Page:May (Mácha, 1932).djvu/51

 Once more his gaze is wandering far and near, Then toward the skies his roaming glances dart. Upon this bluish dome, white vapors slowly die, As with the winds they play and prance; And high above toward the far off lands, White cloudlets o'er the distant heavens fly, And thus the grieving captive speaks to them: "You, who with a far-reached flight all distance stem, And as with mystic arms embrace all earth, You molten stars and shadows of heavens blue, You mourners who, when sadness captures you, Dissolve as into silent sparkling tears, You are the envoys chosen by my hand. Where'er you float upon your far-off course Before at length you've reached your distant shores Along your journey, greet my native land. My loved country, beautiful and fair, My cradle and my grave, my mother's care, The only soil of which I am an heir, My native realm that stretches over there. When in your flight you'll see a mountain high Projecting out the lake—there a maid with flying hair—" He ceases while burning tears pour out each saddened eye. Then from the mount the soldiers and their prey March o'er the path, where new-grown trees abound, Lower and low, till they have reached the mound. Again the din subsides, slowly to die away.