A Wreath Of Sonnets (7/14)
Above them savage peaks the mountains raise,
Like those which once were charmed by the refrain
Of Orpheus, when his lyre stirred hill and plain,
And Haemus' crags and the wild folk of Thrace.
Ah, would, to cure the dearth of these our days,
An Orpheus dowered with song of native strain
Were sent to us that all Slovenes might gain
Fresh fire to set their frozen hearts ablaze.
His words might kindle thoughts that would remind
Us of lost pride of race; discord would cease;
Our people in one nation then combined
Would see that feuds no longer did increase.
His strains would bring the rule of joy and peace,
Where tempests roar and nature is unkind.
