The Wanderer arose, and rapidly disappeared
from my eyes in the sanctuary of the ancient church.
Thus passed and ended that one day of my vision!
O Mother, many times murdered! When thou shalt waken from thy long
sleep, and again rest on the long grass of the home turf, again hear the
holy whispers of thy unhewn forests green from sea to sea, again feel
thy youth returning upon thee, thou wilt remember thy long night of
death, the terrible phantoms of thy protracted agonies. Weep not then, O
Mother! weep not for those who fell in glorious battle, nor for those
who perished on alien soil--although their flesh was torn by the vulture
and devoured by the wolf, they were still happy! Neither weep for those
who died in the dark and silent dungeon underground by the hand of the
executioner, though the dismal prison-lamp was their only star, and the
harsh words of the oppressor the last farewell they heard on earth--they
too were happy!
But drop a tear, O Mother! One tear of tender pity for those who were
deceived by thy Murderers, misled by their tissues of glittering
falsehood, blinded by misty veils woven of specious deceptions, when the
command of the tyrant had no power to tear their true hearts from thee!
Alas, Mother, these victims have suffered the most of all thy martyred
children! Deceitful hopes, born but to die, like blades of naked steel,
forever pierced their breasts! Thousands of fierce combats, unknown to
fame, were waging in their souls, combats fuller of bitter suffering
than the bloody battles thundering on in the broad light of the sun,
clashing with the gleam of steel, and booming with the roar of
artillery.
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