The sand blows over it. These fragrant herbs,
Thou seest, would pierce the deadly covering,
By their brow’s strength. In vain, alas! for now
Another hydra comes of gravel-dust,
Spreads its white fins, subdues the living lands,
Stretching its kingdom of wild desert round.
My son! the gifts of spring are living cast
Into the grave. Behold! they are conquered peoples,
Our brothers the Litwini! Son, this sand
Storm-driven from the sea, it is the Order.’