Page:Bohemian legends and other poems.djvu/195



All hail to thee, Komenský, though thy name
 * Must not be honored where thy cradle stood,

Nor happy troops of children sing thy fame,
 * The little ones you loved and understood.

Yes, all the world can honor thee, but those
 * For whom you strove, your brothers must be still—

Forbidden by a minister, they rose,
 * To do thee honor, ’gainst a tyrant’s will.

Prague like a bride arrayed herself with flags,
 * And windows blazed, and music played for thee,

And e’en the beggars put away their rags,
 * And students dared to dream that they were free.

All hail to thee, Komenský! though thy fate
 * Was but an exile’s—home you never had—

Poor and a wanderer, honor came too late
 * To minister to one so old and sad.