Page:An Anthology of Modern Bohemian Poetry.pdf/89

 

Ne'er has an enemy yet shed blood—or ink-so profusely,
As by the German was shed, compassing Sláva's decay;
Only of liberty worthy is he who can liberty value,
He who puts captives in bonds—he is a captive himself.
Whether our hands or our tongue he binds in the bonds of the captive,
'Tis but the same; he neglects rights of his follows to heed.
He who has cast down thrones, and for naught has shed blood of his fellows,
Into the hapless world carried the torch of dissent,
Scythian, Goth tho' he be, he has earned the guerdon of serfdom,
Not who to untamed hordes peace by example extolled.
Where have ye wandered, dear nation of Slavs that formerly dwelt here,
Now Pomerania's springs, now drinking deep of the Saale;
Peaceful stock of the Sorbs, and Obotritian offspring,
Where are the Wilzen, and where, grandsons of Uker, are ye?
Far to the right I gaze, to the left I searchingly turn me,
But 'tis in vain that my eye Sléva in Slavia seeks.