Page:Poetry of the Magyars.djvu/129

Rh How idle on a rush to lean,

Though waving bright its stem of green!

For when the noisy tempest wakes,

How soon it bends! how trembling shakes!

And bows its head.

I leaned upon a treacherous rush;—

He turn'd away, without a blush,

To other maids: but I was young—

Truth in my spirit, on my tongue,

Without parade.

O smitten by high Heaven be he

Who gives his love to two, to three!

I love but one—and if he fail me,

O how could other love avail me!

Me—hapless maid!