To Dr. Steph. Vuk Karadjich

My friend! it is thou, it is thou Who hast usher’d these gems into day; ’Tis my pride and my privilege now To honour—I fain would repay Thy toils, and would bind round thy brow The laurels that grow o’er thy lay.

We knew that the sun-light shone fair On thy Servia;—we knew ’twas a clime Of mountains and streams, where the air Was fragrant,—though history and time Had rear’d not their pyramids there: But we knew not the spirit sublime

Of music, and pathos, and song, Look’d down from the towers of Belgrad, Had dwelt in the Mōrava long, In the garb of Trebunia was clad; We welcome thee now to the throng Of our muses, rejoicing and glad.

Unborrow’d the light thou hast shed, Though mild as the light of the moon: Thy flowers, from thine own native bed, Thou hast gather’d and given: Not soon Shall they fade; and thy music shall spread, And voices unnumber’d attune.

My song will but fall on thine ear, As a voice that appeals to the grave: In vain I invite thee to hear: Go, happy enthusiast! and save From time’s storm the memorials so dear, Which had else been o’erwhelm’d in its wave.

Thy tenement is but of clay; Thou art frailer than most of us be: Yet a sunshine has lighted thy way, Whose effluence is sunshine to me:— And ’tis sweet o’er thy Servia to stray, And to listen, pale minstrel! to thee.