As pictured in her changing air:

Read every look, and every glance,

Each blush that comes, each blush that goes,
The changes of her countenance,

And if thy presence seem to enhance

The darkness of the cheek-throned rose.

And mark if thou a welcome find,
Or if thou meet with cold disdain :
Then note, if on the maiden's mind,
A single gentle thought enshrin'd,
Breathes love's soft pity on my pain;
Mark if she stay-yet seem to fly-
If she forget-or welcome thee
And tell me if the maiden's eye
Shine brightly as in days gone by,
When last she said Farewell! to me.

e-is her heart elate,

Then tell me

Or if her breast with sorrow swell,-
And mark with eager glance her gait,
And if she love, and if she hate,
Which her oft-changing eye shall tell.
And O! be eloquent--and say,
How thy poor master pines alone,
And let thy memory bear away

All that my eyes shall see the day

When we shall blend, bright thought! as one.

Cancionero de Valencia, 1511, p. 83.

FRANCISCO DE SAA DE MIRANDA.

O BASE GALLICIAN !

"Sola me dejaste."

O BASE Gallician! lone and lost,
Thou'st left me on the desert coast,
Vile, base Gallician!

I went where once thou didst abide,

There thou abid'st not;

The valley to my cries replied,
But thou repliedst not.

Sad, melancholy, mortified,
I wander weeping, while
Thou dost but smile.

Say, where thy mother's dwelling is

I will go to her

Gallician! who could dream of this,

Thou-thou no truer !

Eyes-filled with tears of bitterness,

--

A heart-where flames of anguish burn,

O when shall peace return?

Obras, Lisboa, 1614, p. 155.

WHERE IS DOMINGA?

"Todos vienen de la villa."

ALL gather from the village here,
But where's Dominga?-tell me where.

The rest have come-they all have come ;
I've counted them, yes! one by one,—
But she's not there, and, O! I roam
All desolate, and all alone.
What shall I do?-without her, none
My path can light, my way can cheer
Where is Dominga?-tell me where.

Obras, Lisboa, 1614, p. 153.

LOPE DE SOSA.

ROMANCE.

"Mas envidia he de vos, conde."

I RATHER envy thee thy doom

Than blame thee, count, or pity thee; For such an honourable tomb

Is glory's immortality.

And vainly, idly, do they deem,
Who can deplore thy destiny,
Which, though it dark and dreary seem,
Is bright with fortune's radiancy.

I envy thee, O count! thy bliss,

More than the king who murder'd thee;
A living death shall now be his,
Because he knew no charity,
And no forgiveness: to forgive
Had been a nobler victory
Than to destroy; but let him live,
Unknowing mercy's luxury.

O fear not, count! the scaffold's shame,
But hasten onwards speedily;

It stains no virtue, blasts no name;
Thy doom revoked may not be.

For death is life, and death supplies
A bed for slumbering tranquilly,
And in the cause thy comfort lies,
And that shall cheer and comfort thee.

Cancionero de Valencia, 1511, p. 131.