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Like blackest locust-clouds they come,
Our own Bohemia to enslave;
And who—from such a storm—our home—
Our country can protect or save?
For what. avail the wise or brave?
Who can resist the torrent's sway?
"When they are nigh we disappear—
It is not doubt—it is not fear;
They drink the rivers on their way,
And every where their banners rear.
Thy voice, re-echoed o'er the land,
Wakes all Bohemia at thy name;
And every heart—and every hand
Are quicken'd by the living flame
Of courage—but what lust of fame
What mad ambition lur'd our foes—
We came—we look'd—our hero then
Summon'd his hands of chosen men,
And as the storm the surge-scurf blows
We scatter'd all their might again.
