Page:Bohemian legends and other poems.djvu/179

While I waited for the answer, came a letter with sad tidings,
Telling me my poor old father had been stricken down by death.
Yes, a tree had fallen on him, and the unexpected tidings,
Coming sudden on my mother, had deprived her of her life.

Long, they told me, she lay dying, half unconscious, praying slowly,
For her son who was a soldier, for her boy who was away,
Saying, “Could I see him only, oh, my Father, just and holy;
Could he close my eyes in slumber, happy were my dying day.”

Oh, my God, she never saw me, never heard my piteous weeping;
Never saw me with my medals pass the threshold of the door;
Now her soldier boy stands sighing by the grave where she is sleeping,
Thinking of the many sorrows that so patiently she bore.

Thinking of my poor old father I had left half broken-hearted,
Of the little baby sister, now an angel up on high,
And the changes in my brothers and my sisters since we parted,
And I almost feel that gladly I would lay me down and die.

Farewell, then, my native village, and the hamlet where I was born,
Fifty years ago I left you in the hope of winning fame,
And I leave you now, forever, famous, crippled, and most forlorn,
Having spent my life’s best hours just to win a glorious name.