My friend! it is thou, it is thou
Who hast usher’d these gems into day;
’Tis my pride and my privilege now
To honour—I fain would repay
Thy toils, and would bind round thy brow
The laurels that grow o’er thy lay.

We knew that the sun-light shone fair
On thy Servia;—we knew ’twas a clime
Of mountains and streams, where the air
Was fragrant,—though history and time
Had rear’d not their pyramids there:
But we knew not the spirit sublime

Of music, and pathos, and song,
Look’d down from the towers of Belgrad,
Had dwelt in the Morava long,
In the garb of Trebunia was clad;
We welcome thee now to the throng
Of our muses, rejoicing and glad.

Unborrow’d the light thou hast shed,
Though mild as the light of the moon:
Thy flowers, from thine own native bed,
Thou hast gather’d and given: Not soon
Shall they fade; and thy music shall spread,
And voices unnumber’d attune.

My song will but fall on thine ear,
As a voice that appeals to the grave:
In vain I invite thee to hear:
Go, happy enthusiast! and save
From time’s storm the memorials so dear,
Which had else been o’erwhelm’d in its wave.

Thy tenement is but of clay;
Thou art frailer than most of us be:
Yet a sunshine has lighted thy way,
Whose effluence is sunshine to me:—
And ’tis sweet o’er thy Servia to stray,
And to listen, pale minstrel! to thee.