England to Czechoslovakia

ONCE—in the day of our meridian song And young armadas—on your Bohemian hill An older fame suffered an alien wrong Where arms again blasphemed a people’s will. And freedom slept among your heroes then, Sepulchred on White Mountain, till a theme Of the unforgotten music called again, And sovranty was where had been a dream.

FORTUNE, for all our wisdom, we can shape not, Being free, we yet are kinsmen of the blind, The snares of our own hearts we can escape not, Our bravest end is fortitude of mind— But Masaryk knows, Bohemia knows, that thence The spirit of man walks in magnificence.