Songs of the Slav
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.
III
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.
IV
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.
10
