Svatopluk Čech
When foreign heel can trample our nape in dust
And every comer scorn and torture deals,
The lips are closed 'neath hangman's lash unjust,
Though through the heart storm's longing. "Freedom," peals!
XVII
When dark above the earth the piling clouds clash
Lilte raging hosts of Satan in array,
Their shields with thunder peal and fiery swords flash,
Then forth on high my fettered hands I lay:
Rise up, O Storm, in all your horror and might,
The elements' eternal rage awake!
Let earth be tumbled down in ruin, fire, night;
The sea and rivers' flloods the lowlands take!
Whate'er our master's is, destroy speedily,
Tear soil with waves, the meads to wastes condemn,
Shake blossom from its branch and fruit from palm tree,
Break, fell, disroot with might each graceful stem!
Burst high his golden dome with muffled pealings,
Consume the master's stately home with fire,
With raining gravel of his marble ceilings
Crush low the tyrant and his hosts of hire!
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