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 Lo! the bell of death was tolling:

Dortha shrunk with fear and terror—

"Say! for whom that bell is tolling?

Ah! indeed it tolls for Hermann."—

"Hermann in his room is resting,

Suffering from a bitter head-ache—

'Tis some little child departed—

'Tis some little swaddled infant."

Dortha, from the table rising,

Took a knife from 'midst her tresses,

And she plunged it in her bosom.

She is with her Hermann buried;

In one grave they lie together.

If thou pass thro' yonder church-yard,

Breathe a gentle prayer of pity—

There sleeps Hermann near his Dortha,

As a brother near his sister.

This poem resembles many of the old slavonian stories; both in its manner and measure.

The passage which Čelakowsky has thus printed,