and first began to learn The death of your good lady Dorothea— Peace be to her soul, the dear sweet lady— Then she learned to call me Nurse Rodriguez. Dear little soul! When I did see her last She had her mother's brow, her mother's hair, Her eyes, too, and her tiny foot and hand; Her smile was all her mother's, yet methinks Something about the nose and mouth and chin Was from your lordship. How I wonder now If she be changed, if she do remember How I was wont to dance her on my knee To still her cries with sweets, and how she'd ask Me to tell her all about her mother— How she looked and spoke, and how she dressed? I told her all I knew. What I knew not That straight I did invent to please the child, And oftimes on a chilly wintry night Of storm and tempest, when the lightning's flash 403Lit up with lurid glare the outward gloom, And the loud thunder, like to wake the dead, Shook the old castle walls to their foundation, On such nights as these, when sleep would desert Her downy pillow, I would lift her thus, And wrapping her up in my ample shawl, I'd draw her to the fire. Then, whilst the warmth Of the genial element diffused Itself throughout the chamber, rendering By the contrast of the black storm without Its growing blaze more grateful, then would I Beguile the night with tales of ghosts and ghouls, Of elves and fairies, and hobgoblins grim, Of witches, wizards, vampires, dwarfs, and giants, Pirates, brigands, and unburied corpses, Whose restless spirits, ever hovering near, Render the place accursed, and bring ill To happen unto those who wander there. Wraiths and doubles, and corpse candles glim'ring O'er unhallowed graves. Of secret murders, Of spells, enchantment, and of hidden treasure, Fights of knights and dragons, Christian damsels Rescued from Moorish captors by their lovers, 404Tales of the Inquisition and its tortures, Of dungeons dark and drear, and skeletons Found bleak and bare, laden with rusty chains That ever and anon at midnight's hour Were heard to move and shake, with many a tale Of the wild gipsy tribes that roam these mountains, Of haunted houses and weird palaces, That at the magician's word sink 'neath the ground, Of devils and of fiends—  D. Sil. And all the lore That gossips love to frighten children with. Wretch and most wicked beldam! Is it thus By giving reins to thine accursed tongue That thou hast sought to poison my child's mind? Is this why every eve when it grew dark I've seen her shudder and look o'er her shoulder? Why she would never enter a dark room? Why, as I've watched beside her tiny crib, I've seen her start in sleep with stifled sob? When I have watched her wan and haggard cheek, Her thoughtful mien, her dreamy vacant stare, Until I've fancied her in a decline, And feared she would not long be left 

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