Page:Bohemian poems, ancient and modern (Lyra czecho-slovanska).djvu/49

 A first, a second fight is lost,
 * The Tatars make their home

In Poland, all things devastate,
 * And near and nearer come.

And now the savage heathen press
 * To Olmütz; cries of woe

Arise in ev’ry district; nought
 * Is safe before the foe.

The first, the second day is past.
 * And neither side hath won;

But ah! the Tatar multitude
 * Goes still increasing on,

And waxes, as the ev’ning mist,
 * That hangs the woods upon.

The Christians, boat-like, to and fro
 * Amidst the Tatars sway,

And now towards God’s Mother’s hill
 * They backwards force their way.

‘Up, brethren, up!’ doth Wneslaw cry,
 * While on his silver shield

His sword he strikes, and o’er his head
 * The banner high doth wield.

All courage take, and all themselves
 * Upon the Tatars throw,