Bohemia’s spell is subtly wove;
What she seems to display most clear
Is not her real treasure-trove—
She whispers to an inner ear.
She pictures what remains unseen,
Sings songs too exquisite for tongue,
Tempts one with hope for nobler gains
And ever shows one higher rung!
Bohemia, ah! how base-maligned!
Thy form mistaken oft for Thee!