‘He from me the last, the hero,
Jan, the only son hath ta’en,
‘Who for times to come his glorious
race and name should plant again.
‘Of the family thus sinking
all that now remains beneath
‘Is a woman without offspring,
and an old man due to death.’
In his blue eyes pearly moisture,
listens Wratislaw the child
To hard words, that tender souls must
evil ever deem and wild;
And the old man s rough palm pressing
with his tender hand, saith he,
(Sounding on the morning breeze it
seem’d an angel’s voice to be,)
‘Lofty hero! honour’d father!
why dost thou with heaven chide,
‘That thy stem is broken? Is not
Wratislaw still at thy side?
‘Offspring last of lofty goodness,
his the sacred duty now,
‘To far distant days the glory
of his noble race to show:
‘And his name doth almost promise
with prophetic voice divine,
‘That renown, through him returning
to his ancient house, will shine[1].’
- ↑ Wratislaw: from wrátiti-se, to return, and sláwa, glory.
