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78
BOHEMIAN LEGENDS.
She nears the table where they stand,
She creeps along as shadows creep.
The wretched mother hardly breathes—
She clasps her child, that does not weep.
Alas! alas! that fatal call;
Poor child, there is no help for thee.
The witch comes creeping, creeping on,
She stretches out her hand for thee.
She stretches out her hand to take—
The mother cannot keep her hold.
“I pray ye by Christ’s wounds,” she calls,
But still she cannot keep her hold.
And senseless to the ground she falls,
Just as the clock begins to strike.
The father from his work comes home,
The look of things he does not like.
They brought the mother to herself—
But oh, the child upon her breast,
The little child she loved so well,
Had passed away to endless rest.
