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ALEXANDER KISFALUDY.
79
I. DAL. 7.
Mint a' szarvas, kit megére.
As the suffering hart confounded
By the lance that tears his veins;
Flies—in vain—for he is wounded,
Vainly flies to woods or plains:
Since thy piercing eye look'd thro' me,
So I flee—and vainly flee;
Still thy magic barbs pursue me—
I am wounded, maid! by thee.
And the wound but seems the stronger,
As my flight is further—longer—
Smitten heart! alas! thy pain
Seeks relief or rest in vain.
