English

Your love was like a fire of sticks
Or whin that kindles at a spark.
It blazed so high it made
A splendour in the dark.
But if it burnt so merrily
It died away as fast,
And I was left with ashes
To warm me at long last.

Oh! like a fire of turf, my man,
I prayed to God your love might be,
As warm on winter nights
And burning steadfastly.
That if I'd think it dying out
And raked the ash apart,
I'd find the sod was glowing
With fire at its heart.

Your second cousin, an obscure
cigar-maker from Smyrna,
impresses me with tom thumb news
(the words are blunt
and throw a sour limelight).
He regrets the way your eye
gluts on the dancing girls
like an oyster in the head of Bacchus.

But his hands too explore this woman's calf,
his hide lights up
above her loincloth
like a white spark by an epitaph.

Since all that is was ever bound to be;
Since grim, eternal laws our Being bind;
And both the riddle and the answer find,
And both the carnage and the calm decree;
Since plain within the Book of Destiny
Is written all the journey of mankind
Inexorably to the end; since blind
And mortal puppets playing parts are we:

Then let's have faith; good cometh out of ill;
The power that shaped the strife shall end the strife;
Then let's bow down before the Unknown Will;
Fight on, believing all is well with life;

Now round my favoured grot let roses rise,
To strew the bank where Phaon wakes from rest!
Oh happy buds, to kiss his burning breast,
And die beneath the lustre of his eyes!
Now let the timbrels echo to the skies,
Now damsels sprinkle cassia on his vest,
With odorous wreaths of constant myrtle dressed,
And flowers, deep tinted with the rainbow's dyes!
From cups of porphyry let nectar flow,
Rich as the perfume of Phoenicia's vine!
Now let his dimpling cheek with rapture glow,
While round his heart love's mystic fetters twine;

Come, soft Eolian harp, while zephyr plays
Along the meek vibration of thy strings,
As Twilight's hand her modest mantle brings,
Blending with sober grey the western blaze!
Oh prompt my Phaon's dreams with tenderest lays,
Ere night o'ershade thee with its humid wings,
While the lorn philomel his sorrow sings
In leafy cradle red with parting rays!
Slow let thy dulcet tones on ether glide—
So steals the murmur of the amorous dove;
The mazy legions swarm on every side,
To lulling sounds the sunny people move!

Bring, bring, to deck my brow, ye sylvan girls,
A roseate wreath—nor for my waving hair
The costly band of studded gems prepare,
Of sparkling chrysolite, or orient pearls!
Love o'er my head his canopy unfurls,
His purple pinions fan the whispering air;
Mocking the golden sandal, rich and rare,
Beneath my feet the fragrant woodbine curls.
Bring the thin robe, to fold about my breast,
White as the downy swan; while round my waist
Let leaves of glossy myrtle bind the vest,
Not idly gay, but elegantly chaste!

Now, o'er the tesselated pavement strew
Fresh saffron, steeped in essence of the rose,
While down yon agate column gently flows
A glittering streamlet of ambrosial dew!
My Phaon smiles! The rich carnation's hue,
On his flushed cheek in conscious lustre glows,
While o'er his breast enamoured Venus throws
Her starry mantle of celestial blue!
Breathe soft, ye dulcet flutes, among the trees
Where clustering boughs with golden citrons twine;
While slow vibrations, dying on the breeze,
Shall soothe his soul with harmony divine.

Oh Reason, vaunted sovereign of the mind—
Thou pompous vision with a sounding name!
Canst thou the soul's rebellious passions tame?
Canst thou in spells the vagrant fancy bind?
Ah no, capricious as the wavering wind
Are sighs of love that dim thy boasted flame,
While Folly's torch consumes the wreath of fame,
And Pleasure's hands the sheaves of truth unbind.
Pressed by the storms of fate, hope shrinks and dies;
Frenzy darts forth in mightiest ills arrayed;
Around thy throne destructive tumults rise,

Dangerous to hear is that melodious tongue,
And fatal to the sense those murderous eyes,
Where in a sapphire sheath love's arrow lies,
Himself concealed the crystal haunts among!
Oft o'er that form, enamoured, have I hung,
On that smooth cheek to mark the deepening dyes,
While from that lip the fragrant breath would rise,
That lip, like Cupid's bow, with rubies strung!
Still let me gaze upon that polished brow,
O'er which the golden hair luxuriant plays;
So, on the modest lily's leaves of snow

Ye, who in alleys green and leafy bowers
Sport, the rude children of fantastic birth;
Where frolic nymphs, and shaggy tribes of mirth,
In clamorous revels waste the midnight hours—
Who, linked in flaunting bands of mountain-flowers,
Weave your wild mazes o'er the dewy earth,
Ere the fierce lord of lustre rushes forth
And o'er the world his beamy radiance pours!
Oft has your clanking cymbal's maddening strain,
Loud-ringing through the torch-illumined grove,
Lured my loved Phaon from the youthful train,