Where treads her foot a recent grave up-grows.
O woeful sight! But yet a heavier doom
Foretold to Litwa from the German side,—
The shining helmet with the ostrich plume,
And the wide mantle with the black cross dyed.
For where that spectre’s fearful step has passed,
Nought is a hamlet’s ruin or a town,
But a whole country to the grave is cast
O thou to whom is Litwa’s spirit dear!
Come, on the graves of nations sit we down;