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Long and furious was the fierce encounter,
Till the night upon their heads descended.
God of mercy! God! the brave Wenéslaw,
Brave Wenéslaw by an arrow wounded
From the rampart falls!—Heart-breaking sorrow!
Dreadful thirst burns up the christians' bowels,
With parch'd palate, ah ! they lick the dew-drops
From the grass—and now the quiet evening
Comes—and chilling night the evening follows,
And the night slow-dawns into the morning—
In the tatar camp is solemn silence,
And the day awaken, and mid-day scorches,
And all, agonized with thirst, the christians
Sink upon the face of earth exhausted—
Choked, they open their dry lips, and hoarsely
Pour a prayer to God's most holy mother;
Up to her they turn their feeble eyelids,
Up to her their weary arms outstretching,
Plaints of anguish pour they out to heaven:
"Ah! we can endure this thirst no longer,
With a thirst like this we cannot combat;
