Classic Poem

Zwelikych dobrodruzstwj

Love calls me from my deeds of fame
To his own sweeter service — I
Summon each cherish'd maiden's name,
And ask — to which my soul should fly,
And seek with her a brighter glory
Than ever fill'd the page of story.

But ill my service is repaid,
For Love has planted in my breast
A pang that will not give me rest —
Nor heeds the mischief he has made.

M Y senses are by passion driven,
On to the very gates of heaven;
Delight is handmaid to desire,
My eyes are bright with sacred fire
Whose rays out-pour'd upon my heart
A sense of blessedness impart.

A ND then love strengthens while it grows,
And transport's fountain overflows,
My heart is like a stream of pleasure
That knows no ebb and knows no measure,
Which love pours out in eager joy —
Love — source of rapture — and annoy —
To which I turn me fond and true,
As opening roses to the dew.
And then thy honied lips I kiss,
O the unutterable bliss!
No thought, no words, can compass this.

But sorrows hurry love away,
And love retires — but sorrows stay —
Wilt thou forgive me, Nina! say,
If to my bosom's warmth I press
Thy bright, sweet, dawning loveliness,
Yet still with chaste desire — for thou
To no licentious will would'st bow.