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Updated: May 9, 2025
And many a distant object that rose upon her view Filled her whole soul with rapture, as her eager eyes it drew; But when it nearer came, she turned away, in half despair, Her vision had deceived her, Bencerraje was not there. "My own, my Bencerraje, if but lately you descried That I was angry in my heart, and stubborn in my pride, Oh, let my eyes win pardon, for they with tears were wet.
The glow of amorous hope has lit her cheek with rosy red, Yet wrinkles of too anxious love her beauteous brow o'er-spread; For she looks to see if up the road there rides a warrior tall The haughty Bencerraje, whom she loves the best of all.
She spoke; and Bencerraje, upon his gallant bay, Was calling to her from the street, where he loitered blithe and gay, And quickly she came down to him, to give him, e'er they part, Her rounded arms, her ivory neck, her bosom, and her heart!
At every looming figure that blots the vega bright, She starts and peers with changing face, and strains her eager sight; For every burly form she sees upon the distant street Is to her the Bencerraje whom her bosom longs to greet.
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