Lines from the Spanish.From the Spanish of George de Montemayor.Hereon the cold clear Egla’s breezy sideMy hand amid her ringlets wont to rove,She proffered now the lock, and now denied,With all the baby playfulness of love.Here the false maid with many an artful tear,Made me each rising thought of doubt discover;And vowed, and wept, till hope had ceased to fear,Ah me! beguiling like a child her lover.One evening, on the river’s pleasant strand,The maid, too well beloved, sat with me,And with her finger traced upon the sandDeath for Diana—not inconstancy.And Love beheld us from his secret stand,And marked his triumph, laughing to behold me;To see me trust a writing traced in sand;To see me credit what a woman told me.
Lines from the Spanish.From the Spanish of George de Montemayor.Hereon the cold clear Egla’s breezy sideMy hand amid her ringlets wont to rove,She proffered now the lock, and now denied,With all the baby playfulness of love.Here the false maid with many an artful tear,Made me each rising thought of doubt discover;And vowed, and wept, till hope had ceased to fear,Ah me! beguiling like a child her lover.One evening, on the river’s pleasant strand,The maid, too well beloved, sat with me,And with her finger traced upon the sandDeath for Diana—not inconstancy.And Love beheld us from his secret stand,And marked his triumph, laughing to behold me;To see me trust a writing traced in sand;To see me credit what a woman told me.
From the Spanish of George de Montemayor.
Hereon the cold clear Egla’s breezy sideMy hand amid her ringlets wont to rove,She proffered now the lock, and now denied,With all the baby playfulness of love.Here the false maid with many an artful tear,Made me each rising thought of doubt discover;And vowed, and wept, till hope had ceased to fear,Ah me! beguiling like a child her lover.One evening, on the river’s pleasant strand,The maid, too well beloved, sat with me,And with her finger traced upon the sandDeath for Diana—not inconstancy.And Love beheld us from his secret stand,And marked his triumph, laughing to behold me;To see me trust a writing traced in sand;To see me credit what a woman told me.
Hereon the cold clear Egla’s breezy sideMy hand amid her ringlets wont to rove,She proffered now the lock, and now denied,With all the baby playfulness of love.Here the false maid with many an artful tear,Made me each rising thought of doubt discover;And vowed, and wept, till hope had ceased to fear,Ah me! beguiling like a child her lover.One evening, on the river’s pleasant strand,The maid, too well beloved, sat with me,And with her finger traced upon the sandDeath for Diana—not inconstancy.And Love beheld us from his secret stand,And marked his triumph, laughing to behold me;To see me trust a writing traced in sand;To see me credit what a woman told me.
Hereon the cold clear Egla’s breezy sideMy hand amid her ringlets wont to rove,She proffered now the lock, and now denied,With all the baby playfulness of love.Here the false maid with many an artful tear,Made me each rising thought of doubt discover;And vowed, and wept, till hope had ceased to fear,Ah me! beguiling like a child her lover.One evening, on the river’s pleasant strand,The maid, too well beloved, sat with me,And with her finger traced upon the sandDeath for Diana—not inconstancy.And Love beheld us from his secret stand,And marked his triumph, laughing to behold me;To see me trust a writing traced in sand;To see me credit what a woman told me.
Hereon the cold clear Egla’s breezy side
My hand amid her ringlets wont to rove,
She proffered now the lock, and now denied,
With all the baby playfulness of love.
Here the false maid with many an artful tear,
Made me each rising thought of doubt discover;
And vowed, and wept, till hope had ceased to fear,
Ah me! beguiling like a child her lover.
One evening, on the river’s pleasant strand,
The maid, too well beloved, sat with me,
And with her finger traced upon the sand
Death for Diana—not inconstancy.
And Love beheld us from his secret stand,
And marked his triumph, laughing to behold me;
To see me trust a writing traced in sand;
To see me credit what a woman told me.