folk-poetry, and the verdict never alters; the joy bestowed by a kiss surpasses all other joys. A Hungarian ballad runs thus:
As the hart holds dear the fountain,
And the bee the honied flow'rets,
So the noble grape I cherish;
After this songs melting, tender,
Kisses, too, of lips of crimson,
As thine own, O Cenzi mine.
But the wine's might fires my senses,
And songs wake within me blitheness,
And with love intoxicated,
With thy love, mine own belovèd.
And my heart no more is longing
After purple, after gew-gaws,
After what the others long for.
Happy am I in the clinking
Of the goblet filled with rich wine;
Happier still amidst sweet singing;
But my happiness were greatest,
Dared I press my kisses on a
Mouth, and that mouth only thine.
W. F. H.
The same idea is still more delicately expressed in the following Servian ballad:
Proudly cried a golden orange
On the breezy shore:
"Certainly nowhere happiness
Is found to equal mine."
