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."

THE BURNT LETTER.

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: bum, 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

Bums 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.

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