TRANSLATED FROM THE PERSIAN.
FROM love, and from the flowing bowl, Those dear delights that cheer my soul, I've vow'd full often to abstain ;
I've vow'd, but all my vows are vain.
The bowers where black-ey'd houris rove,
Shades in celestial sweets that rise,
Or ev❜n the paradisial grove,
Less than her humble dome I prize.
Angels ne'er feel, old records say,
Of mighty love the blissful sway:
Be love to me, mere mortal, giv❜n,
To angels I resign their heav'n.
Still, when I breathe the pious pray'r,
That intervening form I view ;
And turn'd idolater, my fair,
To thee alone I deem it due.
Stint not the grape's nectareous juice,
Nor yet the charms of love refuse:
Too soon will Time his sabre bare,
And Death was never known to spare.
Then tell not me of cloister pale,
Or college where dull pedants pine;
Gladlier the tavern-door I hail,
Where brighter smiles the rosy wine.
Soft Zephyr, whisper, as you pass
The window where she's wont to be:
"Sober, or o'er the sparkling glass,
Hafiz still fondly thinks on thee.”
MENTITUR qui te vitiosum, Zoile, dixit.
Non vitiosus homo es, Zoile, sed vitium.
HE lied who call'd thee, Ned, a vicious elf:
Thou art not vicious-thou art vice itself.
O THOU whose visionary bills unpaid,
Long as thy measure, o'er my slumber stream;
Whose goose, hot-hissing through the midnigh
shade,
Disturbs the transport of each softer dream!
Why do imaginary needles wound?
Why do thy sheers clip short my fleeting joys?
Ah! why, emerging from thy hell profound,
The ghost of shreds and patches awful rise?
Once more look up, nor droop thy hanging head;
The liberal linings of that breast unfold;
Be smiles, far brighter than thy buttons, spread;
And nobly scorn the vulgar lust of gold.
Though doom'd by fortune, since remotest time,
No meaner coin of moderate date to use,
Lo! I can well reward with sterling rhyme,
Stamp'd by the sacred mintage of the muse.
Why mourn thy folly, why deplore thy fate,
Why call on ev'ry Power in sore dismay?
Thy warmest orisons, alas! are late :
Reflect-didst thou e'er know a poet pay?
Vain from thy shopboard the eternal sigh;
Vain thy devotions from that sable shrine:
Can guineas from the vacant pocket fly?
Can sorrow fill this empty purse of mine?
Ah me! so long with dire consumption pin'd,
When shall that purse ill-omen'd proudly swell
Full as the sail that holds the fav'ring wind?
Mysterious ministers of Money, tell.
Fond man! while pausing o'er that gloomy page
That tells thee what thou art in terms too plain,
O'er the capacious ledger lose thy rage,
Nor of unsettled debts again be vain.
There lords, and dukes, and mighty princes lie,
Nor on them canst thou for prompt payment call.
Why starts the big drop in thine anguish'd eye?
One honest genuine bard is worth them all.
A common garment such as mortals wear
(Dull sons of clay, the ready price who give,)
Thou mad'st, and lo! it lasted one short year;
But in my garment thou shalt ever live.
Time ne'er shall rip one consecrated seam
Of cloth, from Fancy's loom all superfine;
Nor shall I cruel haunt thy softer dream,
E'en when I dress thee in a suit divine.
Let sage philosophy thy soul inform
With strength heroic every ill to bear:
Not better broad-cloth braves the angry storm,
And constant patience is delightful wear.
Be patient then, and wise, nor meanly shrink
Beneath Despondency's tumultuous blast:
The reck'ning-day may come when least you think,
A joyful day, though miracles are past.
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