318
JOSE DE ESPRONCEDA.
TO HARIFA, IN AN ORGY.
Thy hand, Harifa! bring it me;
Come near, and place it on my brow;
As on some lava's boiling sea
I feel my head is burning now.
Come, bring with mine thy lips to meet,
Though they but madden me astray,
Where yet I find the kisses beat,
There left thy loves of yesterday.
What is virtue, what is joy,
Or love, or purity, or truth?
The false illusions of a boy,
The cherish' d flatteries of my youth.
Then bring me wine; there let me try
Remembrance drown' d to hold repressed,
Without a pang from life to fly;
In frenzy death may give me rest.
O'erspreads my face a burning flood,
And red and glaring wildly start
My eyes forth out in heated blood,
