Page:The Hussite wars, by the Count Lützow.djvu/387

 ’Gainst all dangers meant to brace me For a warrior’s hardy doom; Merciless the cold hail beat on Moaning mother’s pain-torn womb.

Storm the first breath that I drew, Thunderclap first caught my ear; Hence a storm-bred suckling, I Plunge now on my wild career.

Hus! beneath this oak I swear Vengeance on thy death, for lo, Hus, the earth soon crimson-red With thy torturers’ blood shall flow.

Hus, so freely from their wounds Shall their blood stream forth therewhile, That it could a hundredfold Quench at once thy blazing pile.

Hus, the soil shall turn as black As their smouldering forts, and I, Wheresoe’er a priest be found I will slay him, he shall die!

From the dense smoke-laden clouds Shall the eye of God grow dim, That they could commit such crime In the very sight of Him!

Quenchless, Hus; within my breast Burns a spark from thy death-pyre; As their crime, so my revenge— They shall dread my righteous ire.