217
Sonnet 72.
Sláwie! O Sláwie! ty gmeno.
Slavonia! glory-breathing name, surrounded
With mingling mists of pleasure and of pain:
Now torn by sorrow—now by treachery wounded—
Now, breaking into light and strength again.
From the Karpathian to the Ural brows,
From sandy wastes that wake the summer's heat;
To where its ray falls powerless on the snows—
Thou art enshrin'd in thy majestic seat!
Thou hast o'erliv'd misfortune—hast withstood
The idol worship of the nations round,
E'en thy own children's black ingratitude;
And thou hast rear'd thee, on the eternal ground,
A temple from the ruins of old time,
Whence thou pour'st forth thine energies sublime.L
