Buchlow

O SAY, Morava, why thy stream With turbid waves doth go? The sun on thee doth brightly beam, Then why not brightly flow?

‘O how can I be bright and clear, When troubled is my stream? When all my fate is dark and drear, How can I other seem?

‘A German to my fountain came, To cull a nosegay there, And said in scorn, that it was shame, My flow’rets were so fair.

‘And by the roots he tore them up, My hope, my joy, my pride! And ah! when he had torn them up, He flung them all aside.

‘He flung them all to float and die Upon my winding river; And shall I not flow mournfully For ever and for ever? O say not that for evermore Thy stream must mourning flow! I hear a step upon thy shore, That softly there doth go.

It is a Lady pacing nigh; Not far her castle frowns, That with its turrets proud and high The mountain yonder crowns.

The blood that flow'd in Vaclaw’s veins, And in Ludmilla mild, Ludmilla’s life again sustains, Their true and worthy child.

O mourn, Morava, mourn no more! Thy stream must brighter flow; For One is pacing on thy shore, Who feeleth all thy woe.

And hark! O hark! what joy resounds, Where all was sad and drear! The music of Slavonic sounds From noble lips I hear! And more true hearts will come in turn, And firmly all unite, And by Morava’s crystal urn Will blossom fair and bright.

O then, Morava, let thy stream No more despairing go! The sun on thee doth brightly beam, And thou must brightly flow.