Lace up my shoe;
          Put on my Basquina;
        Can you see my black eyes? 
          I am Manuel’s duchess.

  In front of the box of the Queen and the Duke
  Dolores sits, flirting her fan;
  The church of St. Agnes stands on the right,
  And its shadow falls on the picadors;
  On their lean steeds they prance in the ring,
  Hidalgo-fashion, their hands on their hips.

          “Ha!  Toro!  Toro!”
        Hoh! the horses are gored;
        Now for the men.
          “Ha!  Toro!  Toro!”
        Every man over the barrier!

  Not so; for there the bull-fighter stands;
  Some little applause from the royal box,
  And “Montez!  Montez!” from a thousand throats!

  The bull bows fine, though snorting with rage,
  His fore-leg makes little holes in the ground;
  But Montez stands still; his ribbons don’t flutter! 
      Saints, what a leap! 
  His rosette is on the bull’s black horn;
  Montez is pale; but his great eye shines
  When Dolores cries—­“Kisses for Montez!”
      Fie!  Manuel’s duchess!

  A minute longer the fight is done,
  The mule-bells tinkle, the bull rides off;
  Montez twirls a new diamond ring,
  And Dolores goes home for chocolate.

ON THE CAMPAGNA.

    Stop on the Appian Way,
    In the Roman Campagna;
      Stop at my tomb,
    The tomb of Cecilia Metella. 
      To-day as you see it,
    Alaric saw it, ages ago,
  When he, with his pale-visaged Goths,
    Sat at the gates of Rome,
    Reading his Runic shield. 
    Odin, thy curse remains!

    Beneath these battlements
  My bones were stirred with Roman pride,
  Though centuries before my Romans died
  Now my bones are dust; the Goths are dust. 
  The river-bed is dry where sleeps the king,
    My tomb remains!

  When Rome commanded the earth
    Great were the Metelli: 
    I was Metella’s wife;
    I loved him—­and I died. 
  Then with slow patience built he this memorial: 
    Each century marks his love.

    Pass by on the Appian Way
    The tomb of Cecilia Metella;
  Wild shepherds alone seek its shelter,
  Wild buffaloes tramp at its base. 
    Deep is its desolation,
    Deep as the shadow of Rome!

THE QUEEN DEPOSED.

  I was the queen of Karl, a northern king: 
    Amazon Olga, and I rode his Ban,
  A stallion in the royal ring
    Who would not bear a man.

  And in Ban’s saddle did I feel the pains
    For my first-born, the king’s sole hope, his heir;
  My Karl himself would loose the reins,
    Would take me up the stair.

  Low was the murmur of the royal troops
    Below, I saw the tapers’ twinkling light;
  I heard a cry—­“My queen, she droops!”
    Then fell eternal night.