The rose now blooms, — with love my bosom heaves;
It fades and withers, — sorrow chills my heart:
The cold rains trickle o'er the faded leaves, —
Tears from their secret fount unbidden start.

The dewy morning rises fresh and fair, —
Hope comes again, to wake my love anew:
With blooms of May the maiden wreathes her hair, —
Joy swells my heart, as swells the rose with dew.

Thus flows the Cheskian song; the song thus flows
In Servia's vales, on Russia's boundless plains,
By Visla's banks, unfettered or in chains,
Where'er the pure Slavonian spirit glows.
Ages have rolled away, yet still remain
The seeds, that time and force have crushed in vain.


A holy feeling leads them on;
For God their swords they draw:
Their chief, the fearless champion
Of God, and of his law.

Not theirs, the strength of mortal fight;
Religion nerves their hands:
They lift their arms for truth and right;
For faith, each warrior stands.

The ardent hymn, the solemn prayer,
Instead of trump and drum,
Tell to their enemies: " Beware! —
The sacred legions come. "

With brow serene and steady eye,
Firm foot and measured tread, —
" Huss! " burst at once the battle-cry, —
" His blood for truth was shed. "

And loud, as pealing thunder, breaks
From thousand hearts their hymn:
Headlong they rush, — earth 'neath them shakes, —
Smoke rolls, — the day is dim.

" Huss! " swells the cry, and Zizka's shout
Rings through the roar of war.
The foe recoils, — he breaks in rout
And scatters wide and far.

" Glory to God! " the victory song; —
" Praise him, — the field is won.
He only makes the warrior strong.
His will — his will be done! "
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