midnight
I hear the merry jingle of the tambourine , and the cheery voices of the girls and peasants , as they dance beneath my casement , under the shadow of the clustering vines . The laugh and song pass gaily round , and even at this distance I can distinguish the elegant form of Ramon Cabrera , as he whispers gay nothings in the ears of the Andalusian girls , or joins in the thrilling chorus of Riego 's hymn , which is ever and anon vociferated by the enthusiastic soldiery of Carlos Quinto . I am alone , in the most inaccessible and most bomb-proof tower of our little fortalice ; the large casements are open -- the wind , as it enters , whispers in my ear its odorous recollections of the orange grove and the myrtle bower . My torch -LRB- a branch of the fragrant cedar-tree -RRB- flares and flickers in the midnight breeze , and disperses its scent and burning splinters on my scroll and the desk where I write -- meet implements for a soldier 's authorship ! -- it is CARTRIDGE paper over which my pen runs so glibly , and a yawning barrel of gunpowder forms my rough writing-table . Around me , below me , above me , all -- all is peace ! I think , as I sit here so lonely , on my country , England !