Lamia's winter-quarters . mong them, left them only togo back to them, vowed these were the most ii8 LAMIAS WINTER-QUARTERS beautiful,—no, those,—no, those others, and per-petually expressed ourselves in fickle and contra-dictory adoration. As Lamia wandered amongthem, she would break into song, chanting theirpraises, now in one tongue, now in another. Roses crimson, roses white, Deadly pale or lovely in love with May at sight. And their maiden blood is rushingTo and fro in hope to hide Tumult it but thus the Bridegroom to the Bride ! Everywhere are roses, roses.
Lamia's winter-quarters . mong them, left them only togo back to them, vowed these were the most ii8 LAMIAS WINTER-QUARTERS beautiful,—no, those,—no, those others, and per-petually expressed ourselves in fickle and contra-dictory adoration. As Lamia wandered amongthem, she would break into song, chanting theirpraises, now in one tongue, now in another. Roses crimson, roses white, Deadly pale or lovely in love with May at sight. And their maiden blood is rushingTo and fro in hope to hide Tumult it but thus the Bridegroom to the Bride ! Everywhere are roses, roses. Then she would remember snatches of LorenzosCanzone a Ballo, ?Ben venga Maggio^ written inthe local dialect of the time, and improvise forthem a suitable strain. E voi, donzelle a schiera,Con li vostri amadori,Che di rose e di fioriVi fate belle, il Maggio,Che S giovane e bella,Deh non sie punto acerba,Che non si rinnovellaL et^ come fa 1 stia amadore, il Maggio. ARE ROSES, ROSES. JI4^ V LAMIAS WINTER-QUARTERS 119 Then she would revert to her own tongue, in itsparaphrase of the pagan song the Compagnacciused to troll in the days of Savonarola, when theywanted to protest against the austerity of hisfollowers and the Burning of the Vanities. Every wall is white with roses, Linnets pair in every tree ;Brim your beakers, twine your and quaff ere Springtime closes ; Bloom and beauty quiclcly flee. If we drove down to Florence, we drovealong roads that were avenues of roses ; and, inthe Fair City itself, we forget to look at palace,or facade, or bridge, absorbed in gazing on thewhite and yellow Banksias that hung in bunchesand clusters over intramural garden-walls. But,as the year expanded and deepened in beauty, wegrew more and more unwilling to stir from theenchanting surroundings of the villa itself, unlessit were to wander in other foderi and among othervineyards, or to make expeditions that took us un-interruptedly through a w
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