Who loves the languor of emotions, the bliss of voluptuousness
And does not soar to Asian parts with his soul?
What ardent youth in the world of happiness
Does not thirst to squander the young century?
Let him fly there, exchange his cross for a turban,
And populate his brilliant harem with beauty!
There he will get to know and appreciate the joy of life
And recapture the lost Eden! . .
There is a feast for feelings and eyes!
Eastern beauties,
One sweeter than the other,
One more playful than the other,
Obedient slave girls,
Will die with him each moment!
With the soul of a demigoddess
In fiery ecstacies
His soul will flow together
Fall asleep -- and again wake up,
Again to drown
In an abyss of delight!
There a burning breast
Attracts the imagination;
There a white arm
Lightly beckons to him
And passionately embraces him;
One kisses him
Burns and languishes,
Another sings to him,
And sweetly . . .
Charming girls
Light as Zephyres
Flutter, circle around,
Now curl around him, now fly about,
Now rapidly line up.
Meanwhile in the smoke of a hookah pipe,
On a velvety divan
The sybarite in love
Reclines in luxury
Devouring with his gaze
The movements of the houris of paradise,
He trembles and burns
And to the voluptuous maiden
The desired pledge of happiness,
His kerchief flies . . .
Oh, begone from my breast, disappear, holy sign,
Ancient cross of fathers and grandfathers!
Where is the splendid turban, the prophet's Koran?
When can I move to the gardens of the charming East
Away from parts harmful to me?
What is law to me? What is <god's punishment> --
The punisher of my bliss?
More pleasant is the flowering path to hell
Than to paradise, when I ought not to live for it.
All is lost! Thunder of Perun,
May you rage over my head!
Enchantments of Sodom,
I am yours to my dying days! . .
But where is the harem, where is she,
My beautiful slave girl?
Who is this young goddess,
Half-nude, like spring,
Fresh, attractive, shapely,
Who frolicks in the aromatic bath?
On whose heavenly beauty
Hair vexingly playfully
Falls in a pleasant wave?
Whose voluptuous foot
Plays in the aromatic water
Whose straying hand
Plays tricks over a gracious secret?
Whom does the zealous crowd
Of obedient slave girls pamper?
Whose hot blood melts
In the embraces of a fiery maiden?
Who is this happy young man? . .
Ah, where am I? What's happened to me?
She put on coverings
She is being lead -- she comes:
Love awaitens her on the bed . . .
He breathes
On the languid breast,
He hears
A love declaration,
He kisses
His bliss
He caresses
And fondles it,
Kisses
The charming flower
Picks it
And drinks its breath.
Thus the priest of love, the game of dangerous passions,
Sang of the rapture of foreign lands
And revived in voluptuous dreams
The feelings of charming deceit.
He sang . . And the idols of his soul
Secretly surrounded him
And at this moment he would not have exchanged
His harem for any robes of rulers.
Between 1826 and 1828