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FRANCIS KAZINCZI.
61
As I grew older,
Beautiful visions
Glanc'd thro' the foliage
Of the old oak trees;
Near the clear streamlet
Rising irriguous,
Visions of beauty
Which my song chaunted.
Then did my country
And her bright children
Waken its music—
Then did love's passion
Thrill thro' the harp-strings,
And the bright eye-balls
Of that divine one,
Who in the darkness
Of the green garden,
Beam'd—and fled smiling.
Wicked one! darting
Into my bosom—
And then departing.
