Page:Three stories by Vítězslav Hálek (1886).pdf/124

 And once they came and yet again,

As to an elder brother,

For I am free as they and we,

Are kin to one another.

And many a song I sang of thee,

Songs full of love and passion,

To which those small birds tuned their throat,

And sang them in their fashion.

So when I visited the copse,

Where those sweet birds were singing,

I marvelled much to hear the grove,

With my own love notes ringing.

Your arm about some supple waist,

To thread the waltz—what joyous pleasure!

Come, pale-face, join the dance with us,

I’ll bid them play a measure.

But pale-face shivered e’en as though

Chill frost was o’er his limbs congealing,

And o’er that pale wan face of his,

I saw the hot tears stealing.

The greatest hero is not he,

Who being struck returns the blow,

But he is great who, though deceived,

Will not his faith forego.