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Karel Jaromír Erben (1811-1870)



THE DAUGHTER’S CURSE


Why has such grief come over thee,

                     Daughter mine ?

Why has such grief come over thee ?

Blithesome it was thy wont to be,

Now thy mirth has taken flight.


A poor, wee dovelet’s life I’ve taken,

                               Mother mine.

A poor, wee dovelet’s life I’ve taken,—

It was a nestling, lone, forsaken,

And it was as snow so white.


This no dovelet could have been,

                         Daughter mine.

This no dovelet could have been,

A change has come upon thy mien,

And thy gaze is all awry.

O, ’twas a tiny babe I slew,

                          Mother mine.

O, ’twas a tiny babe I slew.

’Twas my own poor suckling, too,

   With pangs of sorrow I could die.

And what is thy purpose now,

Daughter mine ?

And what is thy purpose now ?

How for the guilt atone, and how

Canst thou the wrath of God appease !


I shall go that flower to seek,

                         Mother mine.

I shall go that flower to seek,

Which can quell much guilt, and eke

    Throes of heated blood can ease.


And where wilt thou this flower discover,

                        Daughter mine ?

And where wilt thou this flower discover ?

Where, O where the wide world over,

    In what garden does it grow ?

Beyond that gate above the mound,

                         Mother mine.

Beyond that gate above the mound,

Where a pole with a nail is found,

   And a hempen gallows-rope below.


And what is thy message to the swain,

                       Daughter mine ?

And what is thy message to the swain,

Who sought our dwelling oft and again,

  And did take his joy with thee ?


Blessing unto him I send,

                         Mother mine,

Blessing unto him I send,—

A worm in his soul until his end,

   For basely thus betraying me.


And what to thy mother wilt thou render,

                          Daughter mine ?

And what to thy mother wilt thou render,

She whose love for you was tender,

   And who dearly cherished thee ?


A curse to thee is my bequest,

                         Mother mine.

A curse to thee is my bequest,
That in the grave thou find no rest,
   For the wayward will thou gavest me.


                                          The Garland (1853)