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 Žatetz's plains are bleak and bare,

Still towers old Brodsky's mountain dell,

Where, as the greyhound drives the hare,

Thou, with thy TabritesTaborites [sic] didst compel

All—all to fly—but those who fell:

Proud Praga looks on Žižkow's hill,

Still pleas'd that hallow'd spot to see,

Where Žižka leagued with victory—

And dreams play'd round Bohemia still,

The dreams of peace and liberty.

Germany—who felt the shame

Of Swabia's daring enterprise,

And that our Hus—Bohemia's fame—

Had been the bloody sacrifice;

There, where the Rhine so swiftly flies,

Rais'd up her flag—thou saxon mound,

Ye austrian hills, now witness bear,

How, towering o'er each mountain there,

Bohemia's lion roar'd around,

Bohemia's banner flapp'd the air.