Page:Bohemian legends and other poems.djvu/63

 Then they denied their land, their blood, their speech—
 * Their father’s cherished things, from them they cast.

And took upon them foreign ways and speech,
 * Forgetting their land’s brothers of the past.

Then the Bohemian sun grew dark and dim,
 * And its good genius stood and wept afar.

Their poets praised no more their native land,
 * Their muse was dead—had fled afar, afar.

What thoughts were his who stood and saw all this!
 * Remembering the great past and mighty dead?

He whose heart beat but for his native land—
 * To see her lying there before him dead.

But hark! Arise! The angel of the Lord
 * Sounds from his trumpet, “Come from out thy grave.

Arise! awake! and from thy every church
 * Let national songs be sung thy land to save.”

Thus spake the angel, and the love of land
 * Woke up a thousand shades from out their graves.

The dying heard it, and awoke again,
 * Praising the Lord that they no more were slaves.

The spirit of their fathers came again,
 * Imbuing with new life their torpid hearts.

Gladly they heard the call. Awake! arise!
 * Sing praises in your churches and your marts.

Awake! arise! all ye that slumber still!
 * The day is dawning see the light breaks through.

The nightingales are singing—wherefore sleep?
 * Shame to the sluggards let them be but few.

Oh brothers, live again but for your land—
 * Be ye not dead unto her urgent need.

Oh, be ye brothers, be ye sons again,
 * Unto your native land in her great need.