Although by dust bedimmed, with scars beflecked;
Place but within its heart a little light,
With freshness of its colours eyes are lured,
On palace walls yet gleaming fair and bright,
Lovely, though yet with dusty cloud obscured.
O could I but this fire of mine impart
To all my hearers' breasts, the shapes upraise
Of those dead times, and reach the very heart
Of all my brothers with my burning lays!
But haply even in this passing hour,
Now when their native song their hearts can move.
The pulses of those hearts may beat more strong,
Their souls may feel the ancient pride and love;
And live one moment in such noble power,
As lived their forefathers their whole life long.
But why invoke the ages long gone by,
And for the present's glory find no voice?
For in your midst a great man liveth nigh—
I sing of him. Ye, Litwini, rejoice!
Silent the old man was, and hearkened round,
If still the Germans will permit his song.
Around the hall there reigned a silence deep;
