Read Ebook: Songs of the Slav by Bezru Petr Ech Svatopluk H Lek V T Zslav Koll R J N Machar J S Kotou Otto Translator

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Ebook has 1555 lines and 58306 words, and 32 pages

JAN KOLL?R PAGE

THE DAUGHTER OF SL?VA 7

V?T?ZSLAV H?LEK

EVENING SONGS 9

SVATOPLUK ?ECH

SONGS OF THE SLAVE 12

PETR BEZRU?

ONE MELODY 27

SILESIAN FORESTS 28

A RED BLOSSOM 29

YOU AND I 30

J. S. MACHAR

ON GOLGOTHA 32

A FANTASTIC BALLAD 38

A SONNET OF THE PAST 40

A SONNET OF LIFE 41

TO MY MOTHER 42

THE SPIRAL, OR ON THE DECLINE OF A CENTURY 43

SONGS OF THE SLAV

THE DAUGHTER OF SL?VA

JAN KOLL?R

A hundred times I spoke, but now I call To you divided, O Slavonians! Let's be a whole and not a part in clans; Be one in harmony or naught at all.

A dove-like nation we in scorn are styled. But doves you know are come of such a stock That loves to live within a common flock, And so may you apply this trait reviled.

O Slavs, thou race of many fragments! United forces e'er results will show, But waste and dry the circling currents.

O Slavs, who are of many heads a race! The wise indeed a death no worse can know Than life that sloth, void, darkness doth embrace.

What will become of Slavs in hundred years? What will the whole of Europe come to be? Slav life, just as a mighty flow appears, Shall everywhere extend its boundary.

That tongue, which German henchmen falsely low Proclaimed a tongue of slaves to all around, Shall 'neath our rival's palace ceilings sound And even spoken be by lips of foe.

Sciences shall likewise Slav channels see; Our people's customs, dress and music will On both the Seine and Danube modish be.

O would that I had rather been born when The Slavs shall rulers be! Or better still, I shall then rise up from my grave again.

EVENING SONGS

V?T?ZSLAV H?LEK

"Unmeet it is for man to lack In song," once God in judgment spake, Created man a poet then, And bade him this allotment take:

"So long as thou liv'st know no peace, But only learn of pain instead; And disappointed too in hope, In tears eat thou thy daily bread.

"Torn be thy heart and bled from wounds, But thyself only see thy bleeding; Though hounded over every bound, Love thou but all the more and sing."

It is us singers' common lot, The world may only know our songs, To know what prompted us to sing, To none within this world belongs.

O Lord, of every claim to gift I have, my soul here now I free; But leave to me the gift of song, That only do I beg of thee.

If thou shouldst take my gift to sing, Naught longer then is life to me; And gav'st me Fortune for my song, I care not fortunate to be.

Whoever plays with golden strings, Him honor more than thyself even; For know that God did love thee so, He needs must send him thee from heaven.

'Tis terrible when plague and want To God's chastisement must belong; Of punishments the greatest though, Is when a nation lacks in song.

That race indeed has yet to die, That had its prophets still to sing; And every song that's born in heaven In even death new life doth bring.

Cast ye not stones at your prophets, For like the birds bards are alone: They never will return to him Who casts but once at them a stone.

A nation seeks God's punishment When unrevered its bards it wrongs; And direst is the curse of God, Whenever he withdraws his songs.

A poet's heart is truly pure, And likewise from all wrath apart, And from his heart whate'er he sings, That carry thou within thy heart.

A hundred years passed 'ere I came Upon the grave that once was mine; The sexton sang my song and piled My bones with others in that shrine.

"O sexton, find for me that heart From which you snatched the song you sing!" The sexton wondered long and sought, Save bones he could not find a thing.

Then from his grave he rose and spake: "That, sir, with us no difference makes, Ten hearts can'st thou perchance possess, The grave wastes all of them it takes."

He finished digging, and I sighed: "O heart of mine, there thou didst end." The sexton as consoling adds, "When hearts stop song, so all doth tend."

SONGS OF THE SLAVE

SVATOPLUK ?ECH

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