It burns away the inner pith; the monarch
Of the forest loses all his waving leaves,
His branches fly off, even that green crown
That once adorned his brow, the mistletoe,
Dries up and withers.
Long the Litwini
Wandered through castles, mountains, and through woods,
The Germans harrying or by them attacked,
Till fought the dreadful fight on Rudaw’s plains,
Where many thousand Litwin youth lay slaughtered,