The Young Shepherds

The sheep, beneath old Buda’s wall, Their wonted quiet rest enjoy; But ah! rude stony fragments fall, And many a silk-wool’d sheep destroy; Two youthful shepherds perish there, The golden George, and Mark the fair.

For Mark, O many a friend grew sad, And father, mother wept for him: George—father, friend, nor mother had, For him no tender eye grew dim: Save one—a maiden far away, She wept—and thus I heard her say:

“My golden George—and shall a song, A song of grief be sung for thee— ’Twould go from lip to lip—ere long By careless lips profaned to be; Unhallow’d thoughts might soon defame The purity of woman’s name.

“Or shall I take thy picture fair, And fix that picture in my sleeve? Ah! time will soon the vestment tear, And not a shade, nor fragment leave: I’ll give not him I love so well To what is so corruptible.

“I’ll write thy name within a book; That book will pass from hand to hand, And many an eager eye will look, But ah! how few will understand! And who their holiest thoughts can shroud