Then they denied their land, their blood, their speech—
Their father’s cherished things, from them they cast.
And took upon them foreign ways and speech,
Forgetting their land’s brothers of the past.
Then the Bohemian sun grew dark and dim,
And its good genius stood and wept afar.
Their poets praised no more their native land,
Their muse was dead—had fled afar, afar.
What thoughts were his who stood and saw all this!
Remembering the great past and mighty dead?
He whose heart beat but for his native land—
To see her lying there before him dead.
PART THIRD.
But hark! Arise! The angel of the Lord
Sounds from his trumpet, “Come from out thy grave.
Arise! awake! and from thy every church
Let national songs be sung thy land to save.”
Thus spake the angel, and the love of land
Woke up a thousand shades from out their graves.
The dying heard it, and awoke again,
Praising the Lord that they no more were slaves.
The spirit of their fathers came again,
Imbuing with new life their torpid hearts.
Gladly they heard the call. Awake! arise!
Sing praises in your churches and your marts.
Awake! arise! all ye that slumber still!
The day is dawning see the light breaks through.
The nightingales are singing—wherefore sleep?
Shame to the sluggards let them be but few.
Oh brothers, live again but for your land—
Be ye not dead unto her urgent need.
Oh, be ye brothers, be ye sons again,
Unto your native land in her great need.
