A record of my pain and of your praise
Will this be to Slovenes as yet unborn,
When moss shall grow upon my tomb forlorn,
And over all that grieves me and dismays;
And haughty maids with beauty to amaze
Like yours, on hearing these my strains, will scorn
To lock their hearts in armour; they'll adorn
Their love with faithful thoughts and faithful ways.
For all Slovenes will then dawn brighter days
And kindlier stars upon their land will gaze,
More brilliant songs will come with better times.
Yet my songs, too, with sweetly flowing rhymes
May still survive the future's changing phase,
Since from my heart's deep roots have sprung these lays.
