In the eye of love, which all things sees,
     The fragrance-breathing jasmine trees—­
        And the golden flowers—­and the sloping hill—­
        And the ever-melancholy rill—­
     Are full of holiest sympathies,
     And tell of love a thousand tales. 
     They are not all sweet nightingales,
     That fill with songs the flowery vales,
     But they are the little silver bells
     Touched by the winds in the smiling dells;
     Magic bells of gold in the grove,
     Forming a chorus for her I love.

          From ‘Ancient Poetry and Romances of Spain.’

     FROM JOHN KOLLAR—­SONNET

     There came three minstrels in the days of old
       To the Avaric savage—­in their hands
     Their own Slavonian citharas they hold: 
       “And who are ye!” the haughty Khan demands,
     Frowning from his barbaric throne; “and where—­
       Say where your warriors—­where your sisters be.” 
     “We are Slavonians, monarch! and come here
       From the far borders of the Baltic sea: 
     We know no wars—­no arms to us belong—­
       We cannot swell your ranks—­’tis our employ
     Alone to sing the dear domestic song.” 
       And then they touched their harps in doubtful joy. 
     “Slaves!” said the tyrant—­“these to prison lead. 
     For they are precious hostages indeed!”

     From the ‘Cheskian Anthology.’

     FROM BOGDANOVICH (OLD RUSSIAN)—­SONG

     What to the maiden has happened? 
     What to the gem of the village? 
       Ah! to the gem of the village.

     Seated alone in her cottage,
     Tremblingly turned to the window;
       Ah! ever turned to the window.

     Like the sweet bird in its prison,
     Pining and panting for freedom;
       Ah! how ’tis pining for freedom!

     Crowds of her youthful companions
     Come to console the loved maiden;
       Ah! to console the loved maiden.

     “Smile then, our sister, be joyful;
     Clouds of dust cover the valley;
       Ah! see, they cover the valley.

     “Smile then, our sister, be joyful;
     List to the hoof-beat of horses;
       Oh! to the hoof-beat of horses.”

     Then the maid looked through the window. 
     Saw the dust-clouds in the valley;
       Oh! the dust-clouds in the valley.

     Heard the hoof-beat of the horses,
     Hurried away from the cottage;
       Oh! to the valley she hurries.

     “Welcome, O welcome! thou loved one.” 
     See, she has sunk on his bosom;
       Oh! she has sunk on his bosom.

     Now all her grief has departed: 
     She has forgotten the window;
       Oh! quite forgotten the window.

     Now her eye looks on her loved one,
     Beaming with brightness and beauty;
       Oh! ’tis all brightness and beauty.