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Some drag still onward chilled and stiffened limbs,
Some on the march have frozen to the road;
But with raised hands the corpses standing point
Straight to the town, like pillars on the way.
 
The townsfolk, terror-stricken, curious ran,
Fearing to guess the truth they dared not ask;
For all the story of that luckless war
They in the warriors' eyes and faces read.
For o'er their eyes hung death in frosty shape.
And Famine's harpy hollowed out their cheeks.
Now are the trumpets of the Litwin heard.
Now rolls the storm, snow whirlwinds o'er the
plain;
Far off a multitude of gaunt dogs howls.
And overhead the ravens hover round.

All perished! Konrad has destroyed them all!
He, that once reaped such glory with the sword,
He, for his prudence formerly renowned,
Timid and careless in this latter war.
Marked not the cunning snares that Witold laid;
Deceived and blinded by the wish of vengeance,
Driving his army on the Litwin steppes,
Wilna thus long in sluggard guise besieged.