Page:Bohemian legends and other poems.djvu/67



The eleventh hour was past and gone, But still the lamp burnt on and on.

The lamp that on the praying chair Cast an uneven, ghastly glare.

On the low wall a picture hung, God’s parents, praised by every tongue.

The parents with the Holy Child, Roses, with rosebud, saintly mild.

Before the heavenly three a maid Upon her knees her prayers said.

Her face shone with a holy rest, Her arms were crossed upon her breast.

And as her tears fell soft and slow, Her bosom swelled with hidden woe.

Her tears they fell like diamonds bright Upon her bosom snowy white.

Alas, my God! my father lies Beneath the grass, dust in his eyes.

Alas, my God! my mother sleeps Beside him there where no one weeps.

My sister died within a year; In battle fell my brother dear.