O Dorothea! those Hungarian hills
That bred thy beauty seem so dear to me
That often such a passionate longing thrills
My soul to see that country, I could weep
To think how loves are sundered by the sea!
That age must evermore the fireside keep!
Ulysses could not: strength was giv'n to him
Of mind and body. Were I such as he—
As resolute of heart, as lithe of limb—
I too would start as pilgrim—oh, how soon!
To see the land whose brooks the Danube swell,
Soon as that river leaves Germania's rim,
By Buda's bridge, by boats and eitadel,
To seek the Euxine under the new moon
That rules Byzantium still, though not for aye;
But since I never may behold that realm,
Nor tread in June the vineyards of Tokai,
I will not let that sorrow overwhelm
My spirit wholly, but will count it grace,
If I may never breathe Carpathian air,
To think of Hungary, looking on a face
And one slight figure that was moulded there.