(T O THE Memory OF S VATOPLUK C ECH )

O spirit, canst thou hear?
He marked his people's aching tones
And 'mid their sighing and their groans
He trained his ear to note their moans;
He penetrated far
To wake the downcast, hopeless slaves,
And like the seers of old,
He woke the feelings that he craved;
Our standard high in air he waved.
Canst hear what thou art told?
We now are freemen bold.

He told the path before,
On which each moment we must go;
For ten, a hundred years did sow,
With him a bitter tear did flow.
The foot grew lame and sore.
Upon the path our footsteps broke
But he our course did send,
Who made of us a working folk,
And gathered strength beneath the yoke —
And then from end to end
The chains were forced to bend.

And did he know their cross
Who fell within the hard-fought fight
Or sank discouraged at the sight
Of mighty foe's unequal might
That can its vengeance force?
And does he know the sturdy sound
Which like a mighty bell
Flies high into the air around,
That Czechs as slaves can ne'er be found
The foemen's hosts to swell?
The end of woe will tell.

Each day afar there flows,
From Praha to the Tatra high
And Šumava, the lofty cry
That we are brothers, sorrow's by,
And all our cursed woes
Have fled forever from our land,
That all mankind can see
Both day and night we e'er shall stand
Unharmed, a proud and noble band,
And so we e'er shall be!
We are redeemed and free!