The River Moldava

(From Slavonia)

BY Muldava trips a rose-lipped maiden,—

  She has crowned her hat with summer flowers;

  Fresh and dewy as the fabled Hours,

There she trips along, with blossoms laden.

How the valley with her voice is ringing,

  Like the evening songster’s, soft and clear!

  In her happy eye a sparkling tear;

She a simple Cheskian lay is singing.

O, how strong the love of country glows

  In the peasant’s heart, when all is gone,

  King and state, his language left alone,

Blooming still, as over graves the rose.

  From his bosom pours the stream of song,

  Full, in artless melody, along.