French editor.
IV.
(See [page 92].)
We see, ’neath white attire,
In mourning great and sadness,
Passing, with many a charm
Of beauty, this fair goddess,
Holding the shaft in hand
Of her son, heartless.
And Love, without his frontlet,
Fluttering round her,
Hiding his bandaged eyes
With veil of mourning
On which these words are writ:
Die or be captured.
V.
(See [page 94].)
Translation as nearly literal as possible.
In my sad, sweet song,
In tones most lamentable
I cast my cutting grief
Of loss incomparable;
And in poignant sighs
I pass my best of years.
Was ever such an ill
Of hard destiny,
Or so sad a sorrow
Of a happy lady,
That my heart and eye
Should gaze on bier and coffin?