Page:Poet Lore, volume 34, 1923.djvu/314

And for her sake you too will die.
She is the dearest land of all.
The eagle builds her eyrie here,
Nor finds such freedom in the plains.
To you who love the land so well
What matter that she gives no wine?
What matter that she bears no grain?
What matter that you wear no silk?
You have cold water from the spring;
You have your cattle in the herd,
Your sheep upon the mountain peaks;
Your powder flask is full; your lead
Enough. And your right hand is strong.
Beneath your brow your eye is keen,
And in your breast your heart is warm.
You have a faith that will not yield.
You have a wife who loves you well.
You have the songs your people sing.
If you need iron—the Turk wears it.
See! all your heart desires, you have!
But, more than all, the blessed cross,
The cross that hangs above the hills,
The cross that gives you strength to bear.
And God is good. He keeps you all.

If other men from lands unknown
Should see our never-conquered cross
Upon the top of Lovtchen's crest;
And if they knew the Turkish scourge
With ugly maw would swallow it,
They would not fold their arms in peace
And let you suffer for its sake,
Nor call you pagan enemies,
Who shed your blood while they repose.

And for this cross you men will die.
For its dear sake you raised this troop,
Avenging insults done to God.
And he who serves God faithfully
Must serve Him with an open soul,
Must serve with a pure heart and life
The God who governs from the sky.