* * * * *

One glorious morn, it so befell,
I heard the tale which I shall tell,
At that Posada dark and grey
Which stands upon the mountain way,
Between Caracas and the sea;
So grim--so dark--it seem'd to me
Fit place for deed of guilt or sin--
Tho' peaceful peasants dwelt therein.

At midnight we, (my friends and I,)
Beneath a tranquil tropic sky,
Bestrode our mules and onward rode,
Behind the guide who swiftly strode
Up the dark mountain side; while we
With many a jest and repartee--
With jingling swords, and spurs, and bits--
Made trial of our youthful wits.
Ah! we were gay, for we were young
And care had never on us flung--
But, to my tale: the purple sky
Was thick overlaid with burning stars,
And oft the breeze that murmur'd by,
Brought dreamy tones from soft guitars,
Until we sank in silence deep.
It was a night for thought not sleep--
It was a night for song and love--
The burning planets shone above--