Page:Bohemian legends and other poems.djvu/40

 But even as the maiden spoke,
 * She shivered and turned pale,

And then she sank with a great wail
 * Upon the emerald grass.

’Tis not your fault, oh, happy boys, So full of life and earthly joys,
 * That takes me from this earth.

My mother did enchant me so
 * To keep me from all mirth.

I had a lover fair like you,
 * And often did we meet,

Ah, me! the hours passed so fleet,
 * And we were very young.

My mother, with her evil eye, She soon found out the reason why
 * I would not do her will,

And gather ’neath the moon’s bright beam
 * The plants that work out ill.

And so, she turned me to a tree,
 * While I stood with my love.

I pray you, youths, by Him above,
 * To grant me but one boon—

Make harps from out this fallen tree, And go and tell the world of me—
 * And for my mother play.

Oh, play and sing of all my woe,
 * That she may rue her day.”

And so she died, that maiden fair,
 * Upon the emerald grass;

And the two youths took up the lass,
 * And laid her in the sod.

Then sadly they obeyed her will, And made them harps with Checkish skill,
 * To touch her mother’s heart.

Ah, melancholy was the wail
 * Of their new-fashioned harp.