For pipings hollow;
Wild olive, laurel, scented pine,
All these I offer at thy shrine,
If thou wilt smile on me and mine,
And blessings follow.”
When her sweet voice died away, an emulous nightingale began to sing as if in rivalry, and Helena burst out into girlish laughter.
“Do you like my translation, Crispin?”
“It is charming—much better than the words.”
“No, indeed!” said Maurice, who was enchanted with the song and the singer; “as Wordsworth would say, it is a very pretty piece of paganism.”
“Oh, that faint praise is worse than blame.”