THE SPANISH GYPSY. George Eliot (in propria persona). 'TIS the warm South, where Europe spreads her lands Has come the time of sweet serenity When colour glows unglittering, and the soul As that of lovers trusting though apart. The ripe-cheeked fruits, the crimson-petalled flowers; Each lovely light-dipped thing seems to emerge And still the light is changing high above JUAN'S SONG. DAY is dying! Float, O song, Requiem chanting to the Day— Day, the mighty Giver. Pierced by shafts of Time he bleeds, Melted rubies sending Through the river and the sky, Earth and heaven blending; |