Page:Bohemian legends and other poems.djvu/91



Whose child is this that in the wintry storm,
 * The cutting north-wind, with its snow and ice,

At midnight in the graveyard walks forlorn,
 * And seeks a grave amidst the snow and ice?”

Mother, oh my loving mother, hear me,
 * Your little daughter calls, oh hear me now;

I am forsaken of all men, I see;
 * Since father died, how wretched I am now.

Nothing but hunger and neglect are mine;
 * Look where I will, no friendly face I see;

Oh, look in pity on me, mother mine,
 * Oh loving mother, let me come to thee.”

The little child wept, and the pearly tears
 * Froze on her cheeks like diamonds clear and bright;

Upon her mother’s grave she slept, no fears
 * Came to disturb her, ’twas a sad, sad sight.

The snow fell fast upon the childlike form,
 * But see, she dreamt a very happy dream;

She heard her mother’s voice, and saw her form
 * Stoop down to take her—Could it be a dream?

The child slept on, no need now to awake—
 * In that glad dream the soul had passed away;

Where she had slept they now her grave must make;
 * Ah! woe is me, it was a sad, sad day.