Page:Bohemian legends and other poems.djvu/22

Worn down by prison and by pain,
Denied a counsellor for his cause,
He called on God to help again
His servant in the general pause.
He was condemned, they listened not
To words of his, however plain.
What cared those priests for truth? I wot
They scorned him in their proud disdain.

They placed the cap upon his brow,
Painted with devils strange and wild,
And tortured him—yes, even now—
With gibe and curse, at which he smiled.
With eyes upturned he prayed to God,
Till his brave voice was hushed for aye.
No greater martyr fled to God,
Than he they burnt upon that day.

They burned him—yes that spirit high
Was borne to God, by fiery wings;
Praying for them he rose on high,
Released from all these worldly things.
He has no statue in the land
Where he was born, and loved so well;
But in the hearts of a small band,
His ever living memory dwells.

Oh, mother earth, this son of thine
Was worthy of the highest place.
Oh, yes, Bohemia, he is thine,
Born of thy own heroic race.
Oh, Christian world, he too is thine,
A martyr for the Christian faith.
Oh, God of gods, he now is thine,
Who died for Thee, and in Thy faith.