Page:Bohemian poems, ancient and modern (Lyra czecho-slovanska).djvu/62

There the corpses of thy children,
of thy slaughter’d children dear,
Of thy sons and daughters moulder;
’tis a sight of woe and fear.
But good sons and valiant warriors
thy true Sister sends to thee,
Sends her best, her noblest hero,
Jaroslaw, their chief to be.
Soon the Tatar feels their arrows,
feels their swords so keen and bright,
Feels the weight of homethrust lances
wielded by strong arms in fight.
Never can the countless hordes, that
come from desert steppes afar,
Never can they blame the prowess
of Bohemian chiefs in war.
Back retreating, now they hurry,
like the wild wave white with foam,
Back retreating, now they hurry
to the barren wastes of home.
O Morava! trembling widow!
O how pride and joy again
Bloom, with comfort sweet returning,
on the pallid cheek of pain!
Soon each town and wasted village
from its ashes see’st thou rise,
Soon thy castles from their ruins
lift their bulwarks to the skies.
Green again thy meadows flourish,
and thy children, spar’d by God