PETERSWALD
From Poremba, Dombrovsky Petr did fare,
Before him his little girl sped.
One rode forth from Peterswald; whoso stood there
Each moment bowed low his head.
Lo, the black steeds, hear the hoofs clatter hard,
Bright gleams the bridle of gold;
Half a pace forward, and God be thy guard,
Or the maid he will have in his hold.
Dombrovsky sprang to the maiden and paled,
In his arms he clasped her amain;
The master's whip deep on his countenance trailed:
Petr, why wilt thou take her again?
Away, for in Freistadt her lot would be woe,
Away, and be timid and shrinking!
A channel of blood in thy soul is aglow,
Dombrovsky, cease thou thy drinking.
An hour is approaching, as day, a great day,
By flames the horizon is riven;
Stop the steeds! From his carriage, deuce, drag him away!
Pay, Dombrovsky, what thou wert given!
