Page:The Hussite wars, by the Count Lützow.djvu/387

’Gainst all dangers meant to brace me
For a warrior’s hardy doom;
Merciless the cold hail beat on
Moaning mother’s pain-torn womb.

Storm the first breath that I drew,
Thunderclap first caught my ear;
Hence a storm-bred suckling, I
Plunge now on my wild career.

Hus! beneath this oak I swear
Vengeance on thy death, for lo,
Hus, the earth soon crimson-red
With thy torturers’ blood shall flow.

Hus, so freely from their wounds
Shall their blood stream forth therewhile,
That it could a hundredfold
Quench at once thy blazing pile.

Hus, the soil shall turn as black
As their smouldering forts, and I,
Wheresoe’er a priest be found
I will slay him, he shall die!

From the dense smoke-laden clouds
Shall the eye of God grow dim,
That they could commit such crime
In the very sight of Him!

Quenchless, Hus; within my breast
Burns a spark from thy death-pyre;
As their crime, so my revenge—
They shall dread my righteous ire.