To my Country

GLAD to thee I sing, my country, In my veins thy blood doth bound, Ever mine thy sorrows deeming, Of thy fleeted glories dreaming, Which like spirits hover round.

Oft methinketh, will thy glory, O my country! bloom again? Or to death condemn’d for ever, Is it doom’d to blossom never, Like the grass the scythe has ta’en?

O I hope for times of splendour, Times when all a change shall have; Hark! I hear the loud bells ringing, Ev’rywhere the glad news flinging, Slawa’s glories leave the grave!

After me to thee another, O my country! songs shall sing; Then shall from the soil of sadness Roses grow, whence scents of gladness Forth for the whole world shall spring.