Every dewy rose I wear
Sheds its tears and withers there.
But for you, my burning mind!
Oh! what shelter shall I find?
Can the bowl, or floweret's dew,
Cool the flame that scorches you?
ODE XVIII.
IF hoarded gold possess'd a power
To lengthen life's too fleeting hour,
And purchase from the land 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 board of friends,
Whose flowing souls the goblet blends:
Mine be the nymph, whose form reposes
Seductive on that bed of roses;
And oh! be mine the soul's excess,
Expiring in her warm caress!