France Preseren

O happier half of days decreed to me,
My early years, so soon you passed away:
Few were the flowers that blossomed on that tree,
And they, scarce budded, fell into decay

1 Let my poem, like a shrine, contain - your name;
In my heart shall ever proudly reign - your name;
Let my cuntrymen hear echoes, east and west,
Of the music in that joyous strain - your name;

(an excerpt from the epic The Baptism at The Savica)The warring clouds have vanished from the skies;
The war of men has ended with the night
The morning sun gilds the tree heads that
Supreme above the Carniola's snowpeaks white

He who from fate receives but blow on blow,
Who, like myself in her disfavour stands,
Although he had a hundred mighty hands,
Would vainly strive for riches here below

O,
Vrba, happy village, my old home -My father's cottage stands there to this day
The lure of learning beckoned me away
Its serpent wiles enticing me to roam,

Mid wastes of Africa a wanderer sped:
He found no pathway; night was now afield
Through clouds no stealthy glimmer was revealed;
Craving the moon, he made the grass his bed

A Slovene wreath your poet has entwined;
A record of my pain and of your praise,
Since from my heart's deep roots have sprung these lays,
These tear-stained flowers of a poet's mind