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Sonnet 33.
Wšecko, co gen koli nahromadil.
O my Slavonia! many are the blows
Which time and unkind destiny have laid
Upon thy helplessness—thy children, foes;
By sons—by strangers—by the world betray'd,
Tatars, and magyars, and that cruel nation,
Deceitful germans—who unpeopled thee;
Yet love, sweet love, hath found thee compensation,
And a rich recompence for injury—
Thy native tongue—and would they but have bann'd it,
The shame it had been ours e'en more than theirs:
It was no wonder that their cunning plann'd it,
Yet when pretence puts forth her foreign airs,
In silence, O Slavonia! understand it,
For idle noise no fruit of wisdom bears.