2. PART II.
RUSSIA.
[I. Still burns the prophet's fire, as when of old]
“Niczto!—no Ty wo mnie sijaesz
Weliczestwom Twoich debrot;
Wo mnie sebia izobraz'aesz,
Kak solnce w maloy kaplie wod.”—
Derzhavin.
“Nothing!—but thou shinest in me with the majesty of thy
goodness; in me thou imagest thyself, like the sun in a little
drop of water.”
Still burns the prophet's fire, as when of old
Elijah called, on Carmel, on the name,
The one sole name; and see! it mounts in flame,
Just on the limits of eternal cold.
Pure, bright, and full, it swells;—a sacred glow
Rolls o'er the spotless wilderness of snow,
And floating flakes of crystal burn as gems,
Worthy to shine in angels' diadems:
And then, in sounding tones, come thoughts of power,
Full of sublimity and truth and awe:
Thunders in majesty the unyielding law;
Relenting grace descends in healing shower.
We feel as nothing in the infinite:
We feel that infinite within our souls,—
Away the cloud of doubt and darkness rolls;
Our spirits stand, assured and free, in light.
[II. Not the trumpet calls to fight]
“Och wy Ruskïe dobrye molodcy!
Nadiewayte wy sabli wostryia,
Czto idet zlodiey na swiatuju Rus.”—
Shulepnikov.
“Hey, brave Russian youths!
Gird your swords so keen,
For your holy land the foe invades.”
Not the trumpet calls to fight,—
Louder calls the patriot Tzar.
Strongly armed with sword and right,
We rush to war.
Treads the Frank our holy land,
By the world-invader led,—
Soon we make the ruffian band
Its gory bed.
Moscow's fire, an altar-flame,
Lights us through a waste of snow;
On, through ice, we chase the game
With fervid glow.
Louder than the trumpet's peal,
Rings the voice of patriot Tzar;—
With fiery hearts and flashing steel,
We rush to war.
SERVIA.
[I. Go forth, and ask no blessing on thy sword]
“Zemalsko je za maleno carstwo,
A nebesko u wek i do weka.”—
N. S P. (Tzar Lazar.)
“Small and transient is an earthly kingdom,
But the heavenly is now and ever.”
“Go forth, and ask no blessing on thy sword,—
Go forth, and rush upon the turbaned foe:
Strong be the hand that deals the deadly blow;
That hand shall scatter wide the Turkish horde.”
“Thine shall be earthly power and fame; but know,
The gates of Heaven shall ever on thee close;—
In vain for thee the stream of mercy flows,
For thou hast chosen thy good, thy all, below.
“Pause on the field, and bend thyself in prayer;
Yield reverently unto thy God and Lord;
Listen the hopes and terrors of his word.
Then thou shalt fall,—thy better lot is there,—
Thy crown shall be in Heaven.” He knelt and prayed;
He marched and fought, and low in death was laid.
[II. For faith and fame! be that the cry]
“Srbli wiczu: za wjeru risztiansku,
I za slawu imena Srpskoga!”—
N. S. P.
“Cry the Servians: For the faith of Christians,
And the glory of the name of Servia!”
For faith and fame! be that the cry.
We have our pride, and we our fame;—
Heroes, of high and mighty name,
On thousand fields of battle lie.
Long centuries we in arms have stood;
Have kept our faith, when others fell:
The Turk might crush, he could not quell;—
Our covenant we have sealed in blood.
Our land is free,—the cross alone
Shines o'er our vales, and crowns our hills:
The peasant reaps the soil he tills;
The Moslem vultures far have flown.
Again they come!—like clouds of night,
They hang along yon mountain's brow.
Rise, Servians! be heroes now;—
This be the last and fatal fight.
Hark to the charge! their Allahu,
It rings, not ours,—it rings their knell.
Rush to the shock, and, bursting through,
Leave not a Turk the tale to tell.
POLAND.
[I. Thou standest as a castle on a rock]
“Dzis sepy czarnem skrzydlem oblatuja groby,
Jak w miescie, ktore calkiem wybije zaraza,
Wiecznie z baszt powiewaja choragwie z'aloby.”
Mickiewicz.
“Now, black-winged vultures hover over graves,
As in a town, by wasting plague consumed,
Wave ever funeral-banners on the walls.”
Thou standest as a castle on a rock,
Dismantled, dark;—the hospitable flame
No longer lights its halls; unknown to fame,
The simple shepherd shelters there his flock.
With trumpet-peal its gilded arches rung;
Forth from its gates the lordly champions rode;
Bannered and helmed, the dazzling torrent flowed;
On tower and keep the royal standard hung.
A fire has swept along those festive halls;
Broken and toppling, reel the blackened walls;
The voice of love and hope and joy is gone.
Like funeral-flags, the raven spreads his wings;
In chambers once the proud abode of kings,
Now dwell the lizard and the owl alone.
[II. Vengeance calls you! quick, be ready]
“Zemsta pospiech radzi.
Juz' pojechali—Niech ich Bog prowadzi.”—
Slowacki.
“Vengeance bids haste.
Already they are gone—may God conduct them.”
Vengeance calls you! quick, be ready!
Rouse ye, in the name of God.
Onward, onward! strong and steady;—
Dash to earth the oppressor's rod.
Vengeance calls! ye brave, ye brave!
Rise, and spurn the name of slave.
Grasp the sword! its edge is keen:
Seize the gun! its ball is true:
Sweep your land from tyrants clean,—
Haste, and scour it through and through.
Onward, onward!—vengeance cries.
Rush to arms,—the tyrant flies.
By the souls of patriots gone,
Wake! arise! your fetters break!
See, Kosciuszko bids you on!
Hark, Sobieski cries, Awake!
Rise, and front the despot Czar,—
Rise, and dare the unequal war.
Vengeance calls you! quick, be ready!
Think of what your sires have been.
Onward, onward! strong and steady;—
Drive the tyrant to his den.
On, and let the watchword be,
Country, home, and liberty!
BOHEMIA.
[I. The rose now blooms,—with love my bosom heaves]
“Wyrostla mnie bjla ruoz'e, ga gi trhat nebudu;
Milowala gsem Wencliczka, wjc milowat nebudu.”
Czesk. Nar. Pjsn.
“Full for me the rose has opened, but I will not pluck the rose;
I have given my heart to Wensly, but I'll love the youth no more.”
The rose now blooms,—with love my bosom heaves;
It fades and withers,—sorrow chills my heart:
The cold rains trickle o'er the faded leaves,—
Tears from their secret fount unbidden start.
The dewy morning rises fresh and fair,—
Hope comes again, to wake my love anew:
With blooms of May the maiden wreathes her hair,—
Joy swells my heart, as swells the rose with dew.
Thus flows the Cheskian song; the song thus flows
In Servia's vales, on Russia's boundless plains,
By Visla's banks, unfettered or in chains,
Where'er the pure Slavonian spirit glows.
Ages have rolled away, yet still remain
The seeds, that time and force have crushed in vain.
[II. A holy feeling leads them on]
“Kdoz' gste Boz'j bogownjky
A zakona geho.”—
Zizka.
“Ye warriors of God, and of his law.”
A holy feeling leads them on;
For God their swords they draw:
Their chief, the fearless champion
Of God, and of his law.
Not theirs, the strength of mortal fight;
Religion nerves their hands:
They lift their arms for truth and right;
For faith, each warrior stands.
The ardent hymn, the solemn prayer,
Instead of trump and drum,
Tell to their enemies: “Beware!—
The sacred legions come.”
With brow serene and steady eye,
Firm foot and measured tread,—
“Huss!” burst at once the battle-cry,—
“His blood for truth was shed.”
And loud, as pealing thunder, breaks
From thousand hearts their hymn:
Headlong they rush,—earth 'neath them shakes,—
Smoke rolls,—the day is dim.
“Huss!” swells the cry, and Zizka's shout
Rings through the roar of war.
The foe recoils,—he breaks in rout
And scatters wide and far.
“Glory to God!” the victory song;—
“Praise him,—the field is won.
He only makes the warrior strong.
His will—his will be done!”
