But for me in sad my life No joy there is of secret pleasure; Hope's early flower faded is, By struggle withered is life's flower. Youth away flies melancholy, And droop with me life's roses; But by Love tho' long forgot, Forget Love's tears I cannot. 1816. [FIRST LOVE.] I. 112. Not at once our youth is faded, Not at once our joys forsake us, And happiness we unexpected Yet embrace shall more than once; But ye, impressions never-dying Of newly trepidating Love, And thou, first flame of Intoxication,-- Not flying back are coming ye! ELEGY. III. 99. Hushed I soon shall be. But if on sorrow's day My songs to me with pensive play replied; But if the youths to me, in silence listening At my love's long torture were marvelling; But if thou thyself, to tenderness yielding Repeated in quiet my melancholy verses And didst love my heart's passionate language; But if I am loved:--grant then, O dearest friend, That my beautiful beloved's coveted name Breathe life into my lyre's farewell. When for aye embraced I am by sleep of Death, Over my urn do with tenderness pronounce: "By me he loved was, to me he owed Of his love and song his last inspiration." 1821. THE BURNT LETTER. IV. 87. Good-bye, love-letter, good-bye! 'T is her command.... How long I waited, how long my hand To the fire my joys to yield was loath! ... But eno', the hour has come: burn, letter of my love! I am ready: listens more my soul to nought. Now the greedy flame thy sheets shall lick ... A minute! ... they crackle, they blaze ... a light smoke Curls and is lost with prayer mine. Now the finger's faithful imprint losing Burns the melted wax.... O Heavens! Done it is! curled in are the dark sheets; Upon their ashes light the lines adored Are gleaming.... My breast is heavy. Ashes dear, In my sorrowful lot but poor consolation, Remain for aye with me on my weary breast.... 1825. [SING NOT, BEAUTY.] IV. 135. Sing not, Beauty, in my presence, Of Transcaucasia sad the songs, Of distant shore, another life, The memory to me they bring. Alas, alas, remind they do, These cruel strains of thine, Of steppes, and night, and of the moon And of distant, poor maid's features. The vision loved, tender, fated, Forget can I, when thee I see But when thou singest, then before me Up again it rises. Sing not, Beauty, in my presence Of Transcaucasia sad the songs, Of distant shore, another life The memory to me they bring. 1828. SIGNS. IV. 125. To thee I rode: living dreams then Behind me winding in playful crowd; My sportive trot my shoulder over The moon upon my right was chasing.