Page:Bohemian legends and other poems.djvu/40

But even as the maiden spoke,
She shivered and turned pale,
And then she sank with a great wail
Upon the emerald grass.
“’Tis not your fault, oh, happy boys,
So full of life and earthly joys,
That takes me from this earth.
My mother did enchant me so
To keep me from all mirth.

“I had a lover fair like you,
And often did we meet,
Ah, me! the hours passed so fleet,
And we were very young.
My mother, with her evil eye,
She soon found out the reason why
I would not do her will,
And gather ’neath the moon’s bright beam
The plants that work out ill.

“And so, she turned me to a tree,
While I stood with my love.
I pray you, youths, by Him above,
To grant me but one boon—
Make harps from out this fallen tree,
And go and tell the world of me—
And for my mother play.
Oh, play and sing of all my woe,
That she may rue her day.”

And so she died, that maiden fair,
Upon the emerald grass;
And the two youths took up the lass,
And laid her in the sod.
Then sadly they obeyed her will,
And made them harps with Checkish skill,
To touch her mother’s heart.
Ah, melancholy was the wail
Of their new-fashioned harp.