7.My sweetheart, I dreamt Thou hadst died;I heard the death-knells pealing,And there were tears and wails and criesAnd signs of saddest feeling.
For the low mound o’er Thy strange bedThey picked a tombstone blindlyAnd a verse for Thine epitaphTo write they asked me kindly.
Oh folks! Oh folks! yourselves of stones,My heart take, with grief raving,And what I have not sung beforeUse for the stone’s engraving!
You trusted not in my pure loveAnd scorned my word and letterNow if the stone will speak to you,You’ll understand it better.
8.So many, many things there areTo which the keys are lacking.Deep silence answers all man’s knocksAnd foils his undertaking.
Thou human heart! There sorrows howlAs wolves, by hunger driven,And yet that same heart, Oh my God!To love alone is given.
‘Tis capable of so much loveThat man’s wit may be failing,And he may as the lonely doveIn vain roam, ever wailing.
9.If that poor nightingaleLived always with her mate,Her love songs would not soundSo sad and desolate.
If that poor heart but wouldWith Thee wake through the night,Instead of pain it wouldResound with sweet delight.
10.I am a linden with large crown,In style dressed in the meadow:Thou beautiful, sweet rose of May,Come to my cooling shadow.
Here each green leaf does odor breatheAnd swarms of bees are humming,And, nightly, little birds arrive—Those are my thoughts, home coming.
They fly far-off as children doFrom home until they hunger,But, with Thee seated close to me,They will depart no longer.
11.At prophets cast ye never stones;They are as birds, shy, clever:Cast thou a stone at him but once,And he is gone forever.
God’s fearful wrath the nation seeksWhose love of bards is shaken,And greatest wrath befell the raceFrom whom God songs has taken.
The poet’s heart is pure and chaste,His faith does never vary:Therefore, what he sings from his heartThat in your heart ye carry.
12.Blest is the man whom the Lord’s handAs bard has consecrated;He has looked into God’s decreesAnd has men’s breasts well rated.
He knows what’s in the world’s great psalmAnd what the birds are singing;He understands the throbbing heart,In tears and with joy ringing.
What secret is to other menIs open to his vision;He is the leader of God’s raceTo its long promised region.
He is the king of kingdoms vast,The priest of men’s salvation,And beauty’s treasures lie in himBeyond all estimation.
NOTE. Among the lyric and romantic poets who loomed upon the new horizon of the Czech literature in the second half of last century, when the nation appeared to be no longer in need of nourishment from history in its literary education, and when new ways have been sought and found. Vítězslav Hálek (1835–1874) held the most prominent position. From his first appearance in poetry in 1858 for twenty years he held the nation’s attention end enjoyed its adminiration and love. Although neither a deep philosopher nor a prophet of immeasurable horizon, he spoke from heart to heart to the rejuvenated nation; and although he had died in less than the prime of life, with 39 years, he has given the Czech literature a line of works touching upon nearly all classes of writing that filled their mission fully for the time. As a lyric poet he was scarcely outdone to this day. His volume of Evening Songs (Večerní písně) which appeared first in 1858, and since then in many editions, remained his culminating point; a volume of ever fragrant and pleasing effusions of feeling, appealing especially to the tenderness of heart in the erotic spring of life.
The above selection from the mentioned volume is a good illustration of his spirit and style.The translator.