The goatherd had hardly done speaking, when the notes
of the rebeck reached their ears; and shortly after,
the player came up, a very good-looking young man
of about two-and-twenty. His comrades asked him
if he had supped, and on his replying that he had,
he who had already made the offer said to him:
“In that case, Antonio, thou mayest as well
do us the pleasure of singing a little, that the gentleman,
our guest, may see that even in the mountains and
woods there are musicians: we have told him of
thy accomplishments, and we want thee to show them
and prove that we say true; so, as thou livest, pray
sit down and sing that ballad about thy love that
thy uncle the prebendary made thee, and that was so
much liked in the town.”
“With all my heart,” said the young man,
and without waiting for more pressing he seated himself
on the trunk of a felled oak, and tuning his rebeck,
presently began to sing to these words.
Thou dost love me well, Olalla;
Well I know it, even though
Love’s mute tongues, thine eyes, have never
By their glances told me so.
For I know my love thou knowest,
Therefore thine to claim I dare:
Once it ceases to be secret,
Love need never feel despair.
True it is, Olalla, sometimes
Thou hast all too plainly shown
That thy heart is brass in hardness,
And thy snowy bosom stone.
Yet for all that, in thy coyness,
And thy fickle fits between,
Hope is there—at least the border
Of her garment may be seen.
Lures to faith are they, those glimpses,
And to faith in thee I hold;
Kindness cannot make it stronger,
Coldness cannot make it cold.
If it be that love is gentle,
In thy gentleness I see
Something holding out assurance
To the hope of winning thee.
If it be that in devotion
Lies a power hearts to move,
That which every day I show thee,
Helpful to my suit should prove.
Many a time thou must have noticed—
If to notice thou dost care—
How I go about on Monday
Dressed in all my Sunday wear.
Love’s eyes love to look on brightness;
Love loves what is gaily drest;
Sunday, Monday, all I care is
Thou shouldst see me in my best.
No account I make of dances,
Or of strains that pleased thee so,
Keeping thee awake from midnight
Till the cocks began to crow;
Or of how I roundly swore it
That there’s none so fair as thou;
True it is, but as I said it,
By the girls I’m hated now.
For Teresa of the hillside
At my praise of thee was sore;
Said, “You think you love an angel;
It’s a monkey you adore;
“Caught by all her glittering trinkets,
And her borrowed braids of hair,
And a host of made-up beauties
That would Love himself ensnare.”
