Page:Bohemian legends and other poems.djvu/52

 That poor soul went lamenting,
 * And weeping very sore,

Till tears of blood were sprinkled,
 * Upon the robe she wore.

And still her gaze kept seeking,
 * That distant, close-shut door.

And while she wandered sadly,
 * And thought upon her dole,

She saw the blessed Virgin,
 * Who gazed upon her soul,

And asked in accents tender, Poor soul, what is thy dole?”

Alas! alas!” she answered,
 * My sins are very great,

I cannot enter Heaven,
 * My soul in Hell must wait.

Alas! alas! dear mother,
 * Have pity on my fate.”

The Blessed Virgin answered,
 * I can do nought but pray,

Come with me, erring daughter,
 * Upon this narrow way.

And when we come to Heaven,
 * I for thy soul will pray.”

With trembling fear and anguish—
 * With many, many tears,

The poor soul stood and waited,
 * And struggled with her fears,

While the loud knock resounded,
 * And thundered in her ears.

Our Lord said to St. Peter,
 * Go see who knocketh so?”

My Lord, it is your Mother,
 * With a lost soul from woe.”

Then let my mother enter,
 * But the sinful soul must go.”