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I recollect alone, somewhere in Litwa,
Amid a great town stood my father's house.
It was a wooden town on lofty hills,
The house was of red brick. Around the hills
Murmured a wood of fir-trees on the plains;
Among the woods a white lake gleamed afar.
One night a shout aroused us from our sleep;
A fiery day dawned in the window, shook
The window-panes, and whirling wreaths of smoke
Burst forth within the house. Wo to the door.
Flames curled through all the streets, sparks fell
like hail.
A horrid cry arose, 'To arms! the Germans
Are in the town! to arms!' My father rushed
Forth with his sword,—rushed forth—returned no
more!
The Germans poured into the house. One seized
me
And caught me to his saddle. What came further
I know not; but long, long my mother's shrieks
I heard 'mid clash of swords, 'mid fall of houses.
This cry long followed me, stayed in my ear;
Even now when I view flames and falling houses,
This cry wakes in my soul as echo wakes
In caverns after thunder's voice. Behold