France Preseren

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.

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

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;

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.

(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.

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.

O'er thee,
Misfortune,
I have ceased to wail,
I'll utter no reproaches any more.

What was the need of you, little one,
My baby dear, my darling son,
To me - a girl, a foolish young thing,
A mother without a wedding ring?

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.