Translated into English Verse by J. D. Carlyle, BD
How oft does passion's grasp destroy
The pleasure that it strives to gain!
How soon the thoughtless course of joy
Is doomed to terminate in pain!
When Prudence would thy steps delay,
She but restrains to make thee blest;
Whate'er from joy she lops away
But heightens and secures the rest.
Wouldst thou a trembling flame expand
That hastens in the lamp to die?
With careful touch, with sparing hand,
The feeding stream of life supply.
But if thy flask profusely sheds
A rushing torrent o'er the blaze,
Swift round the sinking flame it spreads,
And kills the fire it fain would raise.
h yield a limpid bowl.Think not that stream will backward flow,
Or cease its destined course to keep;
As soon the blazing spark shall glow
Beneath the surface of the deep.
Believe not Fate, at thy command,
Will grant a meed she never gave;
As soon the airy tower shall stand
That's built upon a passing wave.
Life is a sleep of threescore years;
Death bids us wake and hail the light;
And man, with all his hopes and fears,
Is but a phantom of the night.
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