Against white Buda’s walls, a vine
Doth its white branches fondly twine:
O no! it was no vine-tree there
It was a fond, a faithful pair,
Bound each to each in earliest vow--
And, O! they must be severed now!
And these their farewell words:--“We part--
Break from my bosom--break--my heart!
Go to a garden--go, and see,
Some rose-branch blushing on the tree;
And from that branch a rose-flower tear,
Then place it on thy bosom bare;
And as its leavelets fade and pine,
So fades my sinking heart in thine.”
And thus the other spoke: “My love!
A few short paces backward move,
And to the verdant forest go;
There’s a fresh water-fount below;
And in the fount a marble stone,
Which a gold cup reposes on;
And in the cup a ball of snow--
Love! take that ball of snow to rest
Upon thine heart within thy breast,
And as it melts unnoticed there,
So melts my heart in thine, my dear!”
One other poem may suffice for a specimen of the delicacy of feeling in
a Servian bosom, influenced by the master-passion.