To what thou art.

IV.

No laurel can we weave into the crown
Long years entwine,
Nor add one honour into the renown
Already thine:

V.

Yet might these roses waft to thee a breath
Of memory,
Recalling thy fair Saint Elizabeth
Of Hungary

VI.

We welcome her, from out those days of old,
In song divine,
But thee we greet a thousand fold,
The song is thine!

--C.B.

[Presumably written by Constance Bache, this trite paean would
likely not have appealed to Liszt, who repeatedly affirmed his
humility.]