Page:Bohemian legends and other poems.djvu/99



Across the stony mountains,
 * Who comes in war’s array?

The warlike Zvikoš is it?
 * Quick, arm thee for the fray.

A charger waits to bear thee—
 * My son, grasp quick thy sword,

And hold the spear with courage,
 * I am too old for that horde.”

Thus spake the old Hrušovec
 * Unto his well-loved son,

And gave unto his brave hand,
 * A flagstaff bravely won.

Take now this golden banner,
 * ’Neath which your grandsire fought

The heathen on the seacoast,
 * Where he great havoc wrought.

Many a time this castle
 * The enemy had won,

But when they saw this banner,
 * They feared it, every one.

Take it, my son, and cherish,
 * Yea, as thou wouldst thy life—

Come back with it triumphing,
 * Or die there in the strife.”

The old man’s voice was husky,
 * The lad from him must part—

The youth he caught the banner,
 * And pressed it to his heart;