My love sways, dancing', like the myrtle-tree,
The masses of her curls disheveled, see !
She kills me with her darts, intoxicates
My burning blood, and will not set me free.
Within the aromatic garden come,
And slowly in its shadows let ua roam,
The foliage be the turban for our hrows,
And the green branches o'er our heads a dome.
All pain thoa with the goblet shalt asauage.
The wine-cup heals the sharpest pangs that rage,
Let others crave inheritance of wealth,
Joy be our portion and oar heritage.
Drink in the garden, friend, anigh the rose,
Bicher than spice's breath the soft air blows,
If it abonld cease a little traitor then,
A zephyr light its secret would disclose.
II.
Thoa who art clothed in silk, who drawest on
Proudly thy raiment of fine linen spun.
Bethink thee of the day when thou alono
Shalt dwell at last beneatli the marble stone.
Anigh the nests of adders thine abode.
With the earth-crawling serpent and the tond.
Trust in the Lord, He will suatain thee there,
And without fear thy soul shall rest with God.
