Everywhere the same silk rabble,
Gaily dress’d, and proudly nodding,
Like a bed of gorgeous tulips;
Different only are the sauces.
Whispers all the time and buzzing
Lull the senses like the poppy,
Till the sound of trumpets wakes us
From our state of chewing deafness.
Near me, by good luck, was sitting
Don Diego Albuquerque,
From whose lips the conversation
Flow’d in one unbroken torrent.
He with wondrous skill related
Bloody stories of the palace,
Of the times of old Don Pedro,
Whom they call’d the cruel monarch.
When I ask’d him why Don Pedro
Caused his brother Don Fredrego
To be secretly beheaded,
With a sigh my neighbour answer’d:
Ah, Señor! the tales believe not
Jingled on their vile guitars by
Balladsingers and muledrivers
In posadas, beershops, taverns.
And believe not what they chatter
Of the love of Don Fredrego
And Don Pedro’s wife so beauteous,
Donna Blanca of Bourbon.
’Twas not to the husband’s jealous
Feelings, but to his low envy
That as victim fell Fredrego,
Chief of Calatrava’s order.
For the crime Don Pedro never
Would forgive him, was his glory,—
Glory such as Donna Fama
Loves with trumpet-tongue to herald—
Never could Don Pedro pardon
His magnanimous high spirit,
Or the beauty of his person,
Which was but his spirit’s image.