Wild music blows aflame mine alien mood
With fires unroused before: For what high fate
What grandsire of my body galloped late,
Red-spurred adown flint-flashing pavements, strewed
Hot battle-tidings 'mid the multitude,
And drove the invader from his city's Gate? —
Or broke steel, bristling lines, sudden and straight,
By victory-singing bugles close pursued?
Bohemia, Bohemia, thy song
Stirs the ancestral grandeurs! Who shall say
Thine are not conquests of a loftier kind?
Forever sad and fair, dim realms along,
The borders of men's motives thou shalt sway,
And reign with beauty in many a noble mind!