Flora Pauline Wilson Kopta

Biographical details

Flora Pauline Wilson Kopta Bohemian legends and other poems (1896)

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 band,
While all her noblest sons were called to die;
And thanks be unto God, without a sigh
They left this world, for better homes on high.
’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
Source: Wikisource

Flora Pauline Wilson Kopta Bohemian legends and other poems (1896)

The wind down the chimney howls dreary and wild,
Like the souls of the lost who evil have wrought.
“’Tis a terrible night,” said the wan old monk,
“It reminds me indeed of a night long past,
Of a terrible night when our Domherr died—
Ah, years ago in the beginning of fast.
The whirlwind was howling—the night it was dark.
I sat by his bed, and I counted my beads.
He knew he must die, for a ghost had appeared,
A ghost of his family in deep widow’s weeds.”
“A ghost, reverend father! and how could that be?”
Source: Wikisource

Flora Pauline Wilson Kopta Bohemian legends and other poems (1896)

The whirlwind is howling—the night it is dark—
The mountains like giants frown down on the scene.
The hall from whose windows a flickering light shines,
Is the only shelter for miles to be seen.
The whirlwind is raging through turrets and eaves,
It shrieks by the windows, it howls at the door.
Near by in the forest the trees creak and moan,
As the wind rushes through, with terrible roar.
“God be with the stranger that wanders to-night,
Amidst our wild mountains,” the servant said low,
And lit the red light at the Crucifix’s feet.
Source: Wikisource

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