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 give not 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?” {168}