Page:Songs of the Slav.pdf/20

 As the brutal beadle in disdain Laughed at us suffering and worn.

I know there'll be no gratitude, I know many of you will say, In the tortured creaking rude There's no art or beauty's lay, Above troubled turmoil's time Should the singer strive to climb, To the sunny height's clear way.

'Tis the truth perhaps, but freely How may soar one to the sky, When on breast he feels painfully Heavy night's hobgoblin lie? No other strain with me abides Until storm in soul subsides; Sing no other strain can I.

Of a slave begot, gave Me birth likewise a slave; Childhood's lullaby song Was but clash of chain,— Through my life extended Rusted shackles sounded Morn till nightfall along Life's deserted main.