Page:Bohemian legends and other poems.djvu/104



His mother died when he was but a child; His saintly mother, with her features mild, Was laid away in the cold churchyard soil, Ere yet his little hands had learned to toil, And soon his father took another wife, A buxom maiden, who was fond of strife, And bore illwill to the poor little lad, Whose childish life she made most drear and sad. One day his childish heart was full to break, And childishly he asked, “When will she wake? Oh, tell me, father, will she ever wake— My own loved mother? Wake up, for my sake?” Alas! my son, she sleepeth in the grave, Beside the churchyard gate, where grasses wave. Oh, they sleep well who sleep within the soil— Go play in peace, my son, she knows no toil.” With toddling feet he to the churchyard went, And sitting on her grave, his strength outspent, Began to think how he should wake her sleep, Who slept in the cold earth so well and deep. With a large pin he loosed the graveyard soil, And was so eager in his loving toil He was not startled when he heard her voice, Calling to him, “My child, my love, my choice, I cannot come to thee, for on my heart Lies a great stone, from which I cannot part. But tell me, my beloved, why art thou here?” And then the little child, without a fear, Said to his mother, “When she gives me bread, She always says she wishes I were dead. You also gave me bread, oh, mother mine, And buttered it, for surely I was thine.