Light upon the mountain—pray, what may be doing?
Twelve robust and strapping youngsters rendezvousing.
Youngsters hale and handsome, fond of sport and laughter,—
Never lived their like before and scarce will live hereafter!
Falcons of the Tatras, faithful to each other,
As if they were the offspring of one common mother;
Offspring, yea! and fondlings, washed in milk and bathed,
Delicately nursed, in golden garments swathed.
Braves of form and figure, straight as altar tapers,
Brightening the gloom of sylvan shades and vapors;
Shirts of verdant velvet, silvered rich and regal,
Hats profusely studded, feathered with an eagle;
Armed with axe and carbine, pistols two for action—
These are my enjoyment, pride, and satisfaction!
When they stop to bivouac ’round a camp-fire gleaming.
Twelve surrounding counties watch its skyward beaming;
When they start to drill with boyish animation,
Twelve surrounding counties throb in exultation.
Ay! and when their hatchet gleams in sun’s attention,
Lords of distant Budin quail with apprehension!
Tatras, spacious Tatras—nooks for trysts and rambles,
Ranges, misty ranges—fields for wanton gambols—
And yon Krivan castle frowning in the distance:
Who could dare to blight these youngsters’ free existence?!
And their gallant captain what a—lord of bearing!
With the plume of blue and a scarlet cape he’s wearing;
When he’s on the mountain, like a dawn at breaking.
When he’s in the forest, all the earth is quaking!
Danube and the Tatras hear the groans ascending:
Take your tax, you tyrants, reckoning is pending;
Keep the pelf, you wolves, your pelts shall pay our labors,
When, surrounding you, will flash a dozen sabers:
“Stand!” ten voices thunder! “Stand, you paltry traitor!
Hand to us your hoard, your soul to your Creator!”—
Blades and pistols ready dignify the bustle:—
“Give us back the plundered Slovak brawn and muscle!”
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A breeze wafts from the gallows, women cross, invoking;
On four forbidding pillars ravens harsh are croaking:
“Hasten to us, Johnny dear!” horror chills the marrow—
“Hasten, hasten, gallant peer! Late would be to-morrow.”
Yet he goes along with heart unknown to falter,
For his soul repeats: ’tis freedom’s tragic altar.
Now he’s up! Alas! his yearning soul exchanges
Last communication with his native ranges!
O beloved country, land of song and fable,
Where the charming Fairies clothe your heroes able,
Nymphs supply your songsters drink of mystic fountains!
Where is there your like, my lovely land and mountains!
Sad the somber Tatras groan with melancholy,—
Grieflessly he gazes, calmly, tragically;
For their memory gilt enchanting lamps will render,
Clothing them in ancient sunny garb of splendor.
Upon that marvelous world he beams with warm devotion,
As does the sun when setting on a lustrous ocean.