Page:Anthology of Modern Slavonic Literature in Prose and Verse by Paul Selver.djvu/251

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the seer of the folk by the Bezkyds; God gave me not to them. He heeds but the country Where gold of the corn stretches up to the skyline, Where pansies are fragrant, forget-me-nots blossom, Where cymbal and fiddle make music for dances, Where cities are broad and castles majestic, Treasure-filled churches and skiffs on the river, Trusting in heaven, and gladness and glee.

He whom God had condemned to a sulphury chasm, He whose lips in their starkness no prayer ever uttered, Sat on a crag with a time-old defiance.

He stared with an eye that was murky as nightfall, 'Neath the hush of the Bezkyds and 'neath Lysá Hora. A century's grip, the yoke that has humbled The collier's neck as a bough in the bending, Turbulent grasp of the foreigner, dragging