191
Should I return to our bohemian land,
When the blest trump of peace is heard again,
What bliss—what bliss supreme to take thy hand—
How will my spirit thrill with rapture then!
Thy rosy lips my eager kiss shall press,
My arms around thy smiling form shall be;
Thine eyes—thy cheeks—the kiss of love shall bless;
O! the unutterable extasy!
Hark! hark ! the trumpet's call—the banner flies
High flapping in the wind—our lions shake
Their grisly manes—thou maid of Paradise,
Come hither—come—thy hero's sabre take,
And gird it on—and bless him—and one kiss—
One kiss—and then—and then—what words can tell
My thoughts—thou joy, hope, peace, song, love, and bliss—
My more than heaven—farewell—farewell—farewell!