Page:Anthology of Modern Slavonic Literature in Prose and Verse by Paul Selver.djvu/283

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My steeds, lieutenant,—and be worthy of The spirits of the beasts,—Corporal, receive My sword,—'tis full of stains,—but cleanse them not, They're the renown of it,—No priests for me,— Too late for that,—and where's the need, at all?— The emperor's captain hath his place in heaven,— Yea, sure a thousand,—two, 'tis very like,— Czech pike-men I converted to the faith Of Rome,—likewise dispatched to hell,—for so Need sometime was,—Upon my breast I have A wallet with a brace of thalers,—wait Give 'em the priests for mass,—not for my soul,— That hath, so said I, warranty in heaven,— But for a pike-man,—Once,—'tis years agone,— Father Ignatius with me, I did swoop Upon a village,—heard the creed out,—well, 'Tis thus we drave the straying herd unto Salvation's fount,—Inside a building sat An aged pike-man,—he was stubborn,—laid Hands on the book,—and on its print,—Stood out Shook his old pate,—a lime-tree stood within The courtyard,—and thereon I bade them hang This errant soul,—And as they led him forth.— He gazed at me,—Thou art a murderer, Sir Captain,—and some day or other, at The hour of death,—thou shalt remember me,— —I do remember,—how the eyes he had Were like to withered cornflowers,—yet it was No murder,—for therein ne'er shifted ground