Let others toil in war, in arts, in trade—
Be gay: too soon the flowers of spring will fade!
Late gloomy winter chilled the sullen air,
Till Soliman arose, and all was fair.
Soft in his reign, the notes of love resound,
And pleasure’s rosy cup goes freely round.
Here on the bank which mantling vines o’ershade,
Be gay: too soon the flowers of spring will fade!
May this rude lay, from age to age remain,
A true memorial of this lovely train.