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not alone that of Slavonia's stem,

She is a simple and a smiling flower;

Tho' the obdurate frank and saxon's power

Have sought to rose the impress of the gem.

Oh! many erring sons of Slawa know

Too little of her glories—they conspire,

Her language—their sire's fame—to overthrow,

Nor heed the frownings of celestial ire.

A heart as pure as are the pearls of dew—

An english spirit in a child-like guise—

A magic on the lips and in the eyes,

And friendship's strength, and beauty's sparkling hue.

Ye fame-full tribes and tongues! since heaven has given

All this, what more would ye expect from heaven?