Blended together in a tempest dread.
King Wenzel, much amaz'd, lifts up his head,
And from the bath thrusts forth his potent beard.
"Were those the Moldau's billows that I heard?
The storm against the planks makes such a din,
It seems as if resolv'd to break them in."
The words grew plainer as the sound increas'd:
"Long live John Huss, and down with ev'ry priest!"
"Nay; is that all?—pray take the priests," quoth he;
"John Huss for ever!—there we both agree."
"Down with the king's advisers!" says a shout,
"They starve our bodies till the soul flies out."
"With all my heart, if such is your fond pleasure,"
Says Wenzel, "I detest them beyond measure."
Forth now the storm with greater fury breaks,
The house beneath the people's anger shakes;
One voice cries—"Lazy Wenzel, give us bread!"
Another—"Men be free, and strike him dead!"
The pond'rous clubs against the portals knock,
And words of death the monarch's senses shock.
King Wenzel trembles—no escape he hath,
Here is the Moldau—there the people's wrath.
A strapping servant-girl darts in and brings
A cloth, which round the royal form she flings;
Then firmly seizes him—then drags him out—
Then thrusts him in a boat (her arm is stout).
"Off and away," the damsel cries, "before,
To shed your blood, these wretches burst the door."
She takes the oar, which readily she plies,
Across the stormy waves the vessel flies;
Till the harsh voices of the rebel rout
Fade in the distance, and at last die out.
Their way lies up the stream, and as they go,
The billows rock the vessel to and fro,
As though it were a pleasure with them all
To play with royal life as 'twere a ball.
But stout Susanna, with her steady oar,
Batters the wat'ry traitors as they roar;
Making a sound with her incessant splashing,
As when a sword with helm or shield is clashing.
Quick by the islands, edg'd with verdant grass,
And by the rocks of Wissebad they pass;
With band of pow'r the fragile bark she drives,
And in the open country soon arrives.
King Wenzel on his bench, with all his care,
Scarce keeps the water from his shoulders bare.
The waves press near, and as he wards them off,
Appear to stretch out human hands and scoff.
Yet, though the billows toss him to and fro,
But little can they of King Wenzel know,
Who think that mobs or floods his soul engage;
He eyes the maid, who braves the water's rage,
