'Neath the very towers thou scalest, now the spoil of fate,
Once a noble Magyar monarch kept his kingly state —
Great Corvinus, who Mohammed's flooding hosts could stem,
He by Rome's throned bishop counted worthiest Stephen's
There below, within the valley, lay his gallant men,
Resting from their hard-earned triumphs o'er the Saracen ;
And a strange, wild tale is told us from that gray old time,
Ever still of love and sorrow — would'st thou learn it, hear
my rhyme !
THE MAGYAR MAID.
'Twas a day when Autumn hazes floated soft and still,
Lighter than Titania's vesture, over sky and hill ;
And the sun, flushed as a lover, left the earth so fair
With his golden smiles of promise filling all the rosy air.