html.skin-theme-clientpref-night @media(prefers-color-scheme:dark){html.skin-theme-clientpref-os }FRUIT of a Slavonic heart,
Into the wide world depart,
Ye daughters of my soul!
Go, belovèd children, go!
Flowers of feeling bloom for you,
Your fatherland is full!
Seek the grove and seek the home,
Cottage mean, and stately dome,
And meekest preludes play;
If they look with scorn upon you,
If the gate they fasten on you,
Begin beneath your lay.
Pass no door as on you wend,
Some one sure his ear will lend,
In your own land are ye;
Age and childhood list your strains,
Youths, when love the bosom pains,
Maids, when the sweet hours be.
Should Bohemian friends demand,
Who into your fatherland
Hath sent you, say, that he,
Who nor pearls nor sceptres prizes,
Who for feeling gold despises,
Must a Bohemian be.