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46 I recollect alone, somewhere in Litwa, Amid a great town stood my father's house. It was a wooden town on lofty hills, The house was of red brick. Around the hills Murmured a wood of fir-trees on the plains; Among the woods a white lake gleamed afar. One night a shout aroused us from our sleep; A fiery day dawned in the window, shook The window-panes, and whirling wreaths of smoke Burst forth within the house. Wo to the door. Flames curled through all the streets, sparks fell like hail. A horrid cry arose, 'To arms! the Germans Are in the town! to arms!' My father rushed Forth with his sword,—rushed forth—returned no more! The Germans poured into the house. One seized me And caught me to his saddle. What came further I know not; but long, long my mother's shrieks I heard 'mid clash of swords, 'mid fall of houses. This cry long followed me, stayed in my ear; Even now when I view flames and falling houses, This cry wakes in my soul as echo wakes In caverns after thunder's voice. Behold