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LYRICAL POEMS.
THE PATRIOT’S LAMENT.
MOUNTAIN, mountain, thou art high!
Hear’st thou not our wailing cry?
See’st thou not the streams that glow
From the eyes of patriots flow?
Wherefore shines the sun on thee,
That thy top doth glitter free,
And thy meadows ev’ry May
To our sorrow blossom gay?
Hear how sounds Vltava’s shore[1]!
Hear the distant thunders roar!
’Tis our lips in whispers low
Cursing thee for evermoe.
Doth the true Czech thee espy,
Terror-struck he draweth nigh,
Anguish dire his bosom fires,
That he sleeps not with his sires.
Cursed mountain, mountain white!
Upon thee was crush’d our might;
What in thee lies cover’d o’er
Ages cannot back restore.
- ↑ Vltava, the river Moldau, upon which Prague is situated.
