Page:Anthology of Modern Slavonic Literature in Prose and Verse by Paul Selver.djvu/221

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 The world is lit by Slavdom's pyre, Which scarce enkindled, blinds the sight. 'Mid Slavdom's calm a festive fire Of coming strength flings out its light.

Where it bursts forth,—the Pole is there; The Russian,—where in depths it strays; But by one lightning-flash they bear Into the gloom an age-long blaze.

Thou, Poland, Slavdom's arrow art; I see the bow-string tensely spanned; Quiver, where dearth has ne'er a part, And wrath of God's extended hand.

Poland, to thee I am akin! The fire of headstrong dreams, the trust In fiery destiny shall win Its all,—or sink amid the dust!





sped the Maenad onward, Like a doe, Like a doe,—

With heart bursting from her bosom, Like a doe, Like a doe,—

