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On my feet my slippers seem,
Made of beauty lead—
Mother, mother, mother mine!
I would hide my head.
Young and radiant oak-tree, why,
Young and verdant oak?
Why dost turn on me—on me
Such an angry look?
"Nay! no angry look on thee
Turn l—yet I may
Mourn thou art so fickle—maid!
So the people say."Ty hwěz dičko tmawá!
Mournful star! in heaven's blue deep,
Tell a weeper, dost thou weep?
Dost thou weep o'er woes and fears—
Golden sparks should be thy tears,
If alive to sympathy.
G
