Another story that proves the power of good literature: The Cypress Crown by La Motte Fouque translated from the French by an anonymous or uncredited Dutch translator. The translation is a literal one, but despite the minor awkwardness (although it does add interest) of some of the phrasing, the story is still well told and evocative. It is proof that a great story can transcend language differences. The meaning here is not 'lost in translation' -- still eerie, still gloomy, still sad.
PRESERVE thy sighs, unthrifty girl. To purify the air; Thy tears to thread, instead of pearl, On bracelets of thy hair. The trumpet makes the echo hoarse, And wakes the louder drum; Expense of grief gains no remorse When sorrow should be dumb: For I must go where lazy Peace Will hide her drowsy head, And, for the sport of kings, increase The number of the dead. But first I'll chide thy cruel theft: Can I in war delight Who, being of my heart bereft, Can have no heart to fight? Thou know'st the sacred laws of old Ordained a thief should pay, To quit him of his theft, sevenfold What he had stol'n away. Thy payment shall but double be: O then with speed resign My own seduced heart to me Accompanied with thine.
This poem was modernized by A. H. Bullen, from Musa Proterva: Love-Poems of he Restoration; London: privately printed; 1889, pp. 6-7.