A Bacsian Song

There, is on Bacsia's happy land,
There is upon the Tiszian strand,
A maiden—from whose face there streameth
Light, as from any star that beameth.

She holds a fragrant violet,
And a red paony, that's wet,
That's wet, that's fed with heavenly dew—
A favorite of the maiden too,

She is as radiant as the morn,
Her eye-light pierces like a thorn;
Her form is grace and majesty;
The world has nought so fair as she.

Her graceful, gentle, easy gait;
Her tones so soft, so smooth, so sweet:
It were no sin to build a shrine,
And bend before her as divine.