Page:Bohemian legends and other poems.djvu/188

And so they met and conversed many days,
Until the priest said one morn, “Come, my son,
I will baptize thee, since it is thy will,
But thou must come and see me often still.”
“My father,” said the child, “you know God’s ways,
There must be struggle, ere the crown be won.”

“Come live with us, my child,” the monk replied,
“If aught you dread before your father’s wrath.”
“My heart misgives me,” said the boy. “I fear,
I know not what—ah, well, the Lord is near.”
And so they parted, and the poor boy sighed,
While the monk watched him going down the path.

Three days went by the boy was seen no more—
Then the priests sought him, and they found him dead;
Killed by his father in a moment wild,
There on his bed they found the bleeding child,
With marks of many sufferings that he bore,
Before his childish spirit to Christ fled.

They hung his father. But the martyred boy
With solemn pomp they bore to his last rest.
By the high altar amidst chanting sad,
And grief of the vast multitude, the lad
Was buried, while they prayed that heaven’s joy
Might be his own, who died a martyr blessed.