Columbia
Written for the Slovaks of America by Svetozar Hurban Vajanský, while in prison in Szegedin for writing a political article. Translated by Rev. L. Novomeský and Miss Ethel J. Cablk.
For the dark corners only you were born,
And e’en for those you evermore must pay
And give the tithe and suffer stripes beside.
You borrowed naught, yet must your debt defray.
Your capital: a rugged plot and rough;
To fatten us, your lords, is good enough.
Thus was it once. But, later, times were changed:
“Peasants rejoice! we grant you liberty!
Your corner, soil and harvest shall be yours,
The yoke is breaking: equal now are we;
Landlords are you, no longer serfs or slaves,
And over you the flag of freedom waves”.
And you had faith in them. You took up arms,
And gave your toil, your blood to drench the sword:
Flashing of gunshots lit the quiet hills;
For them your palms grew rough with labor hard.
And what was your reward? When peace arrived,
You of your dark corner were deprived!
Not only of the spot of rugged soil
You had bedewed with tears and sweat so long,
But of your forest products given by God,
Your rivers full of fish, swift-flowing, strong;
The air’s fresh scent, the free wind's viewless flight,
Even the sun’s warm radiance golden bright.
Then from your bodies everything they tore
That pleases man, or decks the maiden's breast
E’en what was left they thought too much for you;
You still had health, and were with children blest.
“Too many white and ruddy cheeks we view;
Give them to us to drag to countries new!”
“We are your lords; we do you grace in this;
We will transfuse your blood into our race
To cure its rotteness; our puddles’ stench
The flow of your fresh waters shall efface.
The blossoms of your bodies, pure and fair,
Shall deck our regions, barren now and bare.”
They stole your goods your wealth, your bodies’ fruits
Nay, God is good, requiting everything!
How oft soever hot blood in rivers flowed.
And storm swept bare your fields of flowers of spring
They flourished still. There needs a torture new;
The murderous hand now smites the spirit too:
What though the folks are naked, in despair
The mothers, for their children reft away,
They yet may rise, the children may return,
That would not help us; that is nonsense, play!
We want the soul, that in man's life inspires
Thought’s brightness and the flame of high desires.
