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Your will shall be fulfill'd, for love hath driven
His bolt into my heart.—To-day at even
At mine own table, nobles! you shall see
The maiden whom I choose my bride to be.
"She comes from Desolation—all her friends—
Her parents—all—were train'd by poverty:
Her beauty for her birth shall make amends—
Her virtues shall be titles, lords! to me.
Know, then, I choose Božena—know I choose her,
Not the frank tribute of respect refuse her;
For she alone—and I have sworn it—she
The privileg'd sharer of my bed shall be."
There was a noise confus'd of sigh and groan,
And hiss and hem—each look'd upon the rest—
The noise was still'd—who shall address him?—None!
Who hurl the perilous burden from his breast?
At last Bořin Borowsky—his fair daughter
Destin'd to princely bed the noble thought her—
Borowsky, sovereign of the desolate spot,
Gave vent to his annoy'd and peevish thought.
