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<p>Where the blood has streamed, now glistens the falling dew.<lb/> | |||
'' | <del>Where</del> <add>The</add> green grass <del>has grown</del> <add>is cut and</add> now <del>is</del> <add>lay the</add> balmy hay<lb/> | ||
<del>Thereby</del> <add>Only</add> The steps of the oxen are <add><del>only</del></add> impressed in the ground<lb/> | |||
Which drew home the carts loaden with harvest.</p> | |||
<p>Lo, these <del>are</del> green tombs, <del><gap/> <gap/> tombs</del> <add>rise from</add> the ground<lb/> | |||
The winds, while passes, sadly murmurs in the weeds<lb/> | |||
The <hi rend="underline">Cicada</hi> driven from the meadow that <del>was</del> <add>is</add> cut<lb/> | |||
Desolate sings his song of exile</p> | |||
<p>O dire recollection! What do I see before me.<lb/> | |||
Here the <del>shadows</del> <add>spirits</add> of the warriors flit across<lb/> | |||
Shadow follows shadow over the waving <del>crop</del> fields of grain<lb/> | |||
Here <add>lies</add> a <del>cor</del> mangled corpse <del>lay</del> there gleams the sword in the muscular hand.</p> | |||
<p>And <del>lo</del> yonder! where <add>stands</add> the alder on the streamlet's brink<lb/> | |||
And the Nightingale sings amidst his bows<lb/> | |||
Whose Shadow is that? – 'Tis Godebski's, Thy spirit <add>stalks.</add><lb/> | |||
Over huge piles of armour: and the <del>gale</del> <add>winds</add> breath on his Harp.</p> | |||
<p>O Shadows of my brethren! How long will you wander<lb/> | |||
Restless, <del>with</del> here with your wounds dripping <add>with</add> gore.<lb/> | |||
Wander <add>in bloody attire</add> over the tomb<del>s</del> of <del>your ances</del> the land of your ancestors<lb/> | |||
Calling <del>Exacting from</del> <add>on</add> your countrymen <add>for</add> the fruit of your wounds</p> | |||
<p>X The writer of this piece was <add>had</add> himself <del>present</del> <add><unclear>share</unclear></add> in that battle.</p> | |||
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{{Metadata:{{PAGENAME}}}} | {{Metadata:{{PAGENAME}}}}{{Completed}} | ||
Where the blood has streamed, now glistens the falling dew.
Where The green grass has grown is cut and now is lay the balmy hay
Thereby Only The steps of the oxen are only impressed in the ground
Which drew home the carts loaden with harvest.
Lo, these are green tombs, tombs rise from the ground
The winds, while passes, sadly murmurs in the weeds
The Cicada driven from the meadow that was is cut
Desolate sings his song of exile
O dire recollection! What do I see before me.
Here the shadows spirits of the warriors flit across
Shadow follows shadow over the waving crop fields of grain
Here lies a cor mangled corpse lay there gleams the sword in the muscular hand.
And lo yonder! where stands the alder on the streamlet's brink
And the Nightingale sings amidst his bows
Whose Shadow is that? – 'Tis Godebski's, Thy spirit stalks.
Over huge piles of armour: and the gale winds breath on his Harp.
O Shadows of my brethren! How long will you wander
Restless, with here with your wounds dripping with gore.
Wander in bloody attire over the tombs of your ances the land of your ancestors
Calling Exacting from on your countrymen for the fruit of your wounds
X The writer of this piece was had himself present share in that battle.
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Identifier: | JB/110/069/003"JB/" can not be assigned to a declared number type with value 110. |
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110 |
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069 |
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003 |
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collectanea |
3 |
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recto |
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sir john bowring |
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36059 |
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