Page:Songs of the Slav.pdf/16

 But leave to me the gift of song, That only do I beg of thee.

If thou shouldst take my gift to sing, Naught longer then is life to me; And gav'st me Fortune for my song, I care not fortunate to be.

Whoever plays with golden strings, Him honor more than thyself even; For know that God did love thee so, He needs must send him thee from heaven.

'Tis terrible when plague and want To God's chastisement must belong; Of punishments the greatest though, Is when a nation lacks in song.

That race indeed has yet to die, That had its prophets still to sing; And every song that's born in heaven In even death new life doth bring.

Cast ye not stones at your prophets, For like the birds bards are alone: They never will return to him Who casts but once at them a stone.