Poem by Edmund Clarence Stedman

Bohemia

      A PILGRIMAGE

I 

When buttercups are blossoming,
The poets sang, 'tis best to wed:
So all for love we paired in Spring—
Blanche and I—ere youth had sped,
For Autumn's wealth brings Autumn's wane.
Sworn fealty to royal Art
Was ours, and doubly linked the chain,
With symbols of her high domain,
That twined us ever heart to heart;
And onward, like the Babes in the Wood,
We rambled, till before us stood
⁠The outposts of Bohemia.

II

For, roaming blithely many a day,
Eftsoons our little hoard of gold,
Like Christian's follies, slipt away,
Unloosened from the pilgrim's hold,
But left us just as blithe and free;
Whereat our footsteps turned aside
From lord and lady of degree,
And bore us to that brave countree
Where merrily we now abide,—
⁠That proud and humble, poor and grand,
⁠Enchanted, golden Gypsy-Land,
⁠⁠The Valley of Bohemia.

III

Together from the higher clime,
By terraced cliff and copse along,
Adown the slant we stept, in time
To many another pilgrim's song,
And came where faded far away,
Each side, the kingdom's ancient wall,
From breaking into dying day;
Beyond, the magic valley lay,
With glimpse of shimmering stream and fall;
⁠And here, between twin turrets, ran,
⁠Built o'er with arch and barbacan,
⁠⁠The entrance to Bohemia.

IV

Beneath the lichened parapet
Grim-sculptured Gog and Magog bore
The Royal Arms,—Hope's Anchor, set
In azure, on a field of or,
With pendent mugs, and hands that wield
A lute and tambour, graven clear;
What seemed a poet's scroll revealed
The antique legend of the shield:
Gambrinus. Rex. helde. Wassaille. here.
Joyned. with. ye. Kinge. of. Yvetot.
O. worlde-worne. Pilgrim. passe. belowe.
To. entre. fayre. Bohemia.

V

No churlish warder barred the gate,
Nor other pass was needed there
Than equal heart for either fate,
And barren scrip, and hope to spare.
Through the gray archway, hand in hand,
We walked, beneath the rampart high,
And on within the wondrous land;
There, changed as by enchanter's wand,
My sweetheart, fairer to the eye
⁠Than ever, moved along serene
⁠In hood and cloak,—a gypsy queen,
⁠⁠Born princess of Bohemia!

VI

A fairy realm! where slope and stream,
Champaign and upland, town and grange,
Like shadowy shiftings of a dream,
Forever blend and interchange;
A magic clime! where, hour by hour,
Storm, cloud, and sunshine, fleeting by,
Commingle, and, through shine and shower,
Bright castles, lit with rainbows, tower,
Emblazoning the distant sky
⁠With glimmering glories of a land
⁠Far off, yet ever close at hand
⁠⁠As hope, in brave Bohemia.

VII

On either side the travelled way,
Encamped along the sunny downs,
The blithesome, bold Bohemians lay;
Or hid, in quaintly-gabled towns,
At smoke-stained inns of musty date,
And spider-haunted attic nooks
In empty houses of the great,
Still smacking of their ancient state,—
Strewn round with pipes and mouldy books,
⁠And robes and buskins over-worn,
⁠That well become the careless scorn
⁠⁠And freedom of Bohemia.

VIII

For, loving Beauty, and, by chance,
Too poor to make her all in all,
They spurn her half-way maintenance,
And let things mingle as they fall;
Dissevered from all other climes,
Yet compassing the whole round world,
Where'er are jests, and jousts at rhymes,
True love, and careless, jovial times,
Great souls by jilting Fortune whirled,
⁠Men that were born before their day,
⁠Kingly, without a realm to sway,
⁠⁠Yet monarchs in Bohemia;

IX

And errant wielders of the quill;
And old-world princes, strayed afar,
In threadbare exile chasing still
The glimpses of a natal star;
And Woman—taking refuge there
With woman's toil, and trust, and song,
And something of a piquant air
Defiant, as who must and dare
Steer her own shallop, right or wrong.
⁠A certain noble nature schools,
⁠In scorn of smaller, mincing rules,
⁠⁠The maidens of Bohemia.

X

But we pursued our pilgrimage
Far on, through hazy lengths of road,
Or crumbling cities gray with age;
And stayed in many a queer abode,
Days, seasons, years,—wherein were born
Of infant pilgrims, one, two, three;
And ever, though with travel worn,
Nor garnered for the morrow's morn,
We seemed a merry company,—
⁠We, and the mates whom friendship, or
⁠What sunshine fell within our door,
⁠⁠Drew to us in Bohemia.

XI

For Ambrose—priest without a cure—
Christened our babes, and drank the wine
He blessed, to make the blessing sure;
And Ralph, the limner—half-divine
The picture of my Blanche he drew,
As Saint Cecilia 'mong the caves,—
She singing; eyes a holy blue,
Upturned and rapturous; hair, in hue,
Gold rippled into amber waves.
⁠There, too, is wayward, wild Annette,
⁠Danseuse and warbler and grisette,
⁠⁠True daughter of Bohemia.

XII

But all by turns and nothing long;
And Rose, whose needle gains her bread;
And bookish Sibyl,—she whose tongue
The bees of Hybla must have fed;
And one—a poet—nowise sage
For self, but gay companion boon
And prophet of the golden age;
He joined us in our pilgrimage
Long since, one early Autumn noon
⁠When, faint with journeying, we sate
⁠Within a wayside hostel-gate
⁠⁠To rest us in Bohemia.

XIII

In rusty garb, but with an air
Of grace, that hunger could not whelm,
He told his wants, and—"Could we spare
Aught of the current of the realm—
A shilling?"—which I gave; and so
Came talk, and Blanche's kindly smile;
Whereat he felt his heart aglow,
And said: "Lo, here is silver! lo,
Mine host hath ale! and it were vile,
⁠If so much coin were spent by me
⁠For bread, when such good company
⁠⁠Is gathered in Bohemia."

XIV

Richer than Kaiser on his throne,
A royal stoup he bade them bring;
And so, with many of mine own,
His shilling vanished on the wing;
And many a skyward-floating strain
He sang, we chorusing the lay
Till all the hostel rang again;
But when the day began to wane,
Along the sequel of our way
⁠He kept us pace; and, since that time,
⁠We never lack for song and rhyme
⁠⁠To cheer us, in Bohemia.

XV

And once we stopped a twelvemonth, where
Five-score Bohemians began
Their scheme to cheapen bed and fare,
Upon a late-discovered plan;
"For see," they said, "the sum how small
By which one pilgrim's wants are met!
And if a host together fall,
What need of any cash at all?"
Though how it worked I half forget,
⁠Yet still the same old dance and song
⁠We found,—the kindly, blithesome throng
⁠⁠And joyance of Bohemia.

XVI

Thus onward through the Magic Land,
With varying chance. But once there past
A mystic shadow o'er our band,
Deeper than Want could ever cast,
For, oh, it darkened little eyes!
We saw our youngest darling die,
Then robed her in her palmer's guise,
And crossed the fair hands pilgrim-wise,
And, one by one, so tenderly,
⁠Came Ambrose, Sibyl, Ralph, and Rose,
⁠Strewing each sweetest flower that grows
⁠⁠In wildwoods of Bohemia.

XVII

But last the Poet, sorrowing, stood
Above the tiny clay, and said:
"Bright little Spirit, pure and good,
Whither so far away hast fled?
Full soon thou tryest that other sphere:
Whate'er is lacking in our lives
Thou dost attain; for Heaven is near,
Methinks, to pilgrims wandering here,
As to that one who never strives
⁠With fortune,—has not come to know
⁠The pride and pain that dwell so low
⁠⁠In valleys of Bohemia."

XVIII

He ceased, and pointed solemnly
Through western windows; and we saw
That lustrous castle of the sky
Gleam, touched with flame; and heard with awe,
About us, gentle whisperings
Of unseen watchers hovering near
Our dead, and rustling angel wings!
Now, whether this or that year brings
The valley's end, or, haply, here
⁠Our pilgrimage for life must last,
⁠We know not; but a sacred past
⁠⁠Has hallowed all Bohemia.

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Ella Wilcox Bohemia ("Bohemia, o’er thy unatlassed borders")

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