FITTING perfumes to prepare,And to raise thy rapture high, Must a thousand rosebuds fairFirst in fiery torments die.
One small flask's contents to glean,Whose sweet fragrance aye may live, Slender as thy finger e'en,Must a world its treasures give;Yes, a world where life is moving,Which, with impulse full and strong, Could forbode the Bulbul's loving,Sweet, and spirit-stirring song.
Since they thus have swell'd our joy,Should such torments grieve us, then?
Doth not Timur's rule destroyMyriad souls of living men?
1815.*
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