Page:The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero) - Volume 3.djvu/52

22 TRANSLATION OF THE ROMAIC SONG,

thy garden of roses,

Belovéd and fair Haidée,

Each morning where Flora reposes,

For surely I see her in thee.

Oh, Lovely! thus low I implore thee,

Receive this fond truth from my tongue,

Which utters its song to adore thee,

Yet trembles for what it has sung;

As the branch, at the bidding of Nature,

Adds fragrance and fruit to the tree,

Through her eyes, through her every feature,

Shines the soul of the young Haidée.

But the loveliest garden grows hateful

When Love has abandoned the bowers;

Bring me hemlock—since mine is ungrateful,

That herb is more fragrant than flowers.

The poison, when poured from the chalice,

Will deeply embitter the bowl;

But when drunk to escape from thy malice,

The draught shall be sweet to my soul.

Too cruel! in vain I implore thee

My heart from these horrors to save

Will nought to my bosom restore thee?

Then open the gates of the grave.

Notes