THE YOUTH FROM HRUŠOV.
“Across the stony mountains,
Who comes in war’s array?
The warlike Zvikoš is it?
Quick, arm thee for the fray.
A charger waits to bear thee—
My son, grasp quick thy sword,
And hold the spear with courage,
I am too old for that horde.”
Thus spake the old Hrušovec
Unto his well-loved son,
And gave unto his brave hand,
A flagstaff bravely won.
“Take now this golden banner,
’Neath which your grandsire fought
The heathen on the seacoast,
Where he great havoc wrought.
“Many a time this castle
The enemy had won,
But when they saw this banner,
They feared it, every one.
Take it, my son, and cherish,
Yea, as thou wouldst thy life—
Come back with it triumphing,
Or die there in the strife.”
The old man’s voice was husky,
The lad from him must part—
The youth he caught the banner,
And pressed it to his heart;
