Page:An Anthology of Modern Bohemian Poetry.pdf/34

30  I raised the hammer on high—in a trice the gore
 * Was flowing on Polish Ostrava's soil!

All ye that are in Silesia, all ye I say,
 * Whether Peter your name be or Paul,

The steel-wrought armour upon your breast ye must lay,
 * And thousands to battle must call.

All ye that are in Silesia, all ye I say,
 * Ye who over the depths your mastery wield,

From below come flame and smoke; and there comes a day,
 * There comes a day when a reckoning ye shall yield!

"" (1911).

 

Get thee hence from my way: Black are my hands and damp is the raiment I wear, I am but a miner and thou art my master to-day; Thine is the palace, a hovel of wood is my lair, My Phrygian cap o’er my forehead a shadow doth throw. But not unto me do the pleading orphans lament, They are robbed by thy ravening hares of the fruits of the soil, 