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Oft as she waves the bloody cloth, no less
A palace changes to a wilderness;
Where treads her foot a recent grave up-grows.

O woful sight! But yet a heavier doom
Foretold to Litwa from the German side,—
The shining helmet with the ostrich plume,
And the wide mantle with the black cross dyed.

For where that spectre's fearful step has passed,
Nought is a hamlet's ruin or a town,
But a whole country to the grave is cast
O thou to whom is Litwa's spirit dear!
Come, on the graves of nations sit we down;
We'll meditate, and sing, and shed the tear.

O native song! between the elder day,
Ark of the Covenant, and younger times.
Wherein their heroes' swords the people lay.
Their flowers of thought and web of native rhymes.

Thou ark! no stroke can break thee or subdue,
While thine own people hold thee not debased. .
O native song! thou art as guardian placed,