Page:Bohemian poems, ancient and modern (Lyra czecho-slovanska).djvu/147

 O think not of me as for ever gone, As hearing nothing, nothing answering, Cold to the tonch, henceforth to dwell alone, In dark and narrow cell inhabiting.

Think of me thus, as sleeping without sorrow, While Faith and Hope are sleeping at my side, Till the glad world adore that glorious morrow, When Love himself shall come to claim his Bride.

Think of me thus, as for my dear ones waiting, Gone on before them to a better home, No tears, no griefs, no cares upon me grating, To jar the soft, sweet, music of the tomb.

O it is sweet, that soul-caught melody, That still small whisper from the Infinite, Which telleth, Hope but sleeps and cannot die, Which singeth in the darkness songs of light!

List to it then, and weep for me no more, Lest earthly sighs should spoil its sweet accord, And mar the echo from that distant shore, Where all things singing praise their God and Lord!