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Defending memories of a nation's word.
The Archangel's wings are thine, his voice thine too,
And often wieldest thou Archangel's sword.

The flame devoureth story's pictured words,
And thieves with steel wide scatter treasured
hoards.
But scatheless is the song the poet sings.
And should vile spirits still refuse to give
Sorrow and hope, whereby the song may live,
Upward she flieth and to ruins clings.
And thence relateth ancient histories.
The nightingale from burning dwellings flits,
But on the roof, a moment yet she sits;
When falls the roof she to the forest flies,
And from her laden breast o'er dying embers.
Sings a low dirge the passer-by remembers.

I heard the song! An ancient peasant swain.
When over bones his iron ploughshare rang,
Stood, and on flute of willow played a strain.
Prayers for the dead, or, with a rhymed lament.
Of you, great childless fathers, then he sang.
The echoes answered. I from far did hear,