# The Soul Of A Century/The dove

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Translation of the ballad Holoubek from the cycle The Garland of National Legends.
THE DOVE
Along the old grave yard A travelled path winds high, Over this, bent with grief, A widow passes by.
Mourning softly, bitterly The loss of one so dear Where she had only recently Wept o’er her husband’s bier.
Out from the white estate Across the winding path, A handsome youth rides forth, A feather in his hat.
Cry not, and stop lamenting, Young widow in dismay, For shame to dim your pretty eyes, Listen to what I say.
Cry not, and cease lamenting, Young widow, as fair as a rose, Since you have lost your husband, Let me once more propose.
One day she spent in weeping, Quiet the second day, Before the third day vanished Her grief hath passed away.
Before a week passed by Thoughts of the dead had parted, Within another month A wedding gown she started.
Along the old grave yard Now jollier the way, As the bridal pair rides by To the wedding feast today.
The wedding was so gay, And full of noisy jesting, In the bridegroom’s fond embrace The bride at length was resting.
The wedding was so gay, Music rang with gladness, He pressed her to his bosom, She laughed in joyous madness.
Laugh fair bride . . . keep laughing It doth become you well, The dead man ‘neath the earth Hears not and cannot tell.
Embrace and love your dear one, Fears do not entertain, The casket’s tight and narrow, The dead shan’t turn again.
Now you can kiss and treasure The cheeks for which you sighed; For he, who drank your potion Can never be revived.
Time is swiftly fleeing, All changes in its track, What was not, shall soon be; What was, shall ne’er come back.
Time is swiftly fleeing A year just like a day, But one thing never changes . . . A sin cannot pass away.
Three years sped by and vanished Since he was laid to rest, Over his grave a scented rug Of verdant grass is pressed.
Green grass upon his grave, An oak tree at the head, Upon the oak, a dove coos sadly, Its snowy wings outspread.
Upon the oak he flutters, And coos a mournful strain, The hearts of all who hear it Fill with an untold pain.
But none grieves more or suffers As grieves one woman’s heart, She tears her hair, lamenting, Fear rends her soul apart.
“Oh, do not coo, and cry not, Moan not into my ears, Your cruel song is piercing My aching soul with spears.
Oh, do not coo, complain not, My head swims in sheer dread, Or better that you howl until It bursts my weary head.”
Swiftly flow the waters, The waves each other chase, And ‘twixt the foaming billows A white dress seeks a place.
Here a limb protruding, An arm there cuts the wave, A luckless, hapless woman At last has found her grave.
To the mossy banks they bore her, And dug a grave in haste Where the two field-paths are crossing, In the rye field’s yellow waste.
She was to have no tomb stone, No restful mound was made, Naught but a heavy boulder Above her head was laid.
No boulder e’er so heavy Can lie with so much weight, As lies the curse of inner guilt, Upon her name of hate.
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