In me let feeling then lie dead,
Since died my hopes of happiness,
Nor joys nor griefs be o'er me spread
My soul returning to depress.
Pass, as in magic optic glass,
And other youthful hearts deceive,
Bright images of glory! pass,
That crowns of gold and laurel weave.
Pass, ye voluptuous fair ones, on!
With dance and mirthful songs attuned,
Like vaporous visions, pass, begone!
No more my heart to move or wound.
And let the dance, and festal din,
O'er my revolted fancy reign,
And fled the night, see morn begin,
Surprised in senseless stupor's chain.
Harifa, come! Like me this woe
Thou too hast borne! Thou ne'er dost weep!
But, ah! how wretched 't is to know
Feelings so bitter and so deep!
The same our sufferings and care;
In vain thou hold'st thy tears apart;
Like me thou also hast to bear
A wounded and an aching heart!
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JOSE DE ESPRONCEDA.
