As servants true, in good and evil lot,
Will perish on their benefactor's pile.
Others more shamefully in forests hide;
Others, like Witold, dwell among you here.

"But after death?--Germans! ye know full well.
Ask of the wicked traitors to their land
What, they shall do when, in that further world,
Condemned to burning of eternal fires,
They would their ancestors invoke from paradise?
What language shall entreat them for their aid?
If in their German, their barbaric speech,
The forefathers will know their children's voice.

"O children! what a foul disgrace for Litwa,
That none of you, aye, none, defended me,
When from the shrine, the hoary Wajdelote,(4)
Away they dragged me into German chains!
Alone in foreign lands have I grown old.
A singer!--alas! to no one can I sing!
On Litwa looking, I wept out mine eyes.
To-day, if I would sigh towards my home,
I know not where that home beloved lies,
If here, or there, or in another place.

"Here only, in my heart, have I preserved
That in my Fatherland my best possession;
And these poor remnants of my former treasure
You Germans take from me,--take memory from me!

"As a defeated knight in tournament
Escapes with life though honour has been lost;
And, dragging out despised days in scorn,
Returns once more unto his conqueror;
And for the last time straining forth his arm,
Breaketh his sword beneath the victor's feet,--
So my last failing courage me inspires;
Yet once more to the lute my hand is bold;
Let the last Wajdelote of Litwa sing
Litwa's last song!"
He ended, and awaited
The Master's answer. All in silence deep
Await. With mockery and with curious eye
Konrad tracks Witold's every look and motion.

They noted all how when the Wajdelote
Of traitors spoke, a change o'er Witold came.
Livid he grew and pale again he blushed,
Alike tormented by his rage and shame.
At last, his sabre casting from his side,
He goes, dividing all the astonished crowd.
He looked upon the old man, stayed his steps;
The clouds of anger hanging o'er his brow
Fell sudden in a rapid flood of tears;
He turned, sat down, with cloak he veiled his face,
And into secret meditation plunged

The Germans whispered, "Shall we to our feasts
Admit old beggars? Who will hear the song,
And who will understand?" Such voices were
Among the crowd of revellers, and broken
By constant peals of ever-growing laughter.
The pages cry, whistling on nuts, "Behold!
This is the tune of the L