Page:Modern poets and poetry of Spain.djvu/67

Upon the turning of a die! 'Tis done:
The lot is cast; what is it? has he won?
Increased is his anxiety and care!
But if reverse, O Heaven! in deep despair,
O'erwhelm'd in ruin, he is doom'd to know
A life of infamy, or death of woe.

 And is he happier, who distracted lies
A slave beneath the light of beauty's eyes?
Who fascinated watches, haunts, and prays,
And at the cost of troubles vast essays,
'Mid doubts and fears, a fleeting joy to gain?
Love leads him not: his breast could ne'er profane
Admit Love's purer flame; 'tis passion's fire
Alone that draws him, and in wild desire
He blindly headlong follows in pursuit:
And what for all his toils can he compute?
If gain'd at length, he only finds the prize
Bring death and misery ev'n in pleasure's guise.

 Then look on him, abandon'd all to sloth,
Who vacant sees the hours pass long and loth
O'er his so useless life. He thinks them slow,
Alas! and wishes they would faster go.
He knows not how to employ them; in and out
He comes, and goes, and smokes, and strolls about,