Page:Bohemian legends and other poems.djvu/196

Thine was the Christian’s faith, the dauntless heart,
That in the darkest night still dreams of dawn;
Thine was the effort, thine the glorious part,
To help the children in a world forlorn.
Thy voice was heard in every noble cause,
And Europe listened to Moravia’s son.
In many lands you helped to make the laws,
For schools, and scholars, till thy days were done.

Thine was the patriot’s zeal, thy native tongue
To make more rich, by works that shall not die,
And far away in foreign lands you sung
Your burning words, that ended with a sigh.
All hail to thee, Komenský! though thy bones
Will never rest within thy land of birth.
In Naarden is a grave that in all zones
Will be remembered by the learned of earth.

All hail to thee, Komenský! tyrant’s might
Can never pluck the laurels from thy brow,
Nor will thy brothers let oblivion’s night
Enshroud the grave where thou art lying now.
Thou wert an exile but thy grave shall be
Crowned with a laurel wreath from thy dear land,
While sympathetic nations mourn to see
The tyranny that crushes thy loved land.

All hail to thee, Komenský! homeless here,
Thou now hast found a home in realms more fair.
An orphan now a Father wipes the tear
And lays the conqueror’s crown upon thy hair.
What matters if thou sleep in alien soil—
Thy grave is honored, be it where it will.
Dishonor only rests on those who toil
To bind their fellowmen against their will.