Page:Bohemian poems, ancient and modern (Lyra czecho-slovanska).djvu/126



OUNTAIN, mountain, thou art high! Hear’st thou not our wailing cry? See’st thou not the streams that glow From the eyes of patriots flow?

Wherefore shines the sun on thee, That thy top doth glitter free, And thy meadows ev’ry May To our sorrow blossom gay?

Hear how sounds Vltava’s shore ! Hear the distant thunders roar! ’Tis our lips in whispers low Cursing thee for evermoe.

Doth the true Czech thee espy, Terror-struck he draweth nigh, Anguish dire his bosom fires, That he sleeps not with his sires.

Cursed mountain, mountain white! Upon thee was crush’d our might; What in thee lies cover’d o’er Ages cannot back restore.