment, |