Page:Anthology of Modern Slavonic Literature in Prose and Verse by Paul Selver.djvu/244

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 What most calm, most hid, is vanished To some secret lair, Tempest, what is farthest banished, To my spirit bear. 



, O gypsy fiddler, hail! A czardas is my pleasure! 'Cello, groan, and fiddle, wail In wild exultant measure. All the grief my soul doth sway, All the woes and ills All into thy fiddling lay Ho! a czardas to me play, Gypsy from the hills. All the grief my soul doth sway, Proudly laid to rest All into thy fiddling lay Ho! a czardas to me play, With wild exultant zest. Mountain blood flows in our veins, Both our souls are dire; Quell my anger with thy strains, All my scorn and ire. Hearken to the forest cry,— From afar it rings; Play e'en as the forest plays When the tempest thro' it strays; From the bow let fibres fly, Tears flow from the strings. 