THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LOS ANGELES I BOHEMIAN LEGENDS AND OTHER POEMS BY F. P. KOPTA SECOND EDITION NEW YORK : WILLIAM E. JENKINS, 1896. Copyright, 1S94, BY F. P. KOPTA. Copyright, isoo, BY F. P. KOPTA. PS DEDICATED TO VOJTA NAPRSTEK, ESQ CHIEF OF THE CITY COUNSEL OF PRAGUE. &L8GSJ1 INTRODUCTION TO THE SECOND EDITION. BOHEMIAN literature is hardly known; indeed, many people do not even know that such a literature exists at all. Of late some praiseworthy efforts have heen made by Mr. Wratislaw, M.A. (late fellow of Christ College, Cambridge), and some French writers, to rescue from oblivion at least something of Bohemian literature. In his own words {Literature of Bohemia, George Bell Co. 1878), he says: "And at the present time the people of Great Britain are for the most part in a similar state of ignorance with regard to the literature of Bohemia, scarcely believing indeed that it has any literature at all, and utterly at a loss to account for that great intel- lectual and religious revolution, which, in the beginning of the fifteenth century, shook the power of Rome to its foundation, and animated a Slavonic people of only four millions to maintain successfully a single-handed conflict against the Papacy and the German empire for full tsvo hundred years. And if it yielded at length to overwhelming numbers and weight, it was not until it had been undermined for nearly a century by the crafty and cruel policy of scions of the Hapsbnrg dynasty upon its throne. * * * It is a very unfortunate circum- stance that so much of Bohemian literature has been lost, or rather ruthlessly destroyed by the emissaries and agents of the Church of Rome. * * * It mat- tered little to such barbarians whether any work that fell into their clutches was of Catholic or Protestant vi INTRODUCTION. tendency, if it were but in the detested Bohemian tongue, and one Jesuit boasted on his death-bed that he had destroyed with his own hands no less than sixty thousand volumes in that language." I would also mention a very valuable collection of translations made from the Bohemian by the celebrated English linguist, Dr. John Bowring ( Vybor z basnictvi Ceskeho, Chesk- ian Anthology). Being a history of the poetical literature of Bohemia, with translations by Dr. John Bowring (London, 1832: Rowland Hunter). He also in his introduction explains why Bohemia has so little literature, and also, in a way, why it never can have. Writing of the battle of Bila Hora, he says: " Though the battle of the White Mountain, in 1G20, was fatal only to the reformers of Bohemia, yet its consequences were terrible to the whole Bohemian people. Civil war in its worse shape devastated the land, and so fierce were its visitations that the Jesuit Balbin, in one of his letters, expresses his surprise that after so many proscrip- tions, exiles, flights, and suffering, a single inhabitant should remain. The language of Bohemia was aban- doned its literature fell into decay. The taint of heresy had so deeply stained the works of more than two centuries, that they were all recklessly condemned to the flames. Banishment was the portion of the most illustrious among the Bohemians, and equal, uudistin- guishiug malediction pursued everything which bore a Slavonian character. Legends of the saints, trumpery discussions about trumpery dogmas and all those streams of pitiful and useless learning, in which civil and religious despotism seek to engage and exhaust inquiry, were poured over Bohemia." * * * "An ingenuous criticism on the popular poetry of the Bohe- mians may be seen in the Prague Monthly Periodical (August, 1827), written by M. Muller, the aesthetic professor, in that capital, There is truth In the observa- INTRODUCTION. vii tion, that history and heroism have furnished few sub- jects for the Bohemian national songs, and, he says, is the more remarkable when they are compared or con- trasted witli those of other Slavonian races, especially the Servian and the Russian. But how should such songs exist or rather if they ever existed, how should they be long preserved in a state of society where no man dares to be a Bohemian? That freedom of thought and expression which opens to the poet the great expanse of space and time the whole field of the past and the future which allows him to revel in all that is delight- ful in recollection, and in all that is beautiful in anticipation is denied to the minstrel of Bohemia. He may neither record the struggles of his ancestors for liberty, nor dream of the day when self-government shall give to his country whatever of happiness she is capable of enjoying. Love, of all the passions which he is permitted to sing, is that which allows the widest scope to his imagination and love is the ever-ruling subject of his verse. And surely their popular poets have treated this subject with exquisite tenderness and effect." These are the opinions and words of two Englishmen, who trod before me the thorny path of Bohemian literature. Had their works been published in Austria, the same fate that met my book, " Bohemian Legends and Ballads," would have met them. They would have been confiscated. Dr. John Bowring, speak- ing of poor Hanka, says: "It is to be hoped that no impediment will be thrown in his way, which one cannot but fear, from the arbitrary suppression of the fifth volume of his collection. It is not much to allow, that those who have no hope of the future may be permitted to indulge in the memories of the past." This sin I committed, and so my poor little book was confiscated. I can only say that the pub- vili INTRODUCTION. lishers, Jansky & Co, placed it before the proper authorities and received permission to publish it; about three months after, when it had been publicly sold all over Austria, it was suddenly confiscated on the 22d of June, 1890. At first I was told it was on ac- count of the poem " John Huss," but in about two weeks I received the written explanation that it was on ac- count of " The Patriots." The Austrian government did not confiscate my poem because it was historically untrue, but because they said that, " one could think that Ferdinand had acted on the advice of his father confessor/' Here I beg to say that such a thought never entered my head, and that I agree with William Coxe, F.R.S., F.A.S. (Coxe's House of Austria, JBoJtn's Standard Library, p. 181, Pelzel, pp. 731-742): " Several native and Catholic writers endeavor to exten- uate the cruelty of Ferdinand, by declaring that he was with difficulty induced to make these dreadful ex- amples; and was overborne by the representations of his ministers and the Jesuits. Admitting this fact, it is no exculpation of his conduct to assert that he acted un- justly by the advice of his ministers. But the preced- ing and subsequent transactions, as well as the general character, the relentless disposition, and the deep-rooted prejudices of Ferdinand, furnish ample evidence that he wanted no external impulse to commit acts of persecution and cruelty against the Protestants." There is also another poem that may want an explana- tion, and that is, Kryspek's " Goblet." It will be found in Coxe' s House of Austria, Vol. II., p. 180. "Three months elapsed without the slightest act of severity against the insurgents of Bohemia. Many, lulled into security by the dreadful calm, emerged from their hid- ing places, and the greater part remained quiet at Prague. But in an evil hour all the fury of the tempest burst upon their heads. Forty of the principal insur- INTRODUCTION, ix gents were arrested in the night of the 21st of January, 1621, and after being imprisoned four months, and tried before an imperial committee of inquiry, twenty- three were publicly executed, their property confiscated, the remainder either banished or condemned to perpet- ual imprisonment. Nor were these examples confined only to those who had been openly concerned in the re- bellion, for a mandate of more than inquisitorial severity was issued, commanding all landholders who had participated in the insurrection to confess their delin- quencies, and threatening the severest vengeance if they were afterward convicted. This dreadful order spread general consternation; not only those who had shared in the insurrection acknowledged their guilt, but even the innocent were driven by terror to self-accusation; and above seven hundred nobles and knights, almost the whole body of the landholders, placed their names on the list of proscription. By a mockery of the very name of mercy, the emperor granted to these un- fortunate victims their lives, and honors, which they were declared to have forfeited by their own confession; but gratified his vengeance and rapacity by confiscating the whole or part of their prop- erty, and thus reduced many of the most loyal and ancient families to ruin, or drove them to seek a refuge from their misfortunes in exile or death/' The bodies of the Kryspek family can still be seen in Kralovice. They were among those who preferred to die rather than wait to be perhaps tortured or driven from their country as beggars. As to the interview between Ferdi- nand and his confessor, it is historically true, and the whole account can be found in Histoire Guerre de Trente Ans, 1618 and 1648, par E. Cliarveriat Tome premier, p. 251, Paris, 1878. "Ferdinand passa sans repos la nuit qui preceda la signature, Le lendewaia matin, il demand a a son confesseur, le Pere Lanior- main, s'it pouvait, sans blesser sa conscience condamner ou faire grace. Lamormain lui ay ant repondu qu'il avait le droit de faire 1'un et 1'autre, 1'Empereur signa 1'arret de mort de vingt-huit des condamnes, la plupart anciens directeurs." My own poem is founded on an old chronicle published in Amsterdam. To those who, having read my poor book, may feel an interest in Bohemian history, I take the liberty to name the works from which I drew my information: Qrube Geschichts- lilder, p. 195, Leipzig; Coxe's House of Austria, Bohn's Standard Library, London, 1877; Persecutions des Pairiotes Bohemes, 18&1; D'apres la Chronique, Amsterdam, 1648, p.48; Histoire Guerre de Trente Ans, 1618 and 1648, par E. Charveriat, Paris, 1878; History of Germany, by Markham, London, 1876; The Weltge- schichte von Moritz Heger and Moritz Sclilimpert, Dresden, 1856, p. 502; Geschichte des Dreissigjdhrigen Kriegs, Schiller, Leipzig, 1868, p. 61; La Boheme, par Joseph Friez and Louis Leger, Paris, 1867 (this work is also forbidden in Austria); Chants Heroiques et Chansons, Populaires des Slaves de Boheme, par Louis Leger, Paris, 1866; The Native Literature of Bohemia in the Fourteenth Century, by A. B. Wratislaw, M.A., London, 1878.* Trusting that my book may do something toward making Bohemian literature better known, I send my poor little book out into the wide world of intellectual thought, feeling sure that all will sympathize with my effort, and that some may even feel pleasure in reading the songs of long ago. P. P. KOPTA. * There is also a translatiou of some Bohemian songs by a Mrs. Robinson, New York, 1850 (I have never been able to get the book); Chansons pupulaires de la Boherue, Prague, 1854, by Karel ; Bodianski, Moscow, 1887; Ludevit Stur, Prague, 1853, CONTENTS. PAGE, Bohemia F. P. Kopta. 1 John Huss ; . . .F. P. Kopta. 3 A Hussite Song. Attributed to Zizka 5 To the Memory of the Patriots F. P. Kopta. 7 Kryspek's Goblet F. Cermak. 12 Dalibor F. P. Kopta. 16 The Enchanted Maid F. P. Kopta. 21 The Bride of Heaven F. P. Kopta. 24 John, Sacrificed John K. S. Snaidr. 27 The Story of a Lost Soul F. P. Kopta. 33 The Devil's Bride F. P. Kopta. 37 The Lover by the Grave F. P. Kopta. 40 The Wizard F. P. Kopta. 42 Three Ages in Bohemia B. Jablonsky. 44 The Wedding Shirt K. Erben. 49 The Gold Spinning Wheel K. Erben. 60 Christmas K. Machacek. 70 The Orphan K. Erben. 73 Bfetislav , J. E. Vocel. 74 A Bohemian Legend K. Erben. 77 The Gentleman From Lkouse, Old Bohemian Leg- end from 1571 J. Vrchlicky. 79 The Youth from Hrusova Vaclav Kab. 81 The Daughter's Curse K. Erben. 84 The Story of a New Mother F. P. Kopta. 86 The Mysterious Ringing , Jos. Wiiusch. 88 x {{ CONTENTS. POEMS SONGS. PAGE. Invitation to Song B. Jablonsky. 91 Sweet Death National Song. 92 Song of a Soldier National Song. 93 Why Is It? National Song. 94 When I Went to See You National Song. 95 At the Church Door National Song. 96 Cuckoo Song National Song. 97 Good-Night National Song. 98 Are Not, Are Not National Song. 99 It Is God's Will National Song. 100 Beautiful Stars National Song. 101 Going a Wooing National Song. 102 Made of the Earth National Song. 103 The Rain National Song. 104 Prayer on the Mountain Rip J. Vrchlicky. 105 Comfort Snaidr. 106 Songs of the Heavens., Jan Neruda. 107 Happiness and Mystery F. L. Celakovsky. 110 Self Sought Jablonsky. Ill Truth Must Conquer Jablonsky. 112 I Remind You Svatopluk Cech. 113 The Bohemian Mother's Tale F. P. Kopta. 114 The Bohemian Monk F. P. Kopta. 118 Farewell Adolph Heyduk. 120 The Way is Long Adolph Heyduk. 121 Poem V. Song Adolph Heyduk. 122 I Used to Think Adolph Heyduk. 123 The Wedding Adolph Heyduk. 124 SongX Adolph Heyduk. 125 The Forest Nymph Adolph Heyduk. 126 Grass Jos. V. Sladek. 129 Song XX Adolph Heyduk. 130 Myrtle,,, , Adolph Heyduk, 131 CONTENTS xiii PAGE. Mater Dolorosa Jaroslav Vrchlicky. 132 Myrtle Cypress Jaroslav Vrchlicky. 133 Flax Jos. V. Sladek. 134 The Old Bachelor .Jos. V. Sladek. 135 Battle Jos. V. Sladek. 136 Pilgrim Jos. V. Sladek. 137 Violets Bloom in Spring Jos. V. Sladek. 138 When the Day Ends Jos. V. Sladek. 139 Ach, No Thou Sleepest Tereza Mellanova. 140 Concord in the Nation J. L. Zvonaf. 141 Mountain Ballad Jan Neruda. 143 Saddle my Charger Eliska Krasnohorska. 145 The Spinning Girl Eliska Krasnohorska. 146 Forsaken Eliska Krasnohorska. 147 Smith's Song Frant. L. Rieger. 149 The Strange Guest Karel Erben. 151 Christmas Eve Karel Erben. 153 The Return F. P. Kopta. 159 Legend of the Lady in White F. P. Kopta. 162 Simon Abeles F. P. Kopta. 169 Legend of the Stone Maiden F. P. Kopta. 171. A Jewish Legend of Prague F. P. Kopta. 174 Jan Amos Komensky F. P. Kopta. 177 The Body and the Soul F. P. Kopta. 179 The Master Work F. P. Kopta. 181 BOHEMIAN LEGENDS. " BOHEMIA." Bohemia! land of far renown, Well known in the days of old, From out thy villages and towns Came forth thy stalwart sons and bold, To fight for freedom, and for God, Not caring if they bled or died, If they won liberty to laud God on their native mountain side. Bohemia! that so many years Sent out the learned of the earth; Bohemia, that with many tears Passed through the Scripture's second birth; Thy children, now in history's page, llead thy loved name, with beating heart. In vain thy enemies they rage, They cannot dim thy glorious part. Bohemia! from thy mountains wild, God called His martyrs for the truth, Fiery Jerome and Huss the mild, Here wandered in their days of youth. Here Zizka, with undaunted face, Though old and blind, thy warrior son, Left traces one cannot efface Until with history one is done. Bohemia! there is not an art In which thy sons have not excelled; Thy wares were sold in every mart, And pruisu i'rpuj enemies compelled. BOlIltiflAN LEGENDS. Now Brozik, with a painter's skill, From history has awaked the dead. Bohemia, that has great men still. Nor are thy days of glory fled. Thy poets, too, have sung thy praise, In verses that shall never die. In many lands one hears the lays From Dvorak, like a homeward sigh. Palacky, with a lover's zeal, Has writ thy history great in fame. Tomek has made us know and feel, Though changed, that Prague is still the same. Brave land, so crushed that still can live And teach thy sons the way to fame; Strong land that still has strength to give Men that no enemy can tame. Thy sons have wandered far and wide; One finds them scattered in all lands - In forests where the black bear hide, And amidst Africa's burning sands. Bohemia! thou hast been my home, And I will sing thy praises still. Wherever 'tis my fate to roam No other land thy place shall fill. Memory shall wander back at will Amidst thy forests and thy fields, And I shall see each well-known hill, And listen to the echo's peals. Bohemia! be thou blest of God May He uphold thee in His strength; May all thy children learn to laud Their father's God, throughout thy length. Forget not how your fathers fought For what they lived for what they died; Remember what your fathers taught, And hold to it whate'er betide. JOUK HUBS. JOHN HUSS. Oh, mother earth, this son of thine WHS worthy of the highest place, And though his ashes in the Rhine Were thrown, he lives still in his race. A dauntless soul that spoke the truth, When all the world in darkness slept; Bohemia's martyred son in sooth Blanched not, though friends around him wept. Whom should I fear? The Emperor's pass Promises liberty and peace." But still his friends said: " Alas! We much misgive us of that peace." Whom should I fear then? Those who kill The body, but have no more power Over the soul that triumphs still, And conquers in the dying hour?" Nay, weep not, I must go from hence, ' I must speak out the words of God; I must make out my own defenpe, And prove it by the word of God; I will come back without the blot Of heresy upon my name; Then blessed, forsooth, will be my lot, And great indeed Bohemia's fame." He went in faith he went in hope And prison walls, and dungeon cell, And torture of the chain and rope, Were his in that far land as well. They would not listen to his speech; Unheard, he was condemned to 3ie. In vain he cried, "I do beseech Oh, listen to me ere I die." BOHEMIAN LKGMD& Worn down by prison and by pain, Denied a counsellor for his cause, He called on God to help again His servant in the general pause. He was condemned, they listened not To words of his, however plain. What cared those priests for truth? I wot They scorned him in their proud disdain. They placed the cap upon his brow, Painted with devils strange and wild, And tortured him yes, even now With gibe and curse, at which he smiled. With eyes upturned he prayed to God, Till his brave voice was hushed for aye. No greater martyr fled to God, Than he they burnt upon that day. They burned him yes that spirit high Was borne to God, by fiery wings; Praying for them he rose on high, Eeleased from all these worldly things. He has no statue in the land Where he was born, and loved so well; But in the hearts of a small band, His ever living memory dwells. Oh, mother earth, this son of thine Was worthy of the highest place. Oh, yes, Bohemia, he is thine, Born of thy own heroic race. Oh, Christian world, he too is thine, A martyr for the Christian fail IK Oil, God of gods, he now is thine, Who died for Thee, and in Thy faith. A 11VS81TS BONG. A HUSSITE SONG. Attributed to John Zizka. You who are champions of God, And of his law, Pray Him to assist you, and laud Him and His law. So shall ye conquer through God, And be victorious. Our Lord has told us not to fear Those who can kill The body, but keep Him near, And fight with will. Fight valiantly then with no fear, And make strong your hearts. Christ will repay thee hundredfold For he has said, " Who dies for me, and in my fold, Is happy dead. For him shall open joys untold- And life eternal." So archers, and lancers, and all Ye warlike men; Hallebards, and ye that appall The hearts of men; Bemember all, ye warriors tall, God's loving kindness. E'en if the enemy be strong Still do not fear. Let God's word be your battle song, Know He is near. Fly not, but fight the battle long, Better death than flight. LEGENDS. In the old time they used to say, " With a good Lord. The expedition would make way, And with his Lord His servant would be great one day/' This remember all. Ye wagoners, and fiery youth, Think of your souls. Risk not your lives for things, forsooth- For wealth untold. Fight not for plunder, but the truth, The truth of your God. Remember the words of command You have been told. Obey your leader's voice and hand, And be ye bold. Keep your own places in the band, Without disorder. Then joyfully call out, and shout, The enemy, With God's aid, we will surely rout Our enemy. God is our Lord, be that our shout, Kill, kill, no quarter. TO *TO THE MEMORY OF THE FORTY SEVEN PATRIOTS EXECUTED AFTER THE BATTLE OF BILA HORA, JUNE 21, 1G21. It was all over now, all over now The battle had been fought and sadly lost, The battle of the Bila Hora lost; And with it died all freedom and all hope. From henceforth torture and the hangman's rope Should rule, united with the Jesuit power, To make the poor Bohemians rue the hour They dared to listen to the Holy Word; Or gaze upon His face, whom prophets heard Pronounced to be the very Son of God. Let there be silence now or those who laud, Fray to the Virgin, or the blessed saints, Or sink in torture, till the body faints, Broken and torn, and lets the soul escape; Yea, like a bird caught in a trap escape. Ah me, that year of sixteen twenty-one, Saw many an evil, bloody work well done; The death of those who were the noblest born A country ruined, and a land forlorn, A noble people made a tyrant's slave, And their faith hidden in a martyr's grave, While priestly darkness filled the laud like night. It was all over now, all over now And shred and torn, the poor Bohemian land Lay down to die amidst the conqueror's baud, While all her noblest sons were culled to die; And thanks be unto God, without a sigh They left this world, for better homes on high. * From a chronicle published in Amsterdam, 164.8. Confiscated by the Austrian government, Juue 22, ISltO. BOHEMIAN LEGENDS. 'Tis said the Emperor Ferdinand had qualms Perhaps he knew that death would place the palms Of martyrdom upon those fearless souls and true, Who preferred death to lives of bitter rue; Howe'er it be, he passed a restless night, Tossing and fuming till the dawn of light, And then he turned him to his ghostly shade, Father Lamormain, as one half afraid, And questioned him, if he could do this thing. " Without hurt to his conscience, or a sting Of self-remorse, he could condemn to die, These men? " To which the Jesuit made reply, " He was the king and could do as he willed; " And so he signed the warrant, his mind filled With the great things a king alone can do. It was the twenty-first of June; the sun Hose in its splendor, shining on the land, . And on their faces who would soon have done AVith earthly things, that poor devoted band. Many were there who in the bygone days Had stood before the throne in royal state. Many were there who trod in learning's ways, Whom God had chosen for a martyr's fate. One gazing out upon the rising sun, Beheld a rainbow shining in the< sky, Called to his brethren, " See our faith hath won A sign from Heaven. God will see us die, And from the scaffold we will go to Him, Who is alone, the only Truth and Way." And on their knees they fell and prayed to Him, Whom they should see this very blessed day. 'Tis sad to think they could not even pray In peace, but pestered by the Jesuit band, Their last farewells, they could not even say. And this, my friends, was by the king's command. At length the cannons from the Vysehrad Began to fire, that the hour was near, And meekly praying that God's staff and rod Might be their stay, they bid each other "cheer." Yea, with calm voice, they said, "Oh, brothers ours, Ye enter first the paradise of God, But we will follow in a few more hours. Oh, tell our Father that His name \ve laud." TO THE MEMORY. 9 And those who went to death said, " Have no care; God's holy angels will be sent to show Your souls the way to God, and we shall wear The wedding garments ere the sun be low." The first to die, had been a mighty lord, Joachim Andreas Slik, count of Bazan. Ah, me! ah, me! that fearless soul had soared With love of country, and the Count Paeon, As patriot and heretic, must die And his brave hands be nailed up as a sign, That henceforth none should ever question why Their ruler's voice came from across the Ehiue. He gazed upon the shining sun and said, "Leave me in peace" (to Jesuit priests that came To torture his brave soul before it fled), " The Sun of Righteousness shall rise the same, In God's good time, to scatter from our land The shadows of this world. We will be free." And then he knelt upon the wooden stand And prayed to God that every one could see. And it is said a radiance not its own Shone in his face, as there he knelt to pray; And from the scaffold, to a golden throne, The count of Pason passed this summer day. The next to die had walked in learning's ways Vaclav Budoec, well-known throughout the world For learned books, that sought from out the maze Of darkness still God's banner to unfurl. 'Twas he who said with voice that knew no fear, " I'd rather die than see my country die; And ye have longed so for our butchery here, I fain would satisfy you see me die/' To which the monks replied, " ~\Ve fain would show An erring soul the way to Heaven's gate." Then smilingly he told them, " Is that so? " Then quickly answer ere it be too late. With many questions from the Holy Word, He plied their ears, unwilling of the truth, And when they could not answer, " I have heard That ye be asses, now I know 'tis true." When called to die he said, " Oh, my white hair. What honor hath God had in store for thee? J BOHEMIAN LEG ENDS. The crown of martyrdom ye soon shall wear; An endless bliss is mine; I go to thee." Then, kneeling down, lie prayed unto his God, Prayed for his country, and for those who sent His spirit to that kingdom where all laud; And bowing down his head to God he went. The next to die was Harant, full of woe, Not at his death, but that the priests would take His children in their care, when he was low, And they their father's faith must needs forsake. Perhaps the saddest sight was to behold Poor Kaplif, with his crutches, go to death; And in a touching story we are told How the old man prepared himself for death. The pastor, Rosacius, who scorned to live, And see his brethren die, tells how he went, And found him in his cell prepared to give With radiant joy his body old and bent. " Long I have prayed the Lord," the old man said, " To take me from this world of sorrow sore. And lo! He heard me not, I must be led To feel so'me pangs our blessed Saviour bore. It was His will that with my ninety years I should go from the scaffold to the throne Leave all this misery, all these bitter tears, And be at rest forever. God alone Knows in my heart I have no sinful thought, Nor ever had, 'gainst the dear land I love. Dear Master, in the faith that you have taught, I die, and we shall meet above." And as he stood, and waited for the call, Upon his crutches, with his white head bent In prayer for the souls that unappulled, AVith fearless faces, to the scaffold went. They held him out a pardon; " Would he say That he had erred, and thereby save his life?" But sternly the old man said, " Go your way, Ye devilish tempters, that but seek out strife. Heaven breaks upon my view, should earth awake One vain regret? Nay, I am glad to die A martyr for my land, and my faith's sake; Christ will reward me; 'tis to Him I fly." TO THE MEMORY. 11 Then slowly walking to the fatal block, The brave old man knelt down upon the floor. "Oh, Lord, my God, Thou art a very rock, In times of trouble. Christ, be thou the door Through which I enter on the life divine." The executioner paused, he could not strike That bowed white head, although the given sign Was given by the judges all alike. So then a priest came np and said, " My lord, In your own way, you have called on your God I pray you raise your head on high, my lord. One moment more and you are with your God." Smiling, he raised his head, and it was so. Ah, me! ah, me! my heart is sad to think Of all the fearless souls that were laid low, And sometimes as I pausing stand and think, On the old city square, I seem to see The scaffold and the drummers standing round, And the vast multitude of people like a sea, Eising now here, now there, with a dull sound Of cursing on the scene that they behold, And prayers for the ones about to die, And curses on the soldiers over bold, That only laughed to hear the people sigh. And with a start I wake to see the square, Silent and lonely in the midday sun. No matter, honor be to those who dare Die unto God, although their days be done. For their remembrance, shall like scattered seed, Bloom into flowers in some far-off day, And they with joy unutterable shall lead Their followers unto Him who is the way. And He with gracious voice shall say: " Well done, Ye faithful servants, enter in the joy, That was prepared for you before the sun; Enter the peace now that knows no alloy." 12 BOHEMIAN LEGENDS. KRYSPEK'S GOBLET. In Kralovice, two hundred years,* The family of Kryspek sleep. Within the family vault they lie, And none can wake their slumbers deep. Oh, listen to their banquet dread, For sure upon this earth 'tis said, There never was a sadder meal; Come listen to their bitter weal. When the Bila Hora battle, Spite of all valor had been lost, And the poor Bohemian country Had to give itself up for lost, Then the hangman's business flourished, And the ground with blood was nourished; From the battle now lost for aye, Came Kryspek's men, one sad day. Long before the war now raging, Jitka's beauty had minstrels sung. Every virtue had the maiden, And praised she was by every tongue. Seventeen summers had she wandered In the castle hall, and pondered, While the striplings from far and wide, In useless longing for her sighed. From far and wide they came to woo The Castle Kacerov was sought By noblest youths, who wished to wed The beauteous maiden, so well taught. *NOTE. The bodies of the Kryspek family, for some reason or other were embalmed; one can see them in the castle in Kralovice. KRYSPEK'S GOBLET. 13 But only one, a noble youth Bores, whose words were words of truth, Found favor in the maiden's sight; He was a brave and goodly knight. The marriage day was fixed and came It should have been their wedding eve, When all at once the trumpet's sound Called on the warrior youths to leave These pleasures, and to go to war The enemy was at the door. Brave Bores, with his soldiers few, Joined Slik, and Budoec " The True." The enemy was stronger far The poor Bohemians lost the day; Their homes were sacked, their lives were lost, The noblest did the conquerors slay. But midst it all the Kryspek race, Lived all forgotten on their place; They even dared to dream that they Were stricken from the list away. For vengeance with a bloody sword Struck down the noblest of the laud; And as the blow fell not, they thought They had been pardoned out of hand. One evening as the Vesper rang, Passed through the gate, with marshal clang The noble Bores, wild to see His Jitka, wife that was to be. To-morrow " went from lip to lip " To-morrow is the wedding day; To-morrow let us hope no storm Of grief, or sorrow, dim the day." All things were ready for the feast, To-morrow they would fetch the priest. Well pleased they sat them down to sup, By generous cheer and brimming cup. 14 BOHEMIAN LEGENDS. The clock struck ten, they were about To drink the bride and bridegroom's health; They wished them joy and a long life They wished them happiness and wealth, When suddenly a trumpet's call, From herald sent, fell like a pall, And changed their mirth to silence dread. " The herald seeks my lord," was said. With strange misgiving went the lord, To meet the stranger in the hull; All joy from out his heart had fled, He dreaded news that would appall. But when he saw the herald's face, And heard the doom against his race, He knew that all his fears were true, The conqueror's heart no mercy knew. Pale like a corpse, he back returned Like one who from the grave comes back And slowly said, with choking voice: " Our brothers died upon the rack! The hour of Kryspek doom is near Our glory faded life made drear. Our mildest punishment, to roam, Outcasts from country, and from home." Then bidding all the servants leave The room, until the dawn of day, That not a soul should enter in, Nor rouse their slumber till the day. " For if we want you, we will ring; Yea, iu the morning, we will ring." And when the servants left the hall, He shut the door, and spake to all: " What is to lose, when land is lost? Who loses honor, loseth life. What joy shall then my grandchild know, In poverty and daily strife? If such a desperate fate is ours, To languish but a few more hours To see our country die, and then To die, nay, let us now be men. KR YftPEK'X G OIJ LET. 15 " Here, where my childhood's days were spent; Here, where my father's bones were laid; Whore I in manhood's strength have lived, And wed your mother, beauteous maid; Where you were born, my children dear; And loved, and honored, far and near, We must forsake, and wander far In banishment, oh evil star! " Our mildest punishment to roam Made beggars in an evil time, Banished from everything we love- Made butts for every idle rhyme." Then dropping poison in his glass, He smiling drank, and said, " Alas, That I should ask, ' Who goes to death? '" " We all/' they answered with one breath. " We all," they answered with one breath. And merrily the goblet went: From hand to hand they passed it on, And thirteen drank as on it went. Father and mother, child and youth, The bride, and bridegroom, all, forsooth, Drank gladly of the deadly wine. They praised the cup, they praised the wine. Twelve o'clock struck; they heard the bell Call out to prayer in the night; They prayed to God in prayers low, To help them in the deadly fight. One whispered, then his voice was still. Another fell, against his will, But seven lived the light burnt low, Then out it went they all lay low. So Kryspek and his family died, United in a common death; The bride and bridegroom, hand in hand, Sat by each other cold in death. Hand clasped in hand, around the board, They found them, but their souls had soared Beyond their tyrant's little might, Into the everlasting light. 16 BOHEMIAN LEGENDS. DALIBOK. A Bohemian legend of the fifteenth century. " What is the meaning of this haste, And stir, within the castle gate? What means these servants, standing pale, These men-at-arms that silent wait? And wherefore are these faggots piled, To burn a sinner, or a saint? Think you we have forgotten Huss Dream you Bohemian hearts are faint? " Look, look, upon the winding road Come men-at-arms in goodly tale; And down the mountain side they come, Come streaming in from every vale. What is the meaning of all this, And wherefore are we called this day? Lord Ualibor, our mighty lord, It seems, has something new to say. " For whom these faggots? Say perchance, To burn our Huss' judges on? Ah, that would be a royal day Pile on, you fellows, quick, pile on." " Hush! hush!" the heralds trumpet loud, " Our lord stands on the castle wall; A nobler lord was never born, Shout loud, you fellows by the wall." And when at length a silence fell, The noble lord stood forth and spake: " Bring now the family records old, And all the things that pride awake; I). \LTBOn. 17 Bring forth the quartering^ painted fine, The emblems of rny noble race, And throw them on that burning pile; There let them burn before my face." Silent he stood, with sad, stern face, And watched the flames that rose on high. *' Here I lay low all worldly pride, I longing but for my land to die. Is any here that I have wronged, Or burdened in my lordly right, I beg him to forgive me now Let me go blameless in the fight/' The multitude in silence stood; They watched the mighty flames rise high. Then all at once their lord's voice said: " Oh, brothers mine, now let us die; Come, let us die for this our land, Down-trodden 'neath the German yoke; Come, let us die for this our faith." Shouts drown his voice as thus he spoke. " No earthly flag, but this the Chalice, Shall lead us on, in battle's roar; I am no noble, but a friend Whose right it is to go before. Take horses, weapons, to your fill Come, let us march against the foe. Long live Bohemia, our dear land, God's praise we'll sing as forth we go." At these brave words a deaf'ning shout Came from that multitude of men: " Long live our brother Dalibor, The leader of Bohemian men." And soon they were upon the plain, And fearless met the angry foe. God gave the victory to their hands; Their enemies were stricken low. The banner with the Chalice cup Was crowned with many a laurel bough, And day by day their numbers grew. The Lord of battles, He knows how 18 BOHKMlAN LEGENDS. That the Bohemian nation rose, Without a fear, to do His will; They were content for Him to die, And for their land their blood to spill. The royalists were beaten hard; They fled before the Hussite band. Once more one heard the Hussite song Resound through the Bohemian land. One morning in the distant west A warrior came, of features cold; He begged to be allowed to fight; He said he was a warrior bold. He spake they " were a godless set," Those royalists from where he came, And offered to show Dalibor A way to victory, and to fame. They were to steal away at night Along a path that he would show; Thus easily the royal band They could strike down with one quick blow. Alas! alas! that Dalibor Did listen to that lying tongue; Ah me! he led them all to death, And dungeon cell, as bards have sung; And Dalibor was led in chains, And shut in Hradcan's dismal tower. Oft by the loophole he would sit, Unconscious of the passing hour. One day he said, " Oh, jailer mine, Thou seest I will soon be dead; I pray thee by thy father's ghost, I pray thee by thy blessed dead; Oh, give me but a violin, That I may ease my breaking heart. It cannot harm thee, jailer mine, And it will soothe my bitter part." The jailer was a kindly man, He let the prisoner have his way; And all night long, poor Dalibor " Upon his instrument diu play. DAL I no R. 19 'Tis said, he played with wondrous skill; From far and wide the people came; They used to stand by Hradcan's walls, And speak of Dalibor and fame. They listened, and they wept aloud; They listened, and their blood would boil; For in that simple song they heard The anthem of their native soil. The mountains caught it wailing back, A song so strange, they shuddering heard; The river took it, bore it back, With a strange murmur that allured. Each day the crowd became more dense, To listen to that music wild; They spake of country, and of God They said the man was good and rnild. One day King Ladislav rode by; He eyed them with a cruel look, And when at length the cause he knew, With rage and wrath he fairly shook. He ordered that the violin Should broken be on dungeon wall, And laughingly he went next day, And sneering said, " What can befall? " But lo! beneath dark Hradcan's wall The people stand, and listening hear The anthem of their native land, Played by a hand that knows no fear. Then, white with rage, the king said, " Kill The man that dares to play that lay." And soon the bloody head was seen But still the hand unseen did play. The people, with a shuddering dread, Knocked down the guards, and onward rushed; They only found the broken wood The body, from which the blood gushed. BOHEMIA N L EG ENDS. But still the hand unseen doth play. The anthem of their native land. And even now by HradSan's walls, Some say, that still a magic hand Is heard to play, when patriots high Beneath the ramparts sadly stray. 'Tis said, that those who once have heard Can ne'er forget that haunting lay. THE ENCHANTED MAID. THE ENCHANTED MAID. A Bohemian legend of the fifteenth century. The forest leaves were bright and green, And soft the zephyr blew. The mountain peaks were lost to view, In clouds of pearly gray. With happy steps two Checkish boys "Went singing of their many joys, As through the wood they went. They might have been two happy guests Upon a wedding bent. They sang of love, they sang of woe, With voices high and sweet; And oft they sang, that life is fleet, And love as strong as death. At length the eldest one said, "Wait! Here is a splendid tree that fate Has thrown into our way. We'll cut it down and make ourselves Two harps this sunny day." They set about to cut that tree, With boyish laughter wild. And oft they sang, and oft they smiled, As happily they plied. But when they reached the inmost heart, They both fell back as though a dart Had struck their own young life, For there a beauteous maiden stood And begged of them her life. 5 BOHEMIAN LEGENDS. But even as the maiden spoke, She shivered and turned pale, And then she sank with a great wtiil 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. THE ENCI1ANTKD MAW. Before her mother's house they stopped, And struck a solemn strain. It almost seemed a soul in pain, That sang from out their harps: "Oh, brave young men, I bid you go Your song, it is too full of woe, Like some poor soul in pain; And still it strikes me that I know That tearful song again/' The youths, they would not leave her side; They played with wilder skill; They sang, " Oh, mother, take thy fill Of malediction now." And never from her human ears Was hushed that song so full of fears Until she dying lay. And I have heard that devils came And took her soul away. BOHEMIAN LEGENDS. THE BRIDE OF HEAVEN. A BOHEMIA^ BALLAD. When I used to go and see thee, Stand beneath thy window sill, See, I was quite sure, beloved one, That we were one heart, one will. Never did I think, beloved one, We must part, I loving still. And the last time that I saw thee Weaving a fair myrtle wreath, I sat watching, never thinking Why you did not bind the leaf. Now I pi-ay thee, loved one, tell me, Why unfinished is the wreath? I was thinking, thinking sadly Thinking as I think to-day, That we cannot wed, beloved one, That our farewell we must say; So I left the wreath unfinished, Left unfinished to this day. They would force me to be married To a youth I cannot love; They would drag me to the altar, Sacrifice me like a dove; They would force me to be wedded To a lad I cannot love. They would force me to be married, Though I loath his very sight. Go get ready for the wedding It will be a merry sight. Go prepare the wedding banquet, While I dress my hair aright. THE BRIDE OF RE A YEN. "Yes, they shall prepare the wedding, In the convent far away. Come, oh bridesmaids, cut my long locks, Let me sup with you to-day. Gladly in your silent convent, I will give my hand away. " Come and see me, oh beloved- Come and hear me when I sing, Till that fatal day, beloved, When the black robe they will fling Bound about my weary shoulders On my hand the wedding ring. " They will take my white dress from me, Dress me in the robe of pain; And the image of my bridegroom Now must be my only gain. Vanish from my sight, beloved one, We must never meet again. " The crucifix is by my side, The rosary in my hand, I raise my weary eyes to Him, Lord of that heavenly band. Oh, glorious bridegroom, I am yours, The wedding ring is on my h.ind. " Beyond the convent's silent walls, Oh, never more shall I stray, No earthly voice shall haunt ma more, When I humbly kneel to pray. Heaven's love will fill my broken heart, The world will have passed away. r 'A vaunt from ni3, beloved of earth, My bridegroom is in the sky; Djpart from mo, betrothed on earth, To Heaven I fain would fly; Oh. holy bridegroom, fill my heart With your image till I die. BOHEMIAN LEGENDS. " Oh, vain in.lesd, the love of earth, To still my poor heart's aching. Oome to me, oh, thoti crucificed, Ami keep my heart from breaking; Oh, take me, Lord, unto Thyself, I, my vain life forsaking." She knelt before the crucifix, She called on her lover high. " Oh, loved of Q-od, oh, bridegroom mine, Be my defense till I die. My faint heart yearns to see thy face, And thy glory up on high/' The heavenly bridegroom heard her voice, He knew, her heart was broken. He said, " Thy prayer is heard, my bride, This is the promised token." A rapture came within her heart Men said she died heartbroken. JOHN, SACRIFICED JOHN. JOHN, SACRIFICED JOHN. AN OLD BOHEMIAN LEGEND. Gather round me, little laddies, And ye maidens small; Listen to my voice and lyre; ^Listen, children all. "With attention hear my ballad, Till the tale he done; Listen 'tis a wondrous story Till my song be done. In a poor Bohemian village, Not far from the way, Even now you see an old well, Honored till this day. Deep within it lies a church bell, Hid from mortal eyes; Never more its voice shall ringing Bid us praise the skies. Only once in the far ages Did they hear its voice, When an old religious woman Went there once by choice. Dipping in its cold, clear bosom Linen she h;td spun, Half drew up the bell that lay there, Hid from light and sun. Filled with horror, she fell fainting By the old well's side, And her weak hands left their holding, And the bell did slide, 28 BOHEMIAN LEGENDS. With a terrible resounding, That shook hill and dale, Back into the old well's darkness, While its voice did wail: " John, John, sacrificed John." PART SECOND. With a dark scowl on his forehead, Homeward rides the Checkish lord. By his side, the staghounds leading, Follows John, page to my lord. Like a thundercloud his forehead, And his eyes with anger burn; For his dearest clog is missing, And he knows not where to turn. Three whole days they have been searching Wood, and field, and everywhere. Useless is their toil and seeking, And their looking everywhere. Sadly, with their faces troubled, Back they turn them to their home, While their lord with bosom swelling, Sighs, "My dog, where do you roam?" On the road there stands a granny, Leaning on her crutches two. See! her head is like an owl's head, And she has but one eye, too; Humpbacked, all her face a wrinkle And her hands but skin and bone; Voice why like a rook in cawing Is the harsh and gutteral tone. " Stop your charger! Stop your people! Listen to my^ words, I say. Wherefore do you search the forests And the meadows all the day? I can tell you of your staghound, Of the fleet one that you love, But I must be paid to do it; I am seeking gain not love. JOHN, SACRIFICED JOHN. If you give me your page, Johnny, Hound is yours, to-morrow morn. Why I want him? Oh, a witch knows, Human blood makes flesh newborn. In the stars 1 see it written, Johnny's blood can make me young. Human blood can make old woman Once more beautiful and young." At these words the wretched stripling Felt his heart turn to a stone. Between fears and hopes he trembles, Kneels upon the grass alone. Mercy, mercy, loved master; Listen to my voice, I pray, And the life of a true servant, Give not for a dog away." But his master, only heeding The strong voice within his heart, Not the pale and tear-stained features, Hardened unto him his heart. Bring the staghound bring him, granny, When the day begins to break. By my faith without a question Then my Johnny you can take." PART THIRD. When the day dawned, at the gateway Stood the foul witch, with the hound. And Johnny, looking from the casement, Saw his death, and not the hound. Mercy, mercy, oh my master! Show rne mercy let me live Give me not to the foul sorceress; Let me see the sun and live." But his master, in his rapture. Deaf is to the stripling's voice. Witch and dog he clasps together Orders then a banquet choice. 30 BOHEMIAN LEGENDS. When the evening shadows lengthen, Bound with chains they bring the youth. In a car, with dragon horses, Lost is witch and youth, forsooth. PART FOURTH. Hardly five weeks was the staghound Once more with his lord, When the dearly bought one sickened. Died before his lord; Then his master, in a frenzy, Tore his hair in woe. But the dog lay dead for all that John was lying low. When at length his pain was duller, And some days had passed, Human feeling woke within him, And he felt at last What a sin he had committed AVhen he gave the lad To the witch; and lone and haunted, Sat lie still and sad. " Johnny poor devoted Johnny," Often did he say, " To a fearful death I gave 'you, On an evil day. Oh, nod to me from thy heaven, That I am forgiven. Oh, show mercy to me, Johnny, Say I am forgiven." After that he built a chapel, Not far from the well; And a wooden tower also, With a silver bell With a bell of purest silver They were bid to toll - Every day, in rain and sunshine, For poor Johnny's soul. JOHN, SACRIFICED JOHN. 3i When they first began their tolling For the poor lad's soul, Back they started in wild horror, Says the legend old. For it was no bell of silver, But a human cry, Echoing in their ears bewildered, Like a human sigh: John, John, sacrificed John." PART FIFTH. And the lord of Kozojedy Hearing, turned to stone. Then he tore his rich robes from him, While his heart did groan. Bring me now the hair-cloth garments Of a penitent; I shall be from henceforth ringer, Till my life be spent." Strange to say, the bitter anguish, And the endless pain, That had made his life a burden, Passed away like rain; And the bell rang out in gladness, In the morning air: Bang out like a seraph singing In the trembling air. Once, long after from the ringing, Never home came he; But they found him by the tower, From his penance free. On his face a heavenly rapture To the world did say, That his sins, however dreadful, Had been done away. PAKT SIXTH. Years passed by, war Avith its horrors Broke o'er the Bohemian land. Down went chapel, down went tower, Leveled by the robber band. BOHEMIAN LEGENDS. Yes, the silver bell they wanted; But God's will was greater still; Angel hands were sent to guard it, In the well it lingered still. Deep it lies amidst the waters And the pebbles of the well; All around it life is stirring, As the hunter's horn can tell. But the bell was bound to silence, Till the hour of fate drew near, And the weak hand of a woman Pulled it up without a fear. Only halfway could she pull it, But the voice rang, clear and long: John, John, John, sacrificed John!" Ah, never more shall that song Be heard of a mortal again, Though many come to the well To water their linen again. Though many the story tell, None can say they have heard its voice, For the bell is hid in the well, Never more to be heard on earth. THE STORY OF A LOST SOUL. 33 THE STORY OF A LOST SOUL. A BOHEMIAN LEGEND. Across a verdant meadow, Whose diamond dews were tears, Two blessed souls were walking; They had not any fears; And just behind them, sighing, Came a lost soul in tears. At length they reached the gateway, And knocking at the door, Stood praying at the threshold To Him whose name they bore; With radiant faces waiting, The opening of that door. Our Lord said to St. Peter, " Who knocks, I pray thee see." Two blessed souls, my Saviour, Who long thy face to see; And a very sinful soul, Who fain to Thee would flee." The Lord said, " Let them enter, Those righteous souls and true; But show that sinful soul The road that leads to rue; Where she in cleansing fire, Shall mourn her sins, not few." 34 BOHEMIAN LEGENDS. That poor soul went lamenting, And weeping very sore, Till tears of blood were sprinkled, Upon the robe she wore. And still her gaze kept seeking, That distant, close-shut door. And while she wandered sadly, And thought upon her dole, She saw the blessed Virgin, Who gazed upon her soul, And asked in accents tender, " Poor soul, what is thy dole?" " Alas! alas! " she answered, " My sins are very great, I cannot enter Heaven, My soul in Hell must wait. Alas! alas! dear mother, Have pity on my fate/' The Blessed Virgin answered, " I can do nought but pray, Come with me, erring daughter, Upon this narrow way. And when we come to Heaven, I for thy soul will pray." With trembling fear and anguish With many, many tears, The poor soul stood and waited, And struggled with her fears, While the loud knock resounded, And thundered in her ears. Our Lord said to St. Peter, " Go see who knocketh so?" " My Lord, it is your Mother, With a lost soul from woe." " Then let mv mother enter, But the sinful soul must go." THE 8TOR 7 OF A LOST SO UL. 35 " Not so, not so, beloved, My son, I pray thee hear, Have mercy, I beseech tiiee, Upon this soul in fear. And turn her bitter anguish To songs of praise, just here.'* " Right gladly would 1 hear thee, Oh, Blessed Mother mine, But in my Father's mansions That sinful soul would pine; What good work has she finished, Meet for this home divine?" " Alas! alas! I sinful Have walked in my own light; The world and all its pleasures, They were my sole delight; Alas! 1 am most sinful, Most sinful in my sight." " But say, some good work surely Some fasts you must have kept?" The Blessed Mother questioned, The sinful soul that wept: " Some sins you must have thought of, And prayed for, ere you slept? " " Alas! alas! I sinful Have nothing I can show, Except I sometimes tended The sick ones in their woe, And gave a little water To those down-stricken low." Ah, great then was the beauty, That shown in our Lord's face: " Give me thy hand, redeemed one, Thy sins they are effaced; Come in, come in, redeemed one, Thou, too, hast won the race." 36 BOHEMIAN LEGENDS. And by the hand He took her, And led her to the throne. " This one/' He said, " did drink me, And tend me when alone. This act, oh Holy Father, For all her sins atone." THE DEVIL'S BRIDE. 37 THE DEVIL'S BRIDE. A BOHEMIAN BALLAD. There was a virtuous lady, Who had daughters three to marry; With two of them she went to church, For the third she would not tarry. The girl laughed loud, and dressed her hair, For she had a mind to marry. She thought in our little garden There are plenty of roses fair; I will make them into a wreath; A beautiful wreath, I will wear. Said a tall young man, passing by, " Maid, give me the wreath from your hair."