Page:Bohemian legends and other poems.djvu/21

 Oh, mother earth, this son of thine
 * Was worthy of the highest place,

And though his ashes in the Rhine
 * Were thrown, he lives still in his race.

A dauntless soul that spoke the truth,
 * When all the world in darkness slept;

Bohemia’s martyred son in sooth
 * Blanched not, though friends around him wept.

Whom should I fear? The Emperor’s pass
 * Promises liberty and peace.”

But still his friends said: “Alas!
 * We much misgive us of that peace.”

Whom should I fear then? Those who kill
 * The body, but have no more power

Over the soul that triumphs still,
 * And conquers in the dying hour?”

Nay, weep not, I must go from hence,
 * I must speak out the words of God;

I must make out my own defense,
 * And prove it by the word of God;

I will come back without the blot
 * Of heresy upon my name;

Then blessed, forsooth, will be my lot,
 * And great indeed Bohemia’s fame.”

He went in faith—he went in hope—
 * And prison walls, and dungeon cell,

And torture of the chain and rope,
 * Were his in that far land as well.

They would not listen to his speech;
 * Unheard, he was condemned to die.

In vain he cried, “I do beseech—
 * Oh, listen to me ere I die.”