All thou art could never pay
     What thou hast ta’en from me away. 
     Cruel bird! thou’st ta’en away
     A dream out of my arms to-day;
     A dream that ne’er must equaled be
     By all that waking eyes may see. 
     Thou, this damage to repair,
     Nothing half so sweet or fair,
     Nothing half so good, canst bring,
     Though men say thou bring’st the Spring.

Cowley’s Translation.

          Thepoet’s choice

     If hoarded gold possessed a power
     To lengthen life’s too fleeting hour,
     And purchase from the hand of death
     A little span, a moment’s breath,
     How I would love the precious ore! 
     And every day should swell my store;
     That when the fates would send their minion,
     To waft me off on shadowy pinion,
     I might some hours of life obtain,
     And bribe him back to hell again. 
     But since we ne’er can charm away
     The mandate of that awful day,
     Why do we vainly weep at fate,
     And sigh for life’s uncertain date? 
     The light of gold can ne’er illume
     The dreary midnight of the tomb! 
     And why should I then pant for treasures? 
     Mine be the brilliant round of pleasures;
     The goblet rich, the hoard of friends,
     Whose flowing souls the goblet blends!

Moore’s Translation.

          Drinking

     I care not for the idle state
     Of Persia’s king, the rich, the great! 
     I envy not the monarch’s throne,
     Nor wish the treasured gold my own. 
     But oh! be mine the rosy braid,
     The fervor of my brows to shade;
     Be mine the odors, richly sighing,
     Amid my hoary tresses flying. 
     To-day I’ll haste to quaff my wine,
     As if to-morrow ne’er should shine;
     But if to-morrow comes, why then—­
     I’ll haste to quaff my wine again. 
     And thus while all our days are bright,
     Nor time has dimmed their bloomy light,
     Let us the festal hours beguile
     With mantling cup and cordial smile;
     And shed from every bowl of wine
     The richest drop on Bacchus’s shrine! 
     For Death may come, with brow unpleasant,
     May come when least we wish him present,
     And beckon to the sable shore,
     And grimly bid us—­drink no more!

Moore’s Translation.

          A lover’s sigh

     The Phrygian rock that braves the storm
     Was once a weeping matron’s form;
     And Procne, hapless, frantic maid,
     Is now a swallow in the shade. 
     Oh that a mirror’s form were mine,
     To sparkle with that smile divine;
     And like my heart I then should be,
     Reflecting thee, and only thee! 
     Or could I be the robe which holds
     That graceful form within