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Nita.

Nita (a maid of sunny southern Spain,
Compelled to antic for the paltry gain
With which, instead of food, her drunken sire
Was wont to purchase draughts of liquid fire)
Ceased for the night her jangling tambourine,
And sighed to think how small her gains had been.

For well she knew—too well had cause to know—
That when her home she sought with empty purse
Her brutal father met her with a blow,
A drunken malediction, or a curse.

Such was the tale of Nita's daily life,
One constant round of wretchedness and strife;
Whilst other maids than Nita not more fair
Enjoyed the sunshine of a father's care;
The loving, kind, attentive tenderness,
Of thoughtful parents ever fond caress—
She shuddered at the very thought of home;
The very name of "father" made her shrink.
What wonder she preferred abroad to roam
When "home" meant "misery." and father" "drink."

"Come Pedro, it is getting late," she cried
To her young brother, her sole friend and guide;
"As we have made no money, much I dread
Our father's anger—Would we both were dead."
Oh, cursed drink!—that one so young and fair
Should find her life through thee too hard to bear!

With trembling steps the maiden and the boy
Into their wretched habitation slunk,
To find—no scene of comfort and home-joy—
The place in darkness and the father drunk.

"Now then," he hoarsely muttered, "come you jade.
Give me at once the money you have made—
I want more drink!"
The trembling children cry,
"We have none, father!"
"What?" he screams; "You lie!"
Drink-madness fires his brain—With anger pale,
His coward blows on both them fell like hail.
Pow'rless to cope against his brutal strength,
"Oh! do cot kill me, father," Nita cried;
Blows were his answer; till she fell at length—
And ere the morning sun had dawned she died.