Page:Bohemian poems, ancient and modern (Lyra czecho-slovanska).djvu/64

Whose fair figure, frail and slender;
winds might bear it off, I ween;
From his age a third would ’minish,
if by earthly eyes ’twere seen.
And their sorrows’ mournful silence
soon the grief-bow’d lady brake;
‘Ah! my hero! Jan, my dearest!’
such the woeful words she spake;
‘Woe to thy poor wife, sad lady!
who hath lost her sons with thee!
‘To the land of thy forefathers,
whose bright star hath set with thee!
‘O how fearful now the wishes
and the prayers of our distress!
‘O how fearful are the entreaties
we to heav’n must now address!
‘Ah! to find our only comfort
in the thought thou may’st be dead!
‘Heart and soul to think thee living
shudder with a shuddering dread;
‘Living in the cruel slav’ry
of barbarians far away:
‘Freemen only live; slaves perish
by a thousand deaths a day.’
‘Yes,’ Sir Berka answers sadly—
look and tone are sad indeed—
‘Yes, a mighty God the ruin
of our House hath now decreed,
‘Of our House, which aye devoutly
honour’d Him in word and deed.