Were I but the Matra-hill,
Czenczi! that for centuries long
Thou mightst look upon my brow!
Were I the pale Duna-stream,
The proud Duna-stream, that thou
Hundred years in me mightst bathe!
Were I Ætna's burning mount,
That for ages I might be,
Czenczi! warmth and glow to thee!
But, not Matra-hill, nor pale
Duna—ah! nor burning Ætna,
Can I ever, ever be.
Well, then, let us both improve
The swift lightning-flash of time,
Life! nor let the rapid spark
Hurry unenjoy'd away.
Let us seize them—we enjoy
Hundred years—aye! thousand years;
Though we are—but what we were,
And must needs be—mortal things.