Cheskian Anthology/To Fr. Lad. Čelakowsky
Yes! song should greet the son of song;
To him whose truth-taught pen imparts
The simple thoughts of simple hearts,
The offerings of such hearts belong;
And thou hast waked so sweet a strain,
That Albion echoes it again.
Thy bard,[1] (Slavonia! hold him dear,
As worthy of thy brighter day!)
Whose spirit shall extend the ray
That flits across the silent tear,
Which sadness in its gloom lets fall
On Slava's melancholy pall:—
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.
