Page:Poetry of the Magyars.djvu/123

Rh

! I fling no reproaches at thee,

For thou hast been gentle and gen'rous to me;

And ne'er would I echo the slanders unkind,

Which call thee unjust, or vindictive, or blind.

Thou look'st on my love with no menacing air,

But wouldst help me to win while I worship the fair;

And while joy piled on joy flings delight on my days,

Let thine be the glory, and thine be the praise.

The first vernal song, and the first vernal leaf,

And Nature's sweet childhood—so beauteous and brief;

And the nightingale's strain—and the rivulet's fall—

And the light breeze—are thine—music, beauty, and all.

And the summer, when cypresses shade me from heat,

And the zephyrs come freshen'd, to kiss my retreat;

Where the tent is above, and the wine-cup goes round,

And the flowers smile below—thou, O Fortune! art found.

From autumn's rich harvest thou hasten'st to pour

Pomegranates and citrons—a limitless store;

Or leadst to the chace, when I follow the prey—

The bird in its flight, or wild beast on its way. Rh