The sheep, beneath old Buda’s wall,
Their wonted quiet rest enjoy;
But ah! rude stony fragments fall.
And many a silk-wool’d sheep destroy;
Two youthful shepherds perish there,
The golden George, and Mark the fair.
For Mark, O many a friend grew sad,
And father, mother wept for him:
George--father, friend, nor mother had,
For him no tender eye grew dim:
Save one--a maiden far away,
She wept--and thus I heard her say:
“My golden George--and shall a song,
A song of grief be sung for thee--
’Twould go from lip to lip--ere long
By careless lips profaned to be;
Unhallow’d thoughts might soon defame
The purity of woman’s name.
“Or shall I take thy picture fair,
And fix that picture in my sleeve?
Ah! time will soon the vestment tear.
And not a shade, nor fragment leave:
I’ll not give him I love so well
To what is so corruptible.
“I’ll write thy name within a book;
That book will pass from hand to hand.
And many an eager eye will look,
But ah! how few will understand!--
And who their holiest thoughts can shroud
From the cold insults of the crowd?”
[139] The leech.
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