Songs of the Slav
As the brutal beadle in disdain
Laughed at us suffering and worn.
I know there'll be no gratitude,
I know many of you will say,
In the tortured creaking rude
There's no art or beauty's lay,
Above troubled turmoil's time
Should the singer strive to climb,
To the sunny height's clear way.
'Tis the truth perhaps, but freely
How may soar one to the sky,
When on breast he feels painfully
Heavy night's hobgoblin lie?
No other strain with me abides
Until storm in soul subsides;
Sing no other strain can I.
III
Of a slave begot, gave
Me birth likewise a slave;
Childhood's lullaby song
Was but clash of chain,—
Through my life extended
Rusted shackles sounded
Morn till nightfall along
Life's deserted main.
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