English

O Cup-bearer! give me wine —
Several goblets in succession:
Hard it is if you consider,
That without wine the spring should pass.
Where with flowers is found a comrade,
What restraint does bind a man?
See what they say, listen to them:
What says the music of Harp and Pipe?
Comes not back the passing moment?
Ah, how sad! Alas! Alas!
Good, indeed, is this world's life:
Would that it might last for aye;
Since for aye it lasteth not,
Count it worthless and despised.
Many lovers it hath turned away —

Yes! let me wander by that flower-bank'd stream
Which pours its fountains out by Praga's wall;
Go! toil for honor in the fields of fame:
Fame — all Bohemia wakens at its call.
Where my young days pass'd by in blissful thought
Is now a dreary solitude to me;
The scenes which peace and love and beauty brought
Are darkness all — because estrang'd from thee.

Thou wert an ever-sparkling light — but now
Art a pale meteor trembling in the sky:
I see thy name carv'd on the maple's bough,

Whence come these sweet aeolian airs
Which, in the poet's inmost soul,
Awaken silent melodies?
I ask a wild rose blooming far
Afield, and thus it answered me:
" From places like to this, where love
Abides to start them with his breath. "
I questioned then a stately tree,
With leaves a-ripple in the breeze.
" From lonely woods, " it gave reply,
" Where Sorrow broods uncomforted. "
And then I asked a meadow-lark,
A-bobbing on the waving grass.
As quick, as blithe, its answer came:

How savage, fierce and grim!
His bones are bleached and white.
But what is death to him?
He grins as if to bite.
He mocks the fate
That bade, " Begone. "
There's fierceness stamped
In ev'ry bone.

Let silence settle from the midnight sky —
Such silence as you've broken with your cry;
The bleak wind howl, unto the ut'most verge
Of this mighty waste, thy fitting dirge.

How savage, fierce and grim!
His bones are bleached and white.
But what is death to him?
He grins as if to bite.

(T O THE South W IND .)

O Wind, hast thou a sigh
Robbed from her lips divine
Upon this sunbright day —
A token or a sign?

Oh, take me, Wind, into
Thy confidence, and tell
Me, whispering soft and low,
The secrets of the dell.

Oh, teach me what it is
The meadow flowers say
As to and fro they nod
Thro' all the golden day.

If void of Art my languid Verse appears,
Forgive, O F REIND , the Bard, who sings in Tears:
Rude are the Lays, which only Grief adorns,
And dull the Muses, when Apollo mourns;
When Science trembles o'er M INERVA'S Shrine,
To see her fav'rite Priest his Charge resign.
Yet why should Grief debase his glorious Name,
Or blast the Bays his Merits justly claim?
No venal View his noble Temper sways;
He quits with Honour, what he kept with Praise.
As some wise Leader , in successful Wars,
Worn out with Age, and cover'd o'er with Scars,

O morning breeze, shouldst thou pass by Khairabad,
Or should thy way lead thee by the side of Surai's stream,
A thousand thousand greetings take from me:
Thither from me countless good wishes bear —
To mighty Indus shout them out with Fervour;
But to the Lundi stream in whispers softly tell them.
Perchance again my lot may let me quaff thee,
I shall not ever dwell beside the Ganges and Jumna:
If of Hind's climate I complain, what shall I say?
Still greater than on its climate is the curse upon its water;

The Adamkhey! Afridee maidens are red and white;
Many and varied are the charms that are theirs,
Great large eyes, long eyelashes, broad eyebrows,
Sugar-lipped, rosy-cheeked, moon-like foreheads,
Tiny mouths like a Rose-bud, even teeth;
Their heads girt with dark tresses, fragrant as Amber,
Their skins as smooth as ivory, bare of hair;
Straight their figures, like Alif; fair their complexions.
Like the Hawk has been my flight along the mountains,
Many a partridge there has been my prey;

TOM. F. AND F. F .

The Fourteenth Day of February fine:
I choose you for my Valentine. "

Thus ran the first of the sweet old rhymes
On the Lovers'-Day in the old, sweet times:
And so, I follow closely along
To tell my love in the words of the song.

" Roses are red; violets are blue;
Pinks are sweet, and so are you. "

Roses are red in my sweetheart's cheeks,
Deepening tints whenever one speaks:
Violets are blue in the eyes of one;
In the eyes of the other smiles the sun;

Of all the words serenely wise,
That spake the halting Phrygian slave,
Whose eagle doctrine soaring flies
To cheer the fearful, — spur the brave, —

Of all those noble thoughts of his,
Stamped on an age of blood and sin,
A man may well return to this
Which teaches of the Wayside Inn.

Beside the road the Inn is set,
The common way for rich and poor,
And all who pass are freely met
With greeting glad, and wide-flung door;

Above the porch, about the wall,
The crimson roses droop and twine,