Cheskian Anthology/John Kollár
Smělým čelem, gako wlastenec
Genž w swém srdci celý 
In his Slawy Dcera, Kollár's affection for his country and for his Mina is exquisitely delineated, and towards the former no patriot ever poured forth more high-sounded breathings. He weeps "melodious tears" over the ruins of his father-land, and hurls his bitter and eloquent curses against her oppressors. When excited he "speaks daggers." Independently of his poetry he has rendered many services to slavonian philology.
Nenj to zem, ani nebe zcela
In thine incomparable grace exprest;
'Tis holiness in human beauty drest,
Time's shade around immortal brightness thrown:
Now chain'd to fleeting love—and now upflown
From the faint passions of a time-bound breast,
To the unclouded sunshine of the blest;
From dust and darkness—to the lightning's throne.
There stars roll o'er thee,—from whose radiant light
Thou didst receive the rays thou scatter'st round,
While flashing like a vision on the sight;
Say wert thou moulded from the clayey ground,
That I may love thee?—if thou art divine—
An angel—I will worship at thy shrine.
Těžko zrjti, wěřjm, když se w krásy.
When o'er the dawn-clad Tatra the rapt eye
Wanders;—all thought dissolv'd in sympathy,
And words unutter'd into silence roll!
How the heart heaves when thunder-storms eclipse
The sun, and century-rooted oaks uptear:
When Etna opens wide his fiery lips—
Turns pale the star-hair'd moon and shakes the sphere!
Yet this, and more than this, my soul can bear—
But not thine innocent look,—thy gentle smile—
What magic, might, and majesty, are there:
A trembling agitation shakes me, while
Confus'd amidst thy varied charms I see
The powers of earth and heaven all blent in thee.
Malug obraz, genž se zářj hrawau.
The loveliest soul in loveliest body dress;
Bid beauty overflow from every feature—
Bid mind uplift them from earth's narrowness.
Let the eye flash with light from heaven,—and love
Mingle the tenderness of earthly care;
And the tall forehead tower erect, above
Those smiling lips that breathe such odors fair.
Bind living garlands round the snowy brow,
With flowers from every stem and every sphere—
Flowers gay and various as the Iris-bow,
And let that form pour music on the ear,
And sweet slavonian song—thou hast array'd
In shadowy dreams a true slavonian maid.
Přjroda se ze wšeck žiwlů wšudy.
A flower of fadeless beauty—she hath blent
All charms that earth hath held or heaven hath lent—
And in the light of suns and stars array'd
Her form:—from Pallas wisdom—Lada grace,
Hath stol'n—instead of odors which decay:
Cupid and Milek tore the leaves away,
And rounded every limb in three days space.
Then came the higher deities, and pour'd
The graces and the charities—a tongue
Of silver gave, and round the maiden hung
The sympathies of tenderness—who sees
The angel, cries—O born to be ador'd!
Who brought from Stella's groves such charms as these.
Nikdý takým záře šarlatowá.
Whose gems give back its beauty, light and grace,
Is far less lovely than thy lovely face—
Where Lada all her rays of radiance spreads.
The chaste but glowing pencil of the spring,
Which paints the may-rose, has no tint to give
So fair as these thy sweet lips' colouring,
With ever-living smiles that round them live.
The bending of thy beauteous arms is fairer
Than the gold strings of the musician's bow,
So magical:—to what shall I compare her!
To fable's dreams? O no! for here a rarer
And a diviner model I can show—
A foot whose touch moves not the sands below.
Sotwy že se opowážj.
Struggle for wider fields; and beat the wires
Of their poor cage:—impatience makes them blind
In gazing on the light of vain desires,
And they disperse—but hope broods o'er the mind,
And warms its dreams and fans its sleeping fires,
Till like that glorious bird that never tires,
It sits aloft in clouds and stars enshrin'd.
For me has virtue flower'd on love's sweet stem,
At Vesta's altar I have pour'd my vows:
I have tied wreaths of worship round the brows
Of Milek, and I wear his diadem,—
To suffering he the stamp of joy has given,
And poor'd on earth the sunny light of heaven.
spj! O ticho srdce hlasné.
Let every step be silence—birds! be still;
Ye guardian spirits, on your pinions fleet,
Fly—hurry back the sun-light from the hill.
It were a sin to lose an hour so sweet:
Ungrateful not love's mandates to fulfil;—
Disturb her not—kiss gently, eager will,
Those lips—that brow—both love and beauty's seat.
But, as the trembling hand approach'd—afraid
To lift the silken veil that wrapt the maid,
She woke in beautiful emotioh,—threw
Three hundred flashes round her, each a ray
Of lightning—saw the youth—her eyes of blue
Melted—bent down—she whisper'd soft, "good day."
Negen ona ljčka.
Lips, whence young smiles go forth and, where they rest:
A swan-like neck above a snowy breast,
Where many a golden curl light-waving flows.
A forehead bright as sunshine—hazel brows,
Pencil'd as if by art—their orbits drest
In living light of innocence,—repress'd
Each heaving sigh, and every breath that rose
Half-smother'd—thus it was that I was bound;
Love's thousand, thousand fetters me round:
What time he lull'd me with his sweet delusion,
Till I awoke, midst struggling, strife, and care;
Grief fought with hope, and fancy with despair,
And soul with sense—all conﬂict and confusion.
Oči, oči modré
Ye white pearls peeping thro' unfolding buds,
Eyes where earth's azure, and heaven's azure too,
Shine as reflected on the mirrory floods.
From ye—from your own brightness, living schools!
I studied virtue—why did ye impart,
With your instructions, poison to my heart?
Why mingle mischief with your moral rules?
In your first glance the peace-destroyer shot
His mortal arrow thro' me—and it smote
My inmost heart—but yet I murmur not;
But dwell on thought more blessed, tho' remote:
As heaven is gilded by the torch's ray
That lights our funerals on their tomb-bound way.
Wšecko, co gen koli nahromadil.
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.
pstré lauky, a wy hustým njzká.
Encircled round with verdure-covered trees:
O welcome, welcome, beauty's nymph, who sallies—
Throwing bright glances o'er your luxuries;
Is the stream brighter—are the flowers more fair—
Is the high poplar taller—doth the bird
Of the green wood sing sweeter to the air,
And gayer is the reaper's music heard?
Ye winds, bring all your odors—nymphs, that hide
Youselves in grottos, join in dance and song:
Lift up your heads, ye hills, in joy and pride—
Here all is harmony—the maid—the scene—
Here beauty is and incense—here have been—
Such goddess to such temple doth belong.
Negen že ge slowanského.
She is a simple and a smiling flower;
Tho' the obdurate frank and saxon's power
Have sought to rose the impress of the gem.
Oh! many erring sons of Slawa know
Too little of her glories—they conspire,
Her language—their sire's fame—to overthrow,
Nor heed the frownings of celestial ire.
A heart as pure as are the pearls of dew—
An english spirit in a child-like guise—
A magic on the lips and in the eyes,
And friendship's strength, and beauty's sparkling hue.
Ye fame-full tribes and tongues! since heaven has given
All this, what more would ye expect from heaven?
Uzřew ondy plnoskwaucj.
With rays as rainbows brilliant, lo! it seems
As if thy smile upon its pale face beams
With more than lunar light: for love disguises
All objects, and in passionate fondness I
Pour'd out my heart, and wildly held dicourse
With that supernal queen, until the hoarse
Laugh of the mountains shook the starry sky.
Then to night's spectre-spirits did I cry
Impatient—and they tarried in their course,
And bid the gentle stars of heaven reply:
"We have sent forth a sister from on high,
Clad all in love and light and beauty—she,
Slawa! was sent to minister to thee."
Na rtech těchto, srdce twého prahu.
Thy bright eyes, and thy building soul—I lay
My love's unshaken—its eternal vow—
Its oaths—its pledge—yes! Mina! hear me say:
"Time overrules the world—makes all its prey—
Time calls us where all time is buried now:
Yet I am thine for aye—record it so—
Thou glorious heaven—thou star-girt milky way!"
I bend me from the clouds—my name is fate;
On thee I look in pity—for tho' peace
Is in thy vow—yet war must be thy doom;
And I shall chase thee in thy restlessness—
Whither and when—I say not—soon or late—
Perchance a better—brighter day may come.
Ode Babigory w tomto rauše stjnu.
(A spirit with a naked sword.)
"A shadowy form I omne from Babigōr;
Sent by thy country to her doubting son—
O! on love's triflings waste thy soul no more:
Mina, or country-choose, and choose but one."
(A spirit with a bent bow.)
"I visit thee from love's flower-scatter'd shore;
Three days my arrow Lada has possess'd
To sharpen—tell me, I implore—
Dost love thy country or thy Mina best?"
The midnight struck—I left the awful spot:
My eye still fix'd upon the misty shade—
The sword—the arrow—Mina—country—what
But doubt and silence—on my breast I laid
My hand—tore out and broke in twain my heart—
My country!—Mina!—each shall have a part.
Geště čnj ten domek! poljbenj.
Mine own sweethome, and fling renew'd adieus—
Onward, my steps, O onward! lest my weeping
O'erpower me with the thoughts of what I lose.
I see thy golden doors—awake or sleeping,
Thou land of peace—like sunbeams midst the dews:
Vain dreams! for I thro' darksome woods am creeping—
I have no mansion, but the clouds' wild hues.
Turn not, O turn not back—shine, day-star, shine!
Ye birds of heaven pour out your loudest songs—
Lift, thou fierce storm, that awful voice of thine—
Shout mountains, shout! what pang to man belongs,
Man may bear bravely—I resolve—and yet
Turn back—and then I feel my eyes are wet.
Lasko! lasko! ó ty sladký klame.
Thou golden cup with treacheries o'erflowing:
Thou twixt two hearts—with tendrils strong up-growing
Dost bind them—'till they melt in common fusion.
Earth and heaven's blessedness seems theirs—enjoy
The fleeting moment, for the storm is waking—
It blackens—bursts—and heaven and earth are shaking:
That storm the boat and boatman may destroy.
Daughter of heaven; where art thou? Thou sweet guest,
Whom I have often welcom'd to my breast:
Thou child of flowers—thou fountain-head of care!
I launch'd my bark for thy bright pork—but heaven
Frown'd;—with a broken rose-stem was I driven
Upon the rocks—nought but briars were there.
Ku barbarům rodu Awarského.
To the Avaric savage—in their hands
Their own slavonian citharas they hold:
"And who are ye!" the haughty Khan demands;
Frowning from his barbaric throne, "and where—
Say where your warriors—where your sisters be."
"We are slavonians, monarch! and came here
From the far borders of the baltic sea:
We know no wars—no arms to us belong—
We cannot swell your ranks—'tis our employ
Alone to sing the dear domestic song"—
And then they touch'd their harps in doubtful joy.
"Slaves!" said the tyrant—"these to prison lead,
For they are precious hostages indeed."
Garo wzniká, mlhy plašj slunce.
The gentle airs play lovingly together,
And on the green boughs, shaded from the weather;
The nightingales are singing rapturous lays:
The seeds are swelling for the harvest days—
The squirrels springing, and the bulls are prancing—
The butterflies along the pram dancing,
And the bees singing endless roundelays.
There's universal joy—or eloquent,
Or silent—yet 'tis joy—and love, and gladness;
While I—poor devotee of woe and sadness,
On spring and summer turn a hopeless eye:—
Dark is the sun to me—joy's a fountain dry,
Since from my soul, that soul's sweet life was rent.
Čekeg tamto nad Šumawau málo.
Our own bohemian hills—above our woods;
O tarry: 'tis alone thine influence fills
With rays of light Bohemia's solitudes;
And as thy mission is of peace and joy,
Chace thou the evil dreams of darkness—pour
Bright greetings—and the shades of grief destroy,
And bless the love which calls thee to watch o'er
And witness its deep faithfulness—Awake
Some splendor in mine eyes, and bear to her,
Beneath whose influence; and for whose sweet sake
I would be gay—O golden monarch! bear
To her all beams of beauty and of bliss,
And let thy smile—cheeks, lips, and eyelids kiss.
Sláwie! O Sláwie! ty gmeno.
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.
sláwy rumy geště .
From old Slavonia's ruins, shall re-build
Her temple—from the congregated stones
The bards shall speak; and be their songs fulfill'd!
Regenerate now your country—for its name
Is glory—shield her from a stranger's grasp,
And O! let never selfish avarice clasp
Slavonia in her arms of sinful shame!
To many members she hath one sole head—
Her nervous limbs from one sole body grow—
From one sole source her mingled waters flow!
Why should her sons through tortuous pathways lead?
Divide?—'twere nobler far—a close link'd band,
To claim one glorious, father-land.
Nechtěg , když se proti tobě.
Sharp and malevolent, may pierce ye through—
Yet wound not truth by weakness, nor undo
Her victories by mistrust—nor faint—nor fly—
Since truth should stand erect, and lift on high
Her glorious standard; for she can subdue
Resistance into fealty—blasphemy
Into pure worship,—into reverence true.
Truth is a storme on Lebanon, that shaketh
The mighty cedars which resist her shock;
Oppos'd—far mightier is the stir she maketh—
Her tongue is as a word—her breath a rock—
Her heart is marble—pillars are her hands,
And trampling down her foes, with granite feet she stands.
Oni rtowé, gegichž wůně plynná.
Which have pour'd out so much of peace and pleasure;
A stream of. light and sweetness, without measure:
To those—to those alone, my pangs are owing.
So to the pilgrim in Arabia's fields;
Perfumes and balsams come—but drawing nigh,
He feels the fierceness of a burning sky,
And faints amidst the odours which it yields.
Her lips are full of manna and of nectar—
Heaven's fragrant breezes play—as to protect her;
And yet she breathes sweet poison, for there sits
Perdition on those lips, in Love's own shape;
And thence he wings his fiery darts in fits,
And he has struck me—how should I escape?
Hory, hory, slyšte hory skalné.
Rocks upon rocks up to the cloudy sky,
Build me a temple on your summits high,
Whence I may reach that angel, far exil'd.
Ye towering mountains upon mountains pil'd!
Ye gathering streams that, thro' your beds beguil'd,
Roll thundering to the Ocean's majesty,
Singing loud anthems as ye hasten by—
Bear these, my tears, uncheck'd and undefil'd.
Ye gathering streams to ocean's depths that hie!
Ye winds, ye breezes, wherefore are ye still?
Freshen and bear my sighs to her high throne:
Take pity—hasten—and my prayers fulfil—
Ye winds, ye breezes, wherefore are ye still?
Waft me to her, seraphic messengers,
Or her to me—nor let me pine alone;
For what are clouds, or storms, or ghostly fears?
Waft me to her, seraphic messengers!
Ani audol Tater těchto tichá.
O'er which the green-brow'd mountains girt with stone
Raise up to heaven their adamantine walls,
Making midst stars and clouds a glorious throne.
Not Pison pouring to Euphrate's tide,
Its golden-water fountain—not the juice
Which medicine's marvellous craft did erst produce
When Vulcan fann'd the fire—these will not hide,
These will not heal, my sorrows—I can find
No freshening stream to cool my burning breast,
No ointment on the wounds of life to bind—
Without its nymphs sweet Tempe were unblest;
Without its maidens, what were Arcady?
Without its Eve, what's paradise to me?
Rcete ženci, co tam se srpečky.
While binding up your sheaves of golden corn,
A little, laughing, lovely boy, around
Whose curly locks a harvest-wreath is bound?
Ye shepherds, who with dew-damp feet, at morn
Track your white lambs—say have ye seen forlorn
A gentle joyous child, that o'er the ground
Trips sportively? Ye forests, that adorn
The mountains—ye sweet birds—ye flowing rills—
Ye list'ning rocks—heard ye that voice's sound,
Whose strain of music thro' creation thrills?
If ye have seen not—heard not—pity me—
Help me to find the maid I love—and be
Milder than unrelenting destiny.
Záře zlatá stkwj se nad wýchodem.
The eagle on strong pinion mounts on high,
O'er the calm lake the swan glides peacefully,
The white lambs on the verdant meadow play,
The songster tells his mate, that day is nigh—
The flowers are mirrors, made by dewdrops' ray,
The bolts and bars of human dwellings fly,
And noise rolls o'er the lately silent way:
The darkness and the weariness are past
Of yesternight—and now the morning breaks
In light and beauty undisturb'd—a vast
And glorious renovation; but for me
No morn of hope—no day of brightness wakes—
'Tis an eternal night of misery.
Dunagi, ty i wšech toků knjže.
Of all Slavonia, venerable mother!
Why to a foreign ocean dost thou flow,
Why leave thy native home to seek another?
O! if thou love thy birth-place, if thou know
Pity for these thy sorrowing children—glide
Not to the Osmans, but these tears of woe
Bear to thy cradle on thy silver tide.
Dost thou seek wreaths of fame?—it is no fame
To bear a hundred ships upon thy face
While it is water'd by a single tear—
Yet this is glory—when Wletava here
Joins to thy name its own fraternal name,
And thy bride Saale speeds to thine embrace.
O, wy drahé zbytky mého pádu.
O would that Pope, or of the Iliad, he
Could sing the tresses of thy golden hair,
In music, blessed maiden! worthy thee.
Had l the fleece of Argos—did l bear
A sultan's sceptre—dwell in palaces—
Rule half the world—thou, thou far more than these—
Thou, hundred times saluted prize, wert dear.
Thou, while it vibrates—thou my heart's own key!
Thou, who art beauty—who art all to me:
Thou—not disdainful—like a worldly maiden,
Say, when the wild wind with my dust is laden,
Wilt thou not take thy seat in heaven—a star
Where Berenice's tresses shine afar?
Na tě mysljm, když tmy šeré hynau.
And morning's ray spreads slowly o'er the hills;
When girt with stars and clouds, the morn on high
Smiles on the birchen grove and gilds the rills.
I hear thee in the gentle music, made
By streams that rush to other streams—by flowers
That whisper to the winds, or catch the showers—
Or green leaves rustling in the vernal glade.
Thee do I see—thee would I recognize—
A pilgrim hasting to a holy shrine;
When mists that seem all-sacred wrap the skies,
With thee I dwell, and I am ever thine;
Thus soul-united—there shall never be
Aught but my grosser nature far from thee.
z dálky lastowičko.
The spring is melting every icy stream—
Build 'neath my roof thine unmolested nest;
Here be thy quiet home of peace—nor deem
The bard intrusive, if he bid thee tell
Of distant lands and distant beauties—say
If from yon plains, where all the graces dwell,
She gave thee no sweet message on thy way.
"Thither I flew, for I had often heard
Of charms that dazzled every flitting bird—
Thither I flew, to gaze upon the maid:
But I was so bewilder'd, when I saw,
That eloquent fame itself had failed to draw
Her form—I fled—in silence and afraid."
Znáš li krag ten ony ráge .
The home of beauty and the seat of mind—
Where virtue is the minister of love—
Love; beauty, virtue, intellect enshrin'd,
All-influential: where the breezes blow
Odorous and mild; and nightingales from bowers
Of myrtles sing unceasing—palm trees grow,
O'ershading to protect the sunny flowers.
Know’st thou the land where neither night not heat
Blacken or blast—no thorns the roses bear,
And pure desires their swift fruition meet:—
Time's stream rolls on untroubled at time's feet;
Wife—sister—each, as other, pure and dear—
O mine for lasting ages! Thou art there.
Patři wůkol gako žlutnau hole.
And town and village welcome wanderers home;
Where play'd the zephyr air—the north winds roam;
Where songs of joy were heard, is peace pervading—
Still is the stream—the storks are now parading
Our borders,—with the sun prepar'd to go:
The flowers that on the Danube's borders grow
Are borne away—the yellow vine leaf fading.
But sight and scene shall not be clouded long—
Earth shall throw off its mourning robes again,
And May shall come with extacy and song;
But not to me—ah not for me—in vain
The seasons change: no renovating spring
Shall to my autumn light and verdure bring.
The following sonnets have not, I believe, been published:
I have been favoured with them in M.S.
Nechci zlata, nápoge a gidla.
Nor titles—no; nor diadems—vain things!
I would not have such trifles if I could;
But glory! thou, my mother! give me wings,
Yes! give me wings, and I will fly and greet
Slavonia's scatter'd brothers—I will go
And whence the Visla and the Volga flow.
So, like a bee, from flower to flower I’ll fly
To all Slavonia's children 'neath the sky,
Dispensing music as I pass along
And sweet my task and great my bliss will be
To pour out smiles on every family,
And cheer each mother and each maid with song.
Co ge wrtký u oblohy.
Moves on inconstant—now in brightness shining—
Now clouded—now towards the hills declining—
Now lifts its face, and now its horn on high:
So falsely midst the treach'rously
Doth love deceive, and laugh at mortal men—
Now opens Eden to our ravish'd eye,
Then flings us back to wretchedness again.
As he whom sunlight guides upon his way,
But little heeds the moon's inferior ray,
So do I turn me from love's feeble name;
Since heaven, that makes great gifts the lesser follow,
Took Cupid to replace him by Apollo—
Beckon'd off Venus—and led forward Fame.
nemoc ukracuge léta.
Some fall a rival's enmity beneath,
Sharp steel, or pinion'd-lead sends others home—
Poison and thunder fill the nets of death:
Some are o'erpower'd by wasting pestilence—
The murderer's bloody stroke is some men's doom,
The headsman summons others to the tomb,
But I—am called by love to speed me hence.
Bring back my song, thou listening earth and sea—
Love has for some sweet transports—but for me,
Nothing but sorrowing dreams and wailings drear:
Then pity me, thou outspread arch of heaven—
To some hath love its nuptial blessings given—
To me a grave—a dungeon, and a bier.
Gaké barwy! gaké spanilosti.
What beauties scattering on that lovely shore;
Flowrets! so blue, so meek, so lowly growing—
Ye fair forget-me-nots—thus sprinkled o'er.
O! I have seen in other distant lands,
The self-same glances of your azure eyes—
Then still the tumult of my stormy sighs,
And strengthen all my heart with firmer bands.
Would that it were my lot, ye starry flowers!
To mingle with your buds, the banks along
Of Rakosh, and the silver current strong
Of Saalē—I would tell the flowing hours
Your name, and bid them mark, that wintry fate
Destroy'd you, only to resuscitate.
Pahorek gest, na rozwaliny.
Feed on the ruins of an ancient tower;
A little city lifts its head beneath,
And a small house which linden-trees embower.
Upon its heaven-regarding roof, the sun
Pours forth the very brightest of his rays:
It is the temple of a mighty one,
Whom fame hath visited with loud-voic'd praise.
For many a year, had fearful signs of weeping,
And frightful sounds of woe, that dwelling ﬁll'd;
Now 'tis beneath the wings of silence sleeping:
Love hath the dreams, the wounds, the sorrows still'd
Which broke the rest of fame, and driven away
The bear, the lion, and the beasts of prey.
O půl noci, když zem celau skrýwá.
The belt of snow have girded all the earth,
I wander forth, in passion and in pain,
From her, who gave that pain and passion birth.
The damp-cold north wind lifts its voices loud—
Its many voices, Maker! unto thee;
And bursting thro' a broken silvery cloud,
The moon looks down with tenderness on me.
Pour forth thy light from thy o'erflowing chalice
Of radiant beams, and let them nightly flow
Over the crooked path I tread below:—
I am no thief, no minister of malice,
No runaway, no conscience-smitten—no!—
To love and Lada all my grief I owe.
Ač giž mi .
Yes! many days mourning from morn to eve,
And fate my grief to grief more gloomy turning—-
Flung worlds between us; therefore do I grieve
With deeper pang, and therefore bear a chain,
Whom heavy weight no patience can endure,
And like a froward infant weep in vain
O'er wounds that nought can soothe and nought can cure.
So midst these torments roll my life-days o'er,
And hope is dissipated all in dreams—
In Nebosh cells, and distant Dalibor;
Yet still I bear—unbending—fancy's schemes
Console me, and I kiss the chains she bound
My miserable helplessness around.
- O how illustrious is the patriot's part,
Struggling for freedom with a constant heart.
- The highest of the Carpathian mountains.
- This is the 102nd sonnet of Kollár's . It is one of those of which Joseph Wenzy has published translations. Dcera
- The Danube.
- The slavonian rivers that flow into the Danube.
- Slawo, matko mila! this invocation loses its effect where the analogy is lost between Glory and Slavonia.
- Rakosh is a celebrated field near Pesth, through which a stream flows, and above which a mountain rises. In former times the hungarians held their assemblies and consultations there, whence came the name of Rokoš or Rakoš—the place of counsel.
- Appendix to Slawy Dcera.
- A fortress-prison in Belgrad. When the turks throw a criminal into its dungeons, they say Neboi sa, (fear not), whence its name.