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Blood in streams flow'd forth like mountain-torrents,

Corpses lay as trees when fell'd in forests,

Here a warrior's head that's cleft insunder,

There a warrior's trunk, both arms dissever'd,

There another flung from of his war-horse,

Here, one stripp'd, upon his foeman lying

As a storm-rent tree upon the mountain;

Here, a sword to heft in bosom buried,

There, a tatar hath an ear off-smitten.

And what shootings then and groans and curses!

Yet again the christians are retreating,

Yet again the tater-hosts pursuing:

But the eagle, Jaroslaw, approaches;

Harden'd steel is on the strongest bosom;

Under it is wisdom's ready courage,

'Neath his helm the lynx-eyed glance of hero,

Glanced with all the glow of valor beaming—

Lo! he storms, as storms the hungry lion,

When he sees his destin'd prey approaching,

Or when wounded turns on his pursuer,

So Jaroslaw turn'd upon the tatars—

Like a hail-storm follow the bohemians—