Ah me! is it thus that my joys depart,
While stricken and mute I stand.
O frost, let the fire that burns at my heart
Be quenched by thy cold, wet hand.
May 1, 1874.
“Yes, God has given me much, very much. Such a father, such a mother, such a brother, such a husband, and such a child. Too much indeed! and though He removes them from my sight He does not take away His heavenly gifts, for they dwell for ever in my memory. I feel that after such great blessings I have no right to complain, and even to-day the joy is so great in retrospection that the sorrow cannot crush me. I often say that a mother’s love is deeper than the grave, and I rejoice in the bliss of my child. But that the world cannot be otherwise than dark and gloomy to me is not to be altered, and must be borne.
“Wherefore give to poor weak women—
To Earth-Mothers—babes from Heaven,
God, O God?
Fairy boons, seen but to vanish
Like a light-ray, like an air-waft!
Must then that which was one’s Soul’s soul,
Be so reft away, and leave us,
Leave us, struck in Life’s mid fulness
Deathly-sorrowful, and faltering?
Wherefore mad’st Thou us so humble,
So in lowliest clay entangled,
God, O God?
That we, with our own dear children
No more to consort are worthy?
So that, from our arms unskilful
Thou dost them withdraw, O Father?
When our sad frail hearts were breaking?
Formerly ’twas sunshine round us,
Days of peace, and long rejoicing,
God, O God!
Now is mortal silence o’er us,
Now is icy hush of heart!
As when storms have wrought their direst,
Mastless, anchorless the barque drifts,
So on Death’s grey waves we welter,
And we still must live, O Father!
—Translated by Sir Edwin Arnold.
“The people here regard it as a great happiness to die on Thursday in holy week, for on that day, they say, Heaven is open, and one flies in. Consequently they regard me as a happy mother, to whom God has granted that for which they ever pray, which is that if He sees fit to take a child, it may die on this Thursday. What a curious coincidence! Even this brings us nearer to the people, for they regard us as so richly blessed. The whole country shows us the greatest sympathy. Our little grave is always covered with wreaths and flowers which are placed there by unknown hands. The girls from the Asyle come singly to the grave in the early morning, say their prayer, bring a little flower, and see that the lamp is still burning. It is a great help to me that I came into a country where so much is done in memory of the dead. Consequently that which lies nearest my heart is all arranged for me. ‘Dimbovitza apa dulce! Cine o bea nu se mai due!’
“Dimbovitza! Magic river,
Silver shining, memory haunted,
He who drinks thy crystal waters
Ne’er can quit thy shores enchanted.