Songs of the Slav
Triumphs 'neath the heav'ns there,
Flies our hollow at last,
Freedom's sunny song.
When my head I would lift,
Low again would it drift;
On in shame and sorrow
Years succession gave.
Clings the yoke still to me
And the eye waits vainly
Dawn's redemptory glow:
I will die a slave.
My head e'en now bends low,
White locks my temples show;
Hopes no longer attain
Autumn's riper hue,—
Shackled my hands I know
Curséd the yoke I'll never o'erthrow,—
In my grave shall that chain
Rest beside me too.
XVI
Oft here and there freedom is an empty name,
And liberty a hollow, idle sound;
Yet day by day 'mongst us feels this watchword same
Each heart with stormy throb anew rebound;
Where'er one's gaze doth fall, 'tis writ in fire there,
And round about eternally it peals;
Each morn we breathe a sigh for this our first care,
At night our final prayer with it deals.
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