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O'er Thee, Misfortune, I Have Ceased To Wail

O'er thee, Misfortune, I have ceased to wail,

I'll utter no reproaches any more.

Thank God, I'm used to griefs thou hast in store

And to the sufferings in life's strong jail.

No burden can now hurt my shoulders frail;

My lips are used to bitter drinks of yore;

My feet, like leather, are no longer sore,

I dread no thorny path, no irksome trail.

by France Preseren

O, Vrba, Happy Village, My Old Hme

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,

Else had I never known that heart's joy,

Sweet promise, could become a poisoned draught,

Not known myself of self-belief bereft,

by France Preseren

A Wreath Of Sonnets (4/14)

These tear-stained flowers of a poet's mind,

Culled from my bosom, lay it wholly bare;

My heart's a garden: Love is sowing there

Sad elegies each with my longing signed.

You are their sun whose radiance, purblind,

I seek in vain at home and everywhere,

In theatre, on promenade and square,

Midst revels where the chains of dancers wind.

by France Preseren

A Wreath Of Sonnets (8/14)

Where tempests roar and nature is unkind:

Such was our land since Samo's rule had passed

With Samo's spirit - now an icy blast

Sweeps o'er his grave reft from the nation's mind.

Our fathers' bickerings let Pepin bind

His yoke upon us, then came thick and fast

Bloodstained revolts and wars, the Turk at last -

With woes our history is deeply lined.

by France Preseren

A Wreath Of Sonnets (6/14)

Unblest by soothing winds of warmer days,

My songs remain, since from you, haughty maid,

They never won the word that might be said -

The word that neither saddens nor dismays.

As you were bred upon the German phrase,

Like many a Slovene girl, they were afraid

That from such flowers on our Parnassus laid

With cold disdain you would avert your gaze.

by France Preseren

A Wreath Of Sonnets (5/14)

They come from where no man can sunshine find -

Not from those regions by your glance caressed,

Where all the cares of this world are at rest,

And sweet oblivion follows close behind;

Where joy reigns with a fullness scarce divined,

And vanished are the conflicts that distressed;

Where song springs from an overflowing breast

With sweetest harmonies of every kind;

by France Preseren

A Wreath Of Sonnets (3/14)

Since from my heart's deep roots have sprung these lays,

A heart not to be silenced any more;

Now I am like to Tasso who of yore

Would sing his Leonora's fame and praise.

He could not plead his love whose tortouous maze

Bemused his years of youth, and fiercely tore

His life beyond all hope; and yet he bore

by France Preseren

A Wreath Of Sonnets (1/14)

A Slovene wreath your poet has entwined,

Of fifteen sonnets is the chaplet bound,

And in it thrice the Master Theme must sound:

Thus are the other harmonies combined.

Now from his source like streams in order wind

The sonnets, and the head of each is found

By the last line of the last sonnet crowned;

by France Preseren

A Wreath Of Sonnets (12/14)

Behold how weak and faded they appear!

They have no strength or beauty. Thus the pale

Untended roses in some lonely vale

Midst ruins their sparse heads with sadness rear.

Weeds stifle them, rank nettles interfere,

And scourges, pests their fragile roots assail;

Transplanted to a garden, although frail,

They'll bloom again and gladden with their cheer.

by France Preseren

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.

by France Preseren

Mid Wastes Of Africa A Wanderer Sped

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.

The heavens opened, moonbeams then were shed;

He sees where poison-serpents are concealed,

And where their brood of cubs the tigers shield;

He sees the lion upraise his wrathful head.

by France Preseren

A Wreath Of Sonnets (11/14)

As over them malignant storm clouds flew,

Your poet's days were but disgust, despair;

By all the furies harried, he nowhere

Could find release nor any rest he knew.

Once in Diana's shrine Orestes, too,

Had eased his weary soul from all its care;

So I from my love's shrine had hoped to bear

Away a heart and mind appeased by you.

by France Preseren