From the dim road before you rise;
And such were group'd in circles round
Playing at monte on the ground;
Each swarthy face that met my eye
To thought of honesty gave lie.
In each fierce orb there was a spark
That few would care to see by dark--
And many a sash I saw gleam thro'
The keen _cuchillo_ into view.
Within; the place was rude enough--
The walls of clay--in color buff--
A pictur'd saint--a cross or so--
A hammock swinging to and fro--
A gittern by the window laid
Whereon the morning breezes play'd,
And its low tones and broken parts
Seem'd like some thoughtless minstrel's arts--
A rugged table in the floor--
Ran thro' this homely _comedor_.
Here, weary as you well may think,
An hour or so we made abode,
To give our mules both food and drink,
Before we took again the road;
And honestly, our own repast
Was that of monks from lenten fast.
The meal once o'er; our stores replaced;
We gather'd where the window fac'd
Upon the vale, and gaz'd below
Where mists from a mad torrent's flow
Were dimly waving to and fro.