Page:Bohemian legends and other poems.djvu/196

 Thine was the Christian’s faith, the dauntless heart,
 * That in the darkest night still dreams of dawn;

Thine was the effort, thine the glorious part,
 * To help the children in a world forlorn.

Thy voice was heard in every noble cause,
 * And Europe listened to Moravia’s son.

In many lands you helped to make the laws,
 * For schools, and scholars, till thy days were done.

Thine was the patriot’s zeal, thy native tongue
 * To make more rich, by works that shall not die,

And far away in foreign lands you sung
 * Your burning words, that ended with a sigh.

All hail to thee, Komenský! though thy bones
 * Will never rest within thy land of birth.

In Naarden is a grave that in all zones
 * Will be remembered by the learned of earth.

All hail to thee, Komenský! tyrant’s might
 * Can never pluck the laurels from thy brow,

Nor will thy brothers let oblivion’s night
 * Enshroud the grave where thou art lying now.

Thou wert an exile but thy grave shall be
 * Crowned with a laurel wreath from thy dear land,

While sympathetic nations mourn to see
 * The tyranny that crushes thy loved land.

All hail to thee, Komenský! homeless here,
 * Thou now hast found a home in realms more fair.

An orphan now a Father wipes the tear
 * And lays the conqueror’s crown upon thy hair.

What matters if thou sleep in alien soil—
 * Thy grave is honored, be it where it will.

Dishonor only rests on those who toil
 * To bind their fellowmen against their will.