viii
Has he not sung—and bards, my friend!
Are prophets still—that sunlight breaks
Upon Slavonia?—lo! she wakes,
(May blessings on her path attend!)
From slumbering ages, wakes at length
In beauty, dignity, and strength.
When wandering through Bohemia's land,
Uncertain where to rove or rest,
Thou of all guides, the kindest, best,
Didst lead me with fraternal hand
Through flowers—(thy country’s sweetest dower)
And teach the name of every flower.
Here have I wreath'd them, and for whom—
For whom but thee? the garland wear:
I've waved it in our english air,
And now it breathes a new perfume,
I send the flow'rets back to thee,
Odorous with love and sympathy.
