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WRATISLAW.
O MORAVA! O our Sister!
how the Tatar came with war!
Reap’d thy acres rich and golden
with the crooked scymitar!
How his red rough hand of fury
swept the sunbeam of delight,
On a day of tears and sorrow,
rudely from thy visage bright!
Now, forlorn, and desolate, thou
sitt’st, a widow pale and wan,
Gazing mournfully thy Sister,
thy Bohemian Sister on.
And on thee in sad compassion
dwells thy Sister’s eye so true,
Dwells on thee in sad compassion—
Ah! what meets her anxious view?
Ah! it is a woeful sight; thy
villages, thy towns, she sees
Black, black coals upon the earth, and
ashes light upon the breeze.
Ah! thy castles high and haughty
all forlorn in ruins lie;
Where were woods and fairest meadows,
bloody marshes meet her eye.
