3268069Bohemian Poems, Ancient and Modern — Buchlow1849Albert Henry Wratislaw


O SAY, Morava, why thy stream
With turbid waves doth go?
The sun on thee doth brightly beam,
Then why not brightly flow?

‘O how can I be bright and clear,
When troubled is my stream?
When all my fate is dark and drear,
How can I other seem?

‘A German to my fountain came,
To cull a nosegay there,
And said in scorn, that it was shame,
My flow’rets were so fair.

‘And by the roots he tore them up,
My hope, my joy, my pride!
And ah! when he had torn them up,
He flung them all aside.

‘He flung them all to float and die
Upon my winding river;
And shall I not flow mournfully
For ever and for ever?[1]

O say not that for evermore
Thy stream must mourning flow!
I hear a step upon thy shore,
That softly there doth go.

It is a Lady pacing nigh;
Not far her castle frowns,
That with its turrets proud and high
The mountain yonder crowns.

The blood that flow'd in Vaclaw’s veins,
And in Ludmilla mild,
Ludmilla’s life again sustains,
Their true and worthy child.[2]

O mourn, Morava, mourn no more!
Thy stream must brighter flow;
For One is pacing on thy shore,
Who feeleth all thy woe.

And hark! O hark! what joy resounds,
Where all was sad and drear!
The music of Slavonic sounds
From noble lips I hear!

And more true hearts will come in turn,
And firmly all unite,
And by Morava’s crystal urn
Will blossom fair and bright.

O then, Morava, let thy stream
No more despairing go!
The sun on thee doth brightly beam,
And thou must brightly flow.

The Morava is marked on ordinary English maps as the river March in Moravia.

  1. See note to p. xxiv of the Introductory Essay.
  2. The Countess Ludmilla Berchtold of Buchlow and Buchlowic, is descended lineally from St Ludmilla, and from the brother of St Vaclaw.