234
Sonnet.
Gaké barwy! gaké spanilosti.
What colors! what sweet fragrance ye are throwing,
What beauties scattering on that lovely shore;
Flowrets! so blue, so meek, so lowly growing—
Ye fair forget-me-nots—thus sprinkled o'er.
O! I have seen in other distant lands,
The self-same glances of your azure eyes—
Then still the tumult of my stormy sighs,
And strengthen all my heart with firmer bands.
Would that it were my lot, ye starry flowers!
To mingle with your buds, the banks along
Of Rakosh,[1] and the silver current strong
Of Saalē—I would tell the flowing hours
Your name, and bid them mark, that wintry fate
Destroy'd you, only to resuscitate.- ↑ Rakosh is a celebrated field near Pesth, through which a stream flows, and above which a mountain rises. In former times the hungarians held their assemblies and consultations there, whence came the name of Rokoš or Rakoš—the place of counsel.
