Page:Bohemian legends and other poems.djvu/22

 Worn down by prison and by pain,
 * Denied a counsellor for his cause,

He called on God to help again
 * His servant in the general pause.

He was condemned, they listened not
 * To words of his, however plain.

What cared those priests for truth? I wot
 * They scorned him in their proud disdain.

They placed the cap upon his brow,
 * Painted with devils strange and wild,

And tortured him—yes, even now—
 * With gibe and curse, at which he smiled.

With eyes upturned he prayed to God,
 * Till his brave voice was hushed for aye.

No greater martyr fled to God,
 * Than he they burnt upon that day.

They burned him—yes that spirit high
 * Was borne to God, by fiery wings;

Praying for them he rose on high,
 * Released from all these worldly things.

He has no statue in the land
 * Where he was born, and loved so well;

But in the hearts of a small band,
 * His ever living memory dwells.

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

Oh, yes, Bohemia, he is thine,
 * Born of thy own heroic race.

Oh, Christian world, he too is thine,
 * A martyr for the Christian faith.

Oh, God of gods, he now is thine,
 * Who died for Thee, and in Thy faith.