Classic Poem

Who rears his country's fair renown,
Shall earn a patriot's lofty praise —
Yes! he shall wear a laurel crown,
And him shall sing the poet's lays;
What prouder fame, what greener bays
Can history offer? — be his meed
Eternal laud within the shrine,
Lighted by glory's lamp divine,
That every triumph, every deed
Thro everlasting years may shine.

Zizka! Bohemia's chief — arise!
Of murdered Hus th' avenger thou!
Thou hast o'erwhelm'd thine enemies
In the fierce battle-field; and now
They perish in the dust below.
And the whole world has seen how great
A patriot's victory may be;
When arm'd, Bohemia! — arm'd for thee.
(O laurels on thy bidding wait,
To crown thee for eternity!)

And see! what crowded german bands —
Steeds clamp and weapons clang — from Rhine
And Oder's thickly-peopled lands;
And mountain-warriors there combine
From distant Alp and Appenine:
Hungarians too — and neighbouring poles,
And practised saxons — tell us why
Ye lift your swords, your lances high? —
O! popish briefs — and popish bulls
Have preach'd of our apostacy.

Like blackest locust-clouds they come,
Our own Bohemia to enslave;
And who — from such a storm — our home —
Our country can protect or save?
For what avail the wise or brave?
Who can resist the torrent's sway?
When they are nigh we disappear —
It is not doubt — it is not fear;
They drink the rivers on their way,
And every where their banners rear.

Thy voice, re-echoed o'er the land,
Wakes all Bohemia at thy name;
And every heart — and every hand
Are quicken'd by the living flame
Of courage — but what lust of fame
What mad ambition lur'd our foes —
We came — we look'd — our hero then
Summon'd his bands of chosen men,
And as the storm the surge-scurf blows
We scatter'd all their might again.

Still Zatetz's plains are bleak and bare,
Still towers old Brodsky's mountain dell,
Where, as the greyhound drives the hare,
Thou, with thy Tabrites didst compel
All — all to fly — but those who fell:
Proud Praga looks on Zizkow's hill,
Still pleas'd that hallow'd spot to see,
Where Zizka leagued with victory —
And dreams play'd round Bohemia still,
The dreams of peace and liberty.

Then Germany — who felt the shame
Of Swabia's daring enterprise,
And that our Hus — Bohemia's fame —
Had been the bloody sacrifice;
There, where the Rhine so swiftly flies,
Rais'd up her flag — thou saxon mound,
Ye austrian hills, now witness bear,
How, towering o'er each mountain there,
Bohemia's lion roar'd around,
Bohemia's banner flapp'd the air.

Then glory, with her golden ray,
And silver trumpets pour'd thy praise;
And wing'd her bright and rustling way
O'er the wide world — thy fame to raise,
And bid the nations on thee gaze.
But with thy victories did she tell
What deeds of darkness and of dread
Were round those glorious victories spread,
And that thy name had been the spell,
From which all life and blessing fled?

Zizka! thy fame had blinded thee,
And fortune, with accustom'd sneer,
Had dregg'd her cup with treachery,
And pour'd her poisons in thine ear.
Whose valor came thy valor near?
Thou, like the illustrious Hannibal,
When he, on Cannae's glorious day,
Swept all the Roman hosts away,
On thine own Cannae didst appal,
And overwhelm Germania.

Thou hadst a glorious triumph then,
When midst a whole world's envying,
In victory's loud and joyous train,
Thou didst thy golden booty bring,
And on Bohemia's altars fling:
How loudly was the welcome pour'd
From every patriot Ceskian tongue,
Man — child — youth — maiden — woman flung,
To thee, thy country's son ador'd,
The wreaths their busy hands had strung.

Why didst thou dip that sacred wreath,
O Zizka! in thy brothers' blood?
Why bow thee from thy height — beneath,
And turn to evil all thy good?
Why didst thou loose thy savage brood
On monks and nobles — in thy rage
Give reins to riot — overthrow
Castles and towers — and deaf to woe —
Whelm all — and rear o'er all a stage,
Where error and where crime might grow.

Those ruins — which seem curs'd — and frown
As if some evil ghosts were there;
Where bravery scarce dares stay alone,
O what a woeful page they are,
Of man in passion's fierce career:
The very winds that whistle thro,
Seem shuddering midst the gloomy pile:
There spectres meet — and sigh awhile;
And as the screech-owls cry to-whoo!
The fiends of evil shriek and smile.