" Go forth, and ask no blessing on thy sword, —
Go forth, and rush upon the turbaned foe:
Strong be the hand that deals the deadly blow;
That hand shall scatter wide the Turkish horde.

" Thine shall be earthly power and fame; but know,
The gates of Heaven shall ever on thee close; —
In vain for thee the stream of mercy flows,
For thou hast chosen thy good, thy all, below.

" Pause on the field, and bend thyself in prayer;
Yield reverently unto thy God and Lord;
Listen the hopes and terrors of his word.
Then thou shalt fall, — thy better lot is there, —
Thy crown shall be in Heaven. " He knelt and prayed;
He marched and fought, and low in death was laid.


For faith and fame! be that the cry.
We have our pride, and we our fame; —
Heroes, of high and mighty name,
On thousand fields of battle lie.

Long centuries we in arms have stood;
Have kept our faith, when others fell:
The Turk might crush, he could not quell; —
Our covenant we have sealed in blood.

Our land is free, — the cross alone
Shines o'er our vales, and crowns our hills:
The peasant reaps the soil he tills;
The Moslem vultures far have flown.

Again they come! — like clouds of night,
They hang along yon mountain's brow.
Rise, Servians! be heroes now; —
This be the last and fatal fight.

Hark to the charge! their Allahu,
It rings, not ours, — it rings their knell.
Rush to the shock, and, bursting through,
Leave not a Turk the tale to tell.
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