Orval, or The Fool of Time :: :: University of Virginia Library

There, all in characters fair,
He wrote a letter; and there
Bade his estaffettes despatch
To bear it to Krouchevatch,
To the white-wall'd town of the Tzar,
To the hands of Prince Lazar.
“Listen, Lazarus, chief of the Serbs, to me!
That which never hath been, that which never shall be,
Is that two lords one land should sway,
And the same rayas two tributes pay.
Send to me, therefore, the tributes and keys;
The golden keys of each white town;
And send me a seven years' tribute with these.

366

But if this thou wilt not do,
Then come thou down over Kossovo:
On the field of Kossovo come thou down,
That we may divide the land with our swords.
These are my words.”

When Lazarus this letter had read,
Bitter, bitter were the tears he shed.

II.

A grey bird, a falcon, comes flying apace
From Jerusalem, from the Holy Place;
And he bears a light swallow abroad.
It is not a grey bird, a falcon, God wot!
But the Saint Elias; and it is not
A light swallow he bears from afar,
But a letter from the Mother of God
To the Tzar who in Kossovo stays.
And the letter is dropt on the kness of the Tzar;
And these are the words that it says:—

“Lazarus, Prince of a race that I love,
Which empire choosest thou?
That of the heaven above?
Or that of the earth below?
If thou choose thee an earthly realm,
Saddle horse, belt, spur, and away!
Warriors, bind ye both sabre and helm,
And rush on the Turks, and they
With their army whole shall perish.
But, if rather a heavenly crown thou cherish,

367

At Kossovo build ye a temple fair.
There no foundations of marble lay,
But only silk of the scarlet dye.
Range ye the army in battle-array,
And let each and all full solemnly
Partake of the blessèd sacrament there.
For then of a certainty know
Ye shall utterly perish, both thou,
And thine army all; and the Turk shall be
Lord of the land that is under thee.”

When the Tzar he read these words,
His thoughts were as long and as sharp as swords.
“God of my fathers, what shall I choose?
If a heavenly empire, then must I lose
All that is dearest to me upon earth;
But if that the heavenly here I refuse,
What then is the earthly worth?
It is but a day,
It passeth away,
And the glory of earth full soon is o'er,
And the glory of God is more and more.”

“What is this world's renown?”
(His heart was heavy, his soul was stirr'd.)
“Shall an earthly empire be preferr'd
To an everlasting crown?
At Kossovo build me a temple fair:
Lay no foundations of marble down,
But only silk of the scarlet dye.”
Then he sent for the Servian Patriarch:
With him twelve bishops to Kossovo went.

368

It was at the lifting of the dark:
They ranged the army in battle-array,
And the army all full solemnly
Received the blessed sacrament,
And hardly was this done, when lo!
The Turks came rushing on Kossovo.

III.

Ivan Kossantchitch, my pobratime
What of the Turk? How deem ye of him?
Is he strong, is he many, is he near?
Our battle, say! may we show him?
May we hope to overthrow him?
What news of him bringest thou here?

And Ivan Kossantchitch replied:
“Milosch Obìlitch, my brother dear,
I have lookt on the Turk in his pride.
He is strong, he is many, he is near,
His tents are on every side.
Were we all of us hewn into morsels, and salted,
Hardly, I think, should we salt him his meat.
Two whole days have I journeyed, nor halted,
Toward the Turk, near the Turk, round him, and never
Could I number his numbers, or measure his end.
From the Maple to Sazlia, brother, my feet
Have wander'd; from Sazlia round by the river,
Where the river comes round to the bridge with a bend;
And over the bridge to the town of Zvétchan;

369

From Zvétchan to Tchéchan, and further, and ever
Further, and over the mountains, wherever
Foot may fall, or eye may scan,
I saw nought but the Mussulman.

“Eastward and westward, and southward and nor'ward,
Scaling the hillside, and scathing the gorse,
Horseman to horseman, and horse against horse;
Lances like forests when forests are black;
Standards like clouds flying backward and forward,
White tents like snowdrifts piled up at the back.
The rain may, in torrents, fall down out of heaven,
But never the earth will it reach:
Nothing but horsemen, nothing but horses,
Thick as the sands which the wild river courses
Leave, after tempest, in heaps on the beach.
Murad, for pasture, hath given
To his horsemen the plain of Mazguite.
Lances a-ripple all over the land,
Tost like the bearded and billowy wheat
By the winds of the mountain driven
Under the mountain slab.
Murad looks down in command
Over Sitnitza and Lab.”

“Answer me, Ivan, answer ye me,
Where may the tent of Murad be?
His milk-white tent, may one see it afar
O'er the plain, from the mountain, or out of the wood?
For I have sworn to the Prince Lazar

370

A solemn vow upon Holy Rood,
To bring him the head of the Turkish Tzar,
And set my feet in his infidel blood.”

“Art mad, my pobratime, art mad?
Where may the tent be, the tent of Murad?
In the midst of a million eyes and ears:
In the midst of a million swords and spears,
In the heart of the camp of the Turk.
Fatal thy vow is, and wild is the work;
For hadst thou the wings of the falcon, to fly
Fleeter than lightning, along the deep sky,
The wings of the falcon, though fleet be they,
Would never bear thee thy body away.”

And Milosch abjured him: “O Ivan, my brother
(Tho' not by the blood, yet more dear than all other),
See thou say nothing of this to our lord,
Lest ye sorrow his heart; and say never a word,
Lest our friends be afflicted, and fail. But thou
Shalt rather answer to who would know,
And boldly aver to the Tzar,
‘The Turk is many, but more are we,
And easy and light is the victory:
For he is not an army of men of war,
But a rabble rather
Of rascals that gather
To promise of plunder from places afar;
Priests and pedlars,
Jugglers and fiddlers,
Dancers and drummers,
Varlets and mummers,

371

Boys and buffoons—all craven loons
That never in burly of battle have bled,
Never have combated sword in hand;
They are only come, the beggars, for bread,
And to feed on the fat of the land.
And the dreadful dismal dysentery
Is among their men, and their horses die,
Of a daily increasing malady.’”

IV.

Lazarus, lord of the Serbs, our Tzar,
At Krouchevatch high Slava doth hold.
Around him, sitting by cups of gold,
His sons and his seigneurs are.

To right, the reverend Youg Bogdan;
Round whom the nine young Yougovitch;
To left, that thrice-accursèd man,
The traitor black, Vouk Brankovitch;
And many a lord, along the board,
And last of all, in the knightly train,
Milosch, the manly Voïvod;
Next him, Servian Voïvodes twain,
Ivan Kossantchitch, his brother in God,
And Milan Toplitza, a man without stain.

And the Tzar bade pour the purple wine,
And, brimming up his golden cup,
Lookt all adown that lordly line.

“To whom shall the King first pledge?” he began.
“If first to age, this health should be,

372

To no man do I drink but thee,
Revered old Youg Bogdan;
But if to rank or high degree,
Vouk Brankovitch, I drink to thee.
If to friendship be the toast,
My brothers nine, I know not which
Amongst you all I love the most,
You gallant-hearted Yougovitch!
If to beauty, then be thine,
Ivan, first the flowing wine.
If to length and strength of limb,
Then the wine to Milan brim,
No man measures height with him.
If to valour, more than even
Stature, beauty, friendship, age,
Our first honours should be given,
Then to Milosch must we pledge.
Yet, be that as it may be,
Milosch, I drink to none but thee!
Milosch, thy health!
Drink, man, drink!
Why should any man care to think?
Traitor or true, or friend or foe,
To thee I drain this goblet low;
And, ere to-morrow, at Kossovo,
Thou thy master hast betray'd
To the Turk, for wages paid,
(Friend or foe, whate'er befall,
True or traitor, what care I?)
The King drinks to thee in his hall,
Lip to lip, and eye to eye,
Pledge me now in sight of all;

373

And, since to thee I fill it up,
Take thou too this golden cup,
And add it to ill-gotten wealth—
Milosch, thy health!”

Lightly Milosch bounded up,
Lightly caught the golden cup,
To the black earth bow'd his head,
And “Noble master, thanks!” he said,
“For the pledge thou pledgest me,
And thanks that, of thy courtesy,
Thou to me dost first allot,
A true, true health, O King, to thee,
To pledge back in this golden token;
Thanks for this, my lord, but not
For the words which thou hast spoken.
For, oh! (and may my loyalty,
Dear liege, not fatal prove to me,
Before the truth is judged between
Us, and his fair company)
My true heart is sound and clean,
Traitor never have I been,
Traitor never will I be!
But at Kossovo to-morrow morn
I trust, as I am a living man,
A soldier and a Christian,
To go to the death for the true, true faith,
True to the last where my faith is sworn,
Careless of calumny, scorning scorn!
The traitor is sitting by thy side,
He toucheth thy robe, thy wine he drinketh,
To God and his king he hath foully lied,

374

Vouk Brankovitch, the servile-eyed,
Christian false, and perjured friend!
God judge between us twain i' the end,
And perish he in the thought he thinketh!
To-morrow a noble day will be,
For at Kossovo all men shall see
What is the truth betwixt us two,
And who is traitor, and who is true.
For I swear by the great sun in the sky,
And I swear by the living God on high
That judgeth us all, whate'er befall,
When at Kossovo upon battle-plain,
Murad, the Turk, I have sought and slain
(Sought and slain, for I swore by the rood
To set my feet in his Turkish blood),
If God but grant me safe and sane
A living man to come again
Back to white-wall'd Krouchevatch,
And there that traitor foul I catch,
Vouk Brankovitch, I will have by the throat.
All men shall see it, and all men shall note,
For it shall be done in the light of the sun.
To my good war-lance I will fix his skull,
As a woman fixes a ball of wool
To her distaff when her spinning is done.
Then I will bear him to Kossovo,
Bear him back to the battle-plain;
All men shall see it, and all men shall know
Who is the traitor of us twain.”

V.

At the royal board a noble pair

375

Sit together, and full sad they are.
Lazarus and his Militza fair,
The sweet-eyed Tzarina and the Tzar.
Troubled is the Tzar's broad brow,
The Tzarina's eyes are dim,
And, with tears that dare not flow,
The Tzarina says to him:—

“Lord Lazarus, O golden crown
Of Servia, and sweetheart my own!
To-morrow morn to Kossovo
With thee to the battle go
Servitors and Voïvodes.
I alone, in these abodes,
Vacant of thy voice, remain;
Hearing, haply, on the wind,
Murmurs of the battle-plain;
Heavy of heart, and sad of mind,
Silent in sorrow, alone with pain.
O think on this, my life, my lord,
Never a soul to carry a word
To Kossovo, from me to thee,
To Krouchevatch from thee to me;
Wherefore, lord of my brothers nine,
The sons of Youg, our father old,
(Golden stars in a crown of gold!)
Let one, for once, be wholly mine.
Mine to witness the tears I weep;
Mine to solace the vigil I keep;
Mine alone, of my nine brothers,
To pray with me for those eight others;
Of brothers nine, but leave me one

376

To swear by when the rest be gone!”

And Lazarus, lord of the Serbs, replied:
“Militza, sweetheart, wife true-eyed,
Of thy nine brothers, tell to me which
Thou lovest best, that he should rest
In our white palace to watch by thee.
Which of them, sweetheart?—tell to me!”
And she answer'd, “Bocko Yougovitch.”
And Lazarus, lord of the Serbs, replied:
“Militza, sweetheart, wife true-eyed,
To-morrow, when from her red bower
The watery dawn begins to break,
Ere yet the sun hath felt his power
Seek thou the city walls, and take
Thy post against the Eastern gate:
There shalt thou see the army pass,
To mantle the field in martial state,
And trample the dew-drop out of the grass.
All lusty warriors, leal and true,
Who in battle have never turn'd their backs,
In complete steel, with curtle axe;
Each spearman true, as his own true steel.
And, foremost of all, that, with iron heel,
Crush the wet violet down in the moss,
With purple plumes, in vesture rich,
Thy brother, Bocko Yougovitch,
Bearing the standard of the Cross.
Seize thou the golden bridle-ring,
Greet him fair from his lord the king,
And bid him that he the standard yield
To whomsoever he deemeth best,

377

And turn about from the battle-field,
In our white palace with thee to rest.”

VI.

Now, when the dawn from her red bower
Upclomb the chilly skies, and, all
Athwart the freshening city tower,
The silent light began to fall
About the breezy yellow flower
That shook on the shadowy city wall,
Militza, through the glimmering streets,
Goes forth against the Eastern gate.
There, all i' the morning light, she meets
The army on to the distant down,
Winding out of the dusky town,
To mantle the field in martial state,
And trample the dew-drop out of the grass.
O brothers, a goodly sight it was!
With curtle axe, in complete steel,
So many a warrior, lusty and leal,
So many a spearman, stout and true,
Marching to battle in order due.
And foremost among that stately throng,
With, over his helmet's golden boss,
Floating plumes of the purple rich,
The gallant Bocko Yougovitch
Bearing the standard of the Cross.
All blazing gold his corselet beam'd,
Imperial purple fold on fold,
The mighty Christian ensign stream'd
Over his red-roan courser bold;

378

And high upon the standard top
Against the merry morning gleam'd
An apple wrought of purest gold;
Thereon the great gold cross, from which
All glittering downward, drop by drop,
Great golden acorns, lightly hung,
Over his shining shoulder flung
Flashes of light o'er Yougovitch.

She caught the bridle ring: in check
The red-roan courser paw'd the ground.
About her brother's bended neck
Her milk-white arm she softly wound,
And half in hope, and half in fear,
She whisper'd in the young man's ear:—
“Brother, my liege and thine, the king,
Commits me to thy comforting.
He greets thee fair, and bids me say
(The which with all my heart I pray)
That thou the royal ensign yield
To whomsoever thou deemest best,
And turn about from the battle-field
At Krouchevatch with me to rest,
That of nine brothers I may have one
To swear by when the rest be gone.”

But “Foul befall,” the young man said,
“The man that turns his horse's head,
Whoe'er he be, from battle-plain:
Turn thee, sister, turn again
To thy white tower! I will not yield
The Holy Cross 'tis mine to bear,

379

Nor turn about from the battle-field.
Not though the king should give, I swear,
The whole of Krouchevatch to me,
Would I turn thitherwards with thee.
To-day will be the noblest day
Yon sun in heaven did ever see;
Nor shall my own true comrades say
This day, in sorrow or scorn, of me,
—‘The craven heart that dared not go
To the great fight at Kossovo;
That fear'd to find a saintly death,
Nor pour'd his blood for Holy Rood,
Nor fell for the Christian faith.’”
He prickt his horse toward the gate,
And, through a cloud of hoary mist
Glittering like one great amethyst,
Swept forth into the morning wan.
Then up there rides in royal state,
With his seven sons, old Youg Bogdan.
She stopt them one by one; she took
The bridle rein; she spoke to them all.
Not one of them all would turn and look:
Not one of them all would listen and wait;
But the trumpet sounded in the gate,
And they follow'd the trumpet call.

And after these, a little space,
Voïn Yougovitch not far
She spied come riding at slow pace,
Leading the destriers of the Tzar,
All trapt and housed with gold be they,

380

And going an amble by the way.
His good steed was of dapple grey.
She caught the bridle ring: in check
The good grey courser paw'd the ground.
Her milk-white arm she softly wound
About her brother's bended neck;
And half in hope, and half in fear.
She whisper'd in the young man's ear:—
“Brother, my liege, and thine, the king,
Commits me to thy comforting.
He greets thee fair, and bids me say
(The which with all my heart I pray)
That thou the royal destriers yield
To whomsoever thou deemest best,
And turn about from the battle-field
In Krouchevatch with me to rest,
That of nine brothers I may have one
To swear by when the rest be gone.”

But “Sister, foul befall,” he said,
“The man that turns his horse's head,
Whoe'er he be, from battle-plain:
Turn thee, sister, turn again
To thy white tower! I will not yield
The destriers of my lord the Tzar,
Nor turn about from the battle-field,
Where all my noble kinsmen are,
Albeit to meet my death I go
To the great fight at Kossovo;
To pour my blood for Holy Rood,
To fight to the death for the Christian Faith,

381

With my kinsmen all to fight and fall,
With our foreheads against the foe.”

Through the gate he prickt his steed,
And off to the dreary downs afar,
Leading as fast as he might lead
The destriers of the Tzar.
But Dame Militza, when no more
She heard the echoing hoofs that bore
Her brother from her, even as one
From whom the light of life is gone,
Fell swooning on the cold curb-stone.

Then came the Tzar himself anon,
And his great war-horse pacing on,
Did stoutly neigh in lusty pride;
But when he past beside that stone,
He stopt, and stoopt, and swerv'd aside.
There, all her fair white length o'erthrown,
The Tzar his own true wife espied,
And fast the bitter tears down ran,
As he call'd to his servant Gouloban

“Good Gouloban, my faithful friend,
In this thy trusty service prove;
From off thy milk-white horse descend,
And, as thou dost thy master love,
In thy true arms thy mistress take,
With whom to her tall tower go;
And, God forgive thee for my sake,
But go not thou to Kossovo.
I will requite thee when again

382

I meet thee, if I be not slain,
Howbeit, I deem my doom at hand,
For the Turk is lord of half the land.”

Down stept the trusty serving man,
Full fast his bitter tears down ran,
And sad was the heart of Gouloban.
He lifted up that drooping flower,
Lifted her on to his milk-white steed,
And rode with her to her tall tower,
As fast as he might speed.

There laid he her in linen bed,
And lowly laid her lovely head.
But o'er the airy morning smote,
Along the blowing breeze remote,
A solitary trumpet note.
Full well the milk-white war-horse knew
The music of that martial sound,
And in the courtyard paw'd the ground,
And blithely from his nostrils blew
The morning mist. Then Gouloban
Adown the turret stairway ran,
He leapt to stirrup, he leapt to selle,
From fleeting hands he waved farewell;
Again he heard the trumpet blow,
And he rode back to Kossovo.

VII.

All when the misty morn was low,
And the rain was raining heavily

383

Two ravens came from Kossovo,
Flying along a lurid sky:
One after one, they perch'd upon
The palace of the great Lazar,
And sat upon the turret wall.
One 'gan croak, and one 'gan call,
“Is this the palace of the Tzar?
And is there never a soul inside?”

Was never a soul within the hall,
To answer to the ravens' call,
Save Militza. She espied
The two black birds on the turret wall,
That all in the wind and rain did croak,
And thus the ravens she bespoke:
“In God's great name, black ravens, say,
Whence came ye on the wind to-day?
Is it from the plain of Kossovo?
Hath the bloody battle broke?
Saw ye the two armies there?
Have they met? And, friend or foe,
Which hath vanquisht? How do they fare?”

And the two black fowls replied:
“In God's great name, Militza, dame,
From Kossovo at dawn we came.
A bloody battle we espied:
We saw the two great armies there,
They have met, and ill they fare.
Fallen, fallen, fallen are
The Turkish and the Christian Tzar.
Of the Turks is nothing left;

384

Of the Serbs a remnant rests,
Hackt and hewn, rent and reft,
Broken shields, and bloody breasts.”
And lo! while yet the ravens spoke,
Up came the servant, Miloutine:
And he held his right hand, cleft
By a ghastly sabre stroke,
Bruised and bloody, in his left;
Gasht with gashes seventeen
Yawn'd his body where he stood,
And his horse was dripping blood.

“O sorrow, sorrow, bitter woe
And sorrow, Miloutine!” she said;
“For now I know my lord is dead.
For, were he living, well I know,
Thou hadst not left at Kossovo
Thy lord forsaken to the foe.”

And Miloutine spake, breathing hard:
“Get me from horse: on cool greensward
Lay me, lay me, mistress mine:
A little water from the well,
To bathe my wounds in water cold,
For they are deep and manifold;
And touch my lip with rosy wine,
That I may speak before I die.
I would not die before I tell
The tale of how they fought and fell.”
She got him from his bloody steed,
And wiped the death-drops from his brow,
And in the fresh grass laid him low;

385

And washt his wounds in water cold,
For they were deep and manifold;
Full ghastly did they gape and bleed:
She stanch'd them with her garment's fold,
And lightly held his body up,
And bathed his lips with rosy wine,
And all the while her tears down ran,
And dropt into the golden cup;
And still she question'd of the war:
“O tell me, tell me, Miloutine,
Where fell the glorious Prince Lazar?
Where are fallen my brothers nine?
Where my father, Youg Bogdan?
Where Milosch, where Vouk Brankovitch?
And where Strahinia Banovitch?”

Then when the servant, Miloutine,
Three draughts had drain'd of rosy wine,
Although his eyes were waxing dim,
A little strength came back to him.
He stood up on his feet, and, pale
And ghastly, thus began the tale:

“They will never return again,
Never return! ye shall see them no more;
Nor ever meet them within the door,
Nor hold their hands. Their hands are cold,
Their bodies bleach in bloody mould.
They are slain! all of them slain!
And the maidens shall mourn, and the mothers deplore,
Heaps of dead heroes on battle plain.

386

Where they fell, there they remain,
Corpses stiff in their gore.
But their glory shall never grow old
Fallen, fallen, in mighty war,
Fallen, fighting about the Tzar,
Fallen, where fell our lord Lazar!
Never more be there voice of cheer!
Never more be there song or dance!
Muffled be moon and star!
For broken now is the lance,
Shiver'd both shield and spear,
And shatter'd the scimitar.
And cleft is the golden crown,
And the sun of Servia is down,
O'erthrown, o'erthrown, o'erthrown,
The roof and top of our renown,
Dead is the great Lazar!

“Have ye seen when the howling storm-wind takes
The topmost pine on a hoary rock,
Tugs at it, and tears, and shakes, and breaks,
And tumbles it into the ocean?
So when this bloody day began,—
In the roaring battle's opening shock,
Down went the grey-hair'd Youg Bogdan.
And following him, the noblest man
That ever wore the silver crown
Of age, grown grey in old renown,
One after one, and side by side
Fighting, thy nine brothers died:
Each by other, brother brother
Following, till death took them all.

387

But of these nine the last to fall
Was Bocko. Him, myself, I saw,
Three awful hours—a sight of awe,
Here, and there, and everywhere,
And all at once, made manifest,
Like a wild meteor in a troubled air,
Whose motion never may be guest.
For over all the lurid rack
Of smoking battle, blazed and burn'd,
And stream'd and flasht,
Like flame before the wind upturn'd,
The great imperial ensign splasht
With blood of Turks: where'er he dasht
Amongst their bruised battalions, I
Saw them before him reel and fly:
As when a falcon from on high,
Pounce on a settle-down of doves,
That murmurs make in myrrhy groves,
Comes flying all across the sky,
And scatters them with instant fright;
So flew the Turks to left and right,
Broken before him. Milosch fell,
Pursued by myriads down the dell,
Upon Sitnitza's rushy brink,
Whose chilly waves will roll, I think,
So long as time itself doth roll,
Red with remorse that they roll o'er him.
Christ have mercy on his soul,
And blessèd be the womb that bore him.
Not alone he fell. Before him
Twelve thousand Turkish soldiers fell,
Slaughter'd in the savage dell.

388

His right hand was wet and red
With the blood that he had shed,
And in that red right hand he had
(Shorn from the shoulder sharp) the head
Of the Turkish Tzar, Murad.

“There resteth to Servia a glory,
A glory that shall not grow old;
There remaineth to Servia a story,
A tale to be chanted and told!
They are gone to their graves grim and gory,
The beautiful, brave, and bold;
But out of the darkness and desolation,
Of the mourning heart of a widow'd nation,
Their memory waketh an exultation!
Yea, so long as a babe shall be born,
Or there resteth a man in the land—
So long as a blade of corn
Shall be reapt by a human hand—
So long as the grass shall grow
On the mighty plain of Kossovo—
So long, so long, even so,
Shall the glory of those remain
Who this day in battle were slain.

“And as for what ye inquire
Of Vouk,—when the worm and mole
Are at work on his bones, may his soul
Eternally singe in hell-fire!
Curst be the womb that bore him!
Curst be his father before him!
Curst be the race and the name of him!

389

And foul as his sin be the fame of him!
For blacker traitor never drew sword—
False to his faith, to his land, to his lord!
And doubt ye, doubt ye, the tale I tell?
Ask of the dead, for the dead know well;
Let them answer ye, each from his mouldy bed,
For there is no falsehood among the dead:
And there be twelve thousand dead men know
Who betray'd the Tzar at Kossovo.”

390

I.THE STAG AND THE VILA.

O'er the mountain, the wild stag browses the mountain herbage alone,
At morn he browses, at noon he sickens, at eve he maketh moan.
From the rifts of the rocky quarries the Vila hears him, and calls,

391

“O beast of the mountain meadows, the woods, and the waterfalls,
What sorrow is thine, so great that, browsing at morn, at noon thou ailest,
And now to the stars thou art moaning? What is it that thou bewailest?”
And the stag to the Vila makes answer, mournfully moaning low:
“O queen of the mountain, my sister! I mourn for my lost white doe,
My milk-white doe, my darling! from me, o'er the mountain track,
She wander'd away to the fountain; she wander'd, she never came back.
Either forlornly she wanders, mourning me, missing her way,

392

Or the hunters have follow'd and found her, and she hath perisht their prey,
Or else she forgets me, the faithless thing! and ever by valley and crag
Strays wanton after a belling note, and follows another stag.
If she be lost in the lonesome places, and hollows under the moon,
I pray that God, of his goodness, will guide her back to me soon.
If the hunters have slain my beloved one, wandering the woodland alone,
I pray that God, of his justice, will send them a fate like my own;
But if she follows another stag, caring no more to come back,
I pray that God, in his vengeance, guide the hunter fleet on her track.”

The Vilas are supernatural beings that appear frequently in the poetry, and exist to this day in the popular superstition, of the Serbs. I have been unable to trace their origin, but they would seem to be a remnant of the early Slave mythology; and, being a mountain race, to have survived the fate of the lowland members of the fairy family, notwithstanding the presence of perhaps almost as many “holy freres” as those to whose “blessing of thorpes and dairies,” Chaucer, in his day, attributed the fact that “there bin no faëries.” They are a kind of fierce Oreads, dwelling among the mountains and forests, and sometimes about the margin of waste waters. Their attributes are varying, and not distinctly ascertainable, but they are mostly terrible, and hostile to man. They are not, however, incapable of sympathy with the human race; for they have been known (though generally after being vanquished by them) to love great heroes. Evidence of this is to be found in the recorded exploits of Marko Kralievitch. That hero was beloved by one of these beings, who, indeed, prophesied his death, and that of his horse, Charatz. This animal was aged above one hundred and fifty years at the period of his death, and, according to some authorities, was the gift of a Vila. The love of these beings, however, is generally treacherous, and often fatal. The Vilas are not immortal, nor invulnerable. The Vila Ravioëla, who wounded the voivode Milosch with a golden arrow, was nearly massacred by Marko. They preserve, however, through incalculable time, supernatural youth and beauty. They believe in God and Saint John, and abhor the Turks. When they appear to mortal eyes it is as

“Unwedded maids,
Shadowing more beauty in their airy brows
Than have the white breasts of the Queen of Love,”

with long hair floating over their shoulders, and clothed in snow-white vesture. They are wise in the use of herbs and simples, they know the properties of every flower and berry, and possess strange medical arts.

II.LOVE AND SLEEP.

I walkt the high and hollow wood, from dawn to evendew,
The wild-eyed wood stared on me, and unclaspt, and let me through,
Where mountain pines, like great black birds, stood percht against the blue.

Not a whisper heaved the woven woof of those warm trees:

393

All the little leaves lay flat, unmoved of bird or breeze:
Day was losing light all round, by indolent degrees.

Underneath the brooding branches, all in holy shade,
Unseen hands of mountain things a mossy couch had made;
There asleep among pale flowers my beloved was laid.

Slipping down, a sunbeam bathed her brows with bounteous gold,
Unmoved upon her maiden breast her heavy hair was roll'd,
Her smile was silent as the smile on corpses three hours old.

“O God!” I thought, “if this be death, that makes not sound nor stir!”
My heart stood still with tender awe, I dared not waken her,
But to the dear God, in the sky, this prayer I did prefer:

“Grant, dear Lord, in the blessèd sky, a warm wind from the sea,
To shake a leaf down on my love from yonder leafy tree;
That she may open her sweet eyes, and haply look on me.”

The dear God, from the distant sea a little wind releast,
It shook a leaflet from the tree, and laid it on her breast.

394

Her sweet eyes ope'd, and looked on me. How can I tell the rest?

III.TITTLE-TATTLE.

Two lovers kist in the meadow green,
They thought there was none to espy:
But the meadow green told what it had seen
To the white flock wandering by.
The white flock told it the shepherd:
The shepherd the traveller from far:
The traveller told it the mariner,
Watching the pilot star:
The mariner told it his little bark:
The little bark told it the sea:
The sea told it the river,
Flowing down by the lea:
The river told it the maiden's mother,
And so to the maid it came back:
The maiden, as soon as she heard it,
Curst them all for a tell-tale pack:

“Meadow, be barren for ever,
Grass, grow not henceforth from the mould of thee!
Flock, be devour'd by the wolf!
Shepherd, the Turk seize hold of thee!
Traveller, rot of the fever!
Mariner, drown in the gulf!
Bark, may the whirlwind perplex thee,

395

And break thee against the shore!
Sea, may the moon ever vex thee!
River, be dry evermore!”

IV.MATRIMONIAL CONSIDERATIONS.

Where mountains shut the silence up, a milk-white maiden stood:
Her face was like a light, and kindled all the solitude.
And while the wild white mountain flowers turned passionately pale,
And while the chilly water ran reluctant to the vale,
And the bald eagle, near the sun, stood still on some tall peak,
That milk-white maiden to her own sweet face began to speak:

“O face, sweet source of all my care,
Fair face (because I know thee fair!)
If I knew thou should'st be kist
By any husband, wither'd, old, and grey,
I would wander, mist-like, with the mist,
The monstrous mountain many a league away,
Until, in some abandon'd place,
Where the starved wolf cracks the bones
Of perisht men, and the wind groans
For want of something to devour,
I should find, wild in the wind,
Among the blotcht and mildew'd stones,

396

The harsh-blowing absinth flower;
And pluck the stubborn root of it,
That from the bitter fruit of it
I might the blighting juice express;
Therewith to bathe thee, O my face, my face!
Till all thy beauty should be bitterness,
And each unloved caress
Burn on the old man's lip, which should embrace
Death on thy rosy portals, O my face!

“But if I knew, O my face, my face!
That thy lips should be kist by whom I would list,
I would glide, unespied, to a place, my face,
Where red roses, I know, ripely ripple and blow,
And white lilies grow more snowy than snow;
And all in the balmy evening light,
While the dew is new, and the stars but a few,
The roses so red, and the lilies so white,
I would pluck, with the sunset upon them, and press
From those flowers their sweetest sweetnesses,
To embalm thee, my face, till what he should embrace
Should be fairer than lilies and richer than roses;
So that when on thy lips my beloved one reposes,
A thousand summers of fragrant sighs
Might fan the faint fire of his soul's desire
With raptures pure as the rivers that rise
Among the valleys of Paradise.”

397

V.LOVE CONFERS NOBILITY.

He.
Violet, little one mine!
I would love thee, but thou art so small.

She.
Love me, my love, from those heights of thine,
And I shall grow tall, so tall!
The pearl is small, but it hangs above
A royal brow, and a kingly mind:
The quail is little, little, my love,
But she leaves the hunter behind.

Violet is a pet name, as well as a proper name.

VI.A SOUL'S SWEETNESS.

He.
O maiden of my soul!
What odour from the orange hast thou stole,
That breathes about thy breast with such sweet power?
What sweetness, unto me
More sweet than amber honey to the bee
That builds i' the oaken bole,
And sucks the essential summer of the year
To store with sweetest sweets her hollow tower?
Or is it breath of basil, maiden dear?
Or of the immortal flower?

398

She.
By the sweet heavens, young lover!
No odour from the orange have I stole;
Nor have I robb'd for thee,
Dearest, the amber dower
Of the building bee,
From any hollow tower
In oaken bole:
But if, on this poor breast thou dost discover
Fragrance of such sweet power,
Trust me, O my belovèd and my lover,
'Tis not of basil, nor the immortal flower,
But from a virgin soul.

VII.REMINISCENCES.

He.
And art thou wed, my Belovèd?
My Belovèd of long ago!

She.
I am wed, my Belovèd. And I have given
A child to this world of woe.
And the name I have given my child is thine,
So that, when I call to me my little one,
The heaviness of this heart of mine
For a little while may be gone.
For I say not . . . “Hither, hither, my son!”
But . . . “Hither, my love, my Belovèd!”

399

VIII.SLEEP AND DEATH.

The morning is growing: the cocks are crowing:
Let me away, love, away!

'Tis not the morning light;
Only the moonbeam white.
Stay, my white lamb, stay,
And sleep on my bosom, sleep!

The breeze is blowing: the cattle are lowing:
Let me away, love, away!

'Tis not the cattle there;
Only the call to prayer.
Stay, my white lamb, stay,
And sleep on my bosom, sleep!

The Turks are warning to the mosk: 'tis morning!
Let me away, love, away!

'Tis not the Turks, sweet soul!
Only the wolves that howl.
Stay, my white lamb, stay,
And sleep on my bosom, sleep!

The white roofs are gleaming: the glad children screaming:
Let me away, love, away!

400

'Tis the night-clouds that gleam:
The night winds that scream.
Stay, my white lamb, stay,
And sleep on my bosom, sleep!

My mother in the gateway calls to me . . . “Come straightway!”
And I must away, love, away!

Thy mother's in her bed,
Dumb, holy, and dead.
Stay, my white lamb, stay,
And sleep on my bosom, sleep!

IX.A CONJUGAL DISPUTE.

All at the mid of the night, there arose
A quarrel 'twixt husband and wife;
For, the young Omer Bey and his spouse,
Falling into discussion and strife,
Wild words to each other they said,
Side by side, at the dead
Of the night, on their marriage bed.

Had it been about anything less
The quarrel might have passt by;
But it was not a trifle, you guess,
That set words running so high.
Yet the cause in dispute (to be brief)
Was only a white handkerchief,

401

Broider'd all over with gold,
And scented with rose and with amber,
So sweet the whole house could not hold
That scent from the nuptial chamber.
For (the whole truth herewith to disclose)
This handkerchief border'd with gold,
And scented with amber and rose,
Had been given to the Bey (to enfold
Her letters, which lay on his breast),
By the mistress that he loved best.
But his wife had a sensitive nose
For the scent of amber and rose;
And the fiend himself only knows
Whether, but for a lie, ere the close
Of that quarrel there had not been blows.

“You know I've a sister, my treasure,
The wife of our friend Zekir Bey;
I love her, you know, beyond measure,
And she, dear, on our bridal day,
To me gave this white handkerchief,
Border'd all over with gold,
And scented with amber and rose;
Which precious, for her sake, I hold,
Though the scent of it, much to my grief,
Has troubled our nuptial repose.”

Smiling, her husband she heard,
Feeling no faith in his word,
For troubled his face was, she saw.
Up she leapt by the light of the taper,
Barefooted, and seized ink and paper;
And wrote to her sister-in-law:—

402

“Wife of our friend, Zekir Bey,
Long live thy husband, nought ail him,
May'st thou never have cause to bewail him!
Speak truth, and fear nothing. But say
(For truly the truth must be told)
To thy brother, on our bridal day,
Did'st thou give a white handkerchief, brightly
Embroider'd all over with gold,
And scented with rose and with amber
So sweet, that the scent of it nightly
May be smelt in the Bey's bridal chamber?”

When this came to the wife of the Bey,
She burst into tears, as she read:
And “Pity upon me!” she said,
“For I know not, alas! what to say.
If I speak truth, I put strife
'Twixt the brother I love and his wife;
If I speak false, much I dread
Lest my husband die for it,” she said.

Then the letter she laid in her breast,
And she ponder'd with many a sigh,
“I choose of two evils the least,
If my husband must die, let him die!
Since the choice lies 'twixt one or the other—
Any husband a woman may spare,
But the sister that injures a brother
Does that which she cannot repair.”

Thus shrewdly the matter she saw:
And she wrote to her sister-in-law:—

403

“Wife of my brother, the Bey!
My husband is well. May naught ail him!
And I trust I shall never bewail him.
To my brother on your marriage day
(And truly the truth shall be told)
I gave a white handkerchief, brightly
Embroider'd all over with gold,
And scented with rose and with amber
So sweet, that the scent (as you say,
And as I cannot doubt of it) nightly
May be smelt in the Bey's bridal chamber.”

X.DEGREES OF AFFECTION.

Up and down the Tchardak, underneath the blossom'd roof,
Musing, young Iövo, at midnoon, walkt all aloof.
Suddenly the Tchardak broke beneath him: slipping through
The rotten plank, he fell, and his right arm was snapt in two.
Straight, a leech he sought him. Evil leech, in truth, he found.
Save the mountain Vila, none had skill to heal the wound:
But the Vila claim'd in price of service, ere the cure began,

404

The right hand of the mother of the maim'd and mangled man;
The long hair of his sister with the riband in the hair;
And the white pearl necklace which his wife was wont to wear.
The mother gave her right hand, and the sister gave her curls;
But the wife refused her necklace . . . “I? I will not give my pearls!
Each is perfect, each is precious, nowhere else is such a set.
'Twas my dowry from my father, and I mean to wear it yet.”
This the Vila of the mountain heard; and, anger'd in her mood,
She dropt a little purple drop of poison in the food
Of young Iövo, and he died.

Then, for the murder'd man,
Those three women to lament, in funeral dole began.
One there was that, deeply mourning, evermore did grieve:
One that miss'd and mourn'd for him at morning and at eve:
One that mourn'd him now and then, with eyes a little dim,
And looks a little changed, whenever she remember'd him.
She whose sorrow ceased not, mourning more than any other,

405

Missing aye her murder'd son, was young Iövo's mother:
She that mourn'd at morning, and at evening mourn'd and miss'd her
Brother, when day came or went, was young Iövo's sister.
She that mourn'd him now and then, when sometimes in her life
Old memories fill'd vacant hours, was young Iövo's wife.

A sort of gallery or verandah, running round a house. Also, sometimes, a pavilion, summer-house, or granary.

Diminutive for Iovan or John.

XI.THE FAIR IKONIA.

The fair Ikonia boasted at the bath,
Gaily, amidst the matrons . . . “Tell me which
Amongst you, matrons, such a husband hath
As mine, Iövo Morniakovitch?
Where he goeth, there I go:
Where he resteth, there rest I:
Is he silent? then I know
That he names me silently:
Does he speak? of me he speaketh:
Does he dream? of me he dreameth:
Does he wake? for me he waketh:
Mine by night, when moonlight beameth!
Mine at dawn, when daylight breaketh!
First from dreams of me to wake,
That his kiss may ope my eyes:
‘Dear, the dawn begins to break,

406

Light of my life, arise! arise!’
Life is long, the journey through it
Lone and weary, others tell.
I shall never turn and miss him
From my side, and this is well.”
This the wily widow, Anna,
Heard, and slyly slipt away:
Then she clothed herself with splendour:
And she stood, in rich array,
Where, from the Bazar, Iövo
Came home, singing all the way:
Deckt her cheeks with painted roses,
Darker dyed her midnight hair,
Breathed the breath of perfumed posies,
Laid her bounteous bosom bare,
Stood like glory in the gateway,
Murmur'd, mild as evening air,

“Sad, Iövo, seems thy case,
Wedded to a barren wife;
If thou would'st not see thy race
Pass and perish, with thy life,
Wed with me, and I will bear thee
Every year a noble heir,
Every year a gracious infant,
With strong hands and golden hair.”
Long he listen'd: soft her voice was;
Long he lookt: her dark eyes glisten'd.

407

As the counsel, so the choice was.
All too long he lookt and listen'd.
Thus the wily widow, Anna,
Won Iövo then and there:
And each year a boy she bore him
With strong hands and golden hair.
Silent walk'd the fair Ikonia,
Making neither moan nor word,
Up the great Bazar walkt silent,
And she bought herself a cord:

In the garden square a golden
Orange-tree grows all alone,
There her silken cord she fasten'd,
And she hang'd herself thereon.

Came one running to Iövo,
“On thy golden orange-tree,
Fair Ikonia, dead, is hanging.”

“Hanging? Let her hang!” quoth he,
“I've a fairer far than she.”

The epithet “golden” generally implies “strength” in the Serb poetry. The words are literally “with golden hands,” &c.

XII.A WISH.

I would I were a rivulet,
And I know where I would run!
To Save, the chilly river,
Where the market boats pass on;
To see my dear one stand

408

By the rudder; and whether the rose
Which, at parting, I put in his hand,
Warm with a kiss in it, blows;
Whether it blows or withers:
I pluckt it on Saturday;
I gave it to him on Sunday;
On Monday he went away.

XIII.IMPERFECTION.

All in the spring,
When little birds sing,
And flowers do talk
From stalk to stalk;
Whispering to a silver shower,
A violet did boast to be
Of every flower the fairest flower
That blows by lawn or lea.
But a rose that blew thereby
Answer'd her reproachfully
(All in the spring,
When little birds sing,
And flowers do talk
From stalk to stalk):
“Violet, I marvel me
Of fairest flower by lawn or lea
The fairest thou should'st boast to be;
For one small defect I spy,
Should make thee speak more modestly:

409

Thy face is fashion'd tenderly,
But then it hangs awry.”

XIV.EMANCIPATION.

The Day of Saint George! and a girl pray'd thus:
“O Day of Saint George, when again to us
Thou returnest, and they carouse
Here in my mother's house,
May'st thou find me either a corpse or a bride,
Either buried or wed;
Rather married than dead;
But however that may betide,
And whether a corpse or a spouse,
No more in my mother's house.”

XV.THE VOICE OF NATURE; OR, WHAT THE FISH SAID TO THE MAIDEN.

By the sea a maiden is sitting,
And she says to herself at her knitting:

“O my heart! what more deep than the ocean,
Or more wide than the plain can be?
Or more swift than the horse in his motion?
Or more sweet than the food of the bee?
Or more dear than a brother?”

410

And a fish from the sea replies:

“O maiden, but a little wise!
The plain is less wide than the sea,
And the heaven more deep than this is;
Eyes swifter than horses be;
And honey less sweet than kisses;
And a lover more dear than all other.”

XVI.THE MALADY OF MOIO.

Moïo, the Tzarovitch (bolder is no man!)
Walkt to the Bath with the Turk lords one day:
Mahmoud the Pacha's white wife (and what woman
Is fairer than she is?) was walking away.
Even as the sun, o'er the ardours of even,
Looks on the moon, and the moon on the sun,
Wistfully, each, disunited in heaven,
Soon to be pacing far pathways alone,
So through the mist of a moment of ecstacy,
Thrilled with a rapture delicious and dim,
Mute on the pale Pachinitza the Tzarovitch
Gazed, and the pale Pachinitza on him.
Moïo walkt silently back to his palace:
Troubled his heart was, and changed was his mood.
Straightway he sicken'd of love, and lay dying,
Dying of love for the wife of Mahmoud.
Ladies the loveliest all came to visit him:
Only the wife of Mahmoud stay'd away.
Then the Sultana rose up and wrote to her—

411

“Wouldst thou be greater than all of us, say?
Moïo is lying upon his couch dying;
Sore is his sickness, and fatal they say:
Ladies the loveliest all come to visit him,
Thou, art thou more, Pachinitza, than they?”
She, when she heard of it, loopt up her white sleeve,
Loopt up her light robe as white as a star;
Presents she bore for him, worthy a monarch's son,
Figs from the sea-coast, and grapes from Mostar.
Lightly she trod o'er the long golden gallery,
Past all ungreeted the corridor dim,
Pale, the dumb purple pavilion she enter'd,
Where the Sultana was watching by him.
Softly she sat by his bed-side, and softly
Wiped from his forehead the fever, and said,
“This is a malady known to me surely!
Long did I watch, and long weep by the bed
Once where my brother lay moaning and mad of it,
Moaning and madden'd, unable to move;
Poison they said it was. I, too, have drunk of it.
This is the passionate poison of love.”
Trembling he listen'd, as trembling she utter'd it.
Lightly he leapt from the couch where he lay,
Fasten'd, behind her, the long golden gallery,
Laught as he sank on her soft lips, and they
Three white days, little heeding the daylight,
Three blue nights, little noting the moon,
Seal'd by sweet kisses in silent caresses,
Rested, while round them May melted to June.
Gaily the nightingale sang in the garden.
Love the bird sang of, and sweet was the tune.
Three white days, little loving the daylight,

412

Three blue nights, ill at rest 'neath the moon,
Mahmoud the Pacha walkt, mourning his miss'd one,
“Come, Pachinitza, come back to me soon!”
Sadly the nightingale sang in his garden.
Love the bird sang of, but harsh was the tune.
Then, when the fourth day was low in the orient,
Mahmoud the Pacha sat down in his hall;
There a white letter he wrote to the Sultan:
“Sultan Imperial, dear master of all!
There's a white dove, with a gold treasure casket,
Flown to thy doors from thy servant's abode.
Send back my white dove, restore me my treasure,
If thou hast fear of the justice of God.”
But to the Pacha the Sultan sent answer:
“Mahmoud, my servant, behoves thee to know
There's in my palace a falcon unhooded,
And what he hath taken he never lets go.”

XVII.A SERVIAN BEAUTY.

'Tis the Kolo that dances before the white house,
And 'tis Stoian's fair sister, O fair, fair is she!

413

Too fair she is truly, too fair heaven knows,
(God forgive her!) so cruel to be.
The fair Vila, whom the wan clouds fondly follow
O'er the mountain wherever she roam it,
Is not fairer nor whiter than she.
Her long soft eyelash is the wing of the swallow
When the dew of the dawn trembles from it,
And as dawn-stars her blue eyes to me;
Her eyebrows so dark are the slender sea-leeches;
Her rich-bloomèd cheeks are the ripe river peaches,
Her teeth are white pearls from the sea;
Her lips are two half-open'd roses;
And her breath the south wind, which discloses
The sweetness that soothes the wild bee.
She is tall as the larch, she is slender
As any green bough the birds move;
See her dance—'tis the peacock's full splendour!
Hear her talk—'tis the coo of the dove!
And, only but let her look tender—
'Tis all heaven melting down from above!

Kolo, signifying literally a wheel, is the generic term for all the Servian national dances; in most of which the dancers, either taking hands, or united each to each by a handkerchief tied round the waist or to the girdle, form a ring and advance or retreat to and from the centre to a monotonous music, either of the voice or some very simple wind instruments. Both sexes take part in these dances, which are frequently in the open air.

A strange, but very frequent, simile in Servian poetry.

XVIII.A DISCREET YOUNG WOMAN.

Militza has long soft eyelashes,
So darkly-dreaming droopt on either cheek,
You scarce can guess what little lightning flashes
From those deep eyes, beneath them beaming, break.
And her fair face, like a flower,

414

Has such drooping ways about it,
I have watcht her, many an hour,
Three full years (O never doubt it!),
And yet never have seen fairly
Eyes or face,—reveal'd so rarely!

Only just to rob one glance
From the happy grass beneath her
On the green where maidens dance
When the month makes merry weather,
I the Kolo call'd together,
Trusting to my happy chance.
While the dance grew sweeter, faster
(Bosoms heaving, tresses shaken),
Suddenly with dim disaster
All the sky was overtaken.
Rolling darkness drown'd the sunlight,
Rolling thunder drencht the valleys,
And in heaven was left but one light
From the lightning's livid sallies.

Like a necklace lightly shatter'd,
Shedding rubies, shedding pearls,
Here and there the Kolo scatter'd
All its bevy of bright girls.
Little, darling, timid creatures!
Each, with frighten'd flutter'd features,
Lifted up her pretty eyes
To the tempest growling o'er her;
But Militza, very wise,
Still kept looking straight before her.

415

Little voices, silvery, wild,
All at once, in fretful cadence,
Brake out chiding the sweet child.
“What, Militza!” cried the maidens,
“Those grass-grazing eyes, I wonder,
From the ground can nothing startle?
Hark, child! how it groans, the thunder!
See! the lightnings, how they dartle
Here and there by angry fits,
In and out the stormy weather!
Hast thou wholly lost thy wits,
Little fool? Or must we deem
Thou wouldst something wiser seem
Than the whole world put together?”

But Militza answers . . . “Neither
Have I lost my wits, nor grown
Wiser, maidens, I must own,
Than the whole world put together.
I am not the Vila white,
Who, amidst her mountain ranges,
Lifting looks of stormy light,
Through his fifty moody changes,
Woos the tempest's troubled sprite
Down the mountain melting o'er her—
I am not a Vila white,
But a girl that looks before her.”

416

XIX.BOLOZÀNOVITCH THE KNAVE.

Djoul, the Turk, on a morning in May,
When every bird is brilliant in feather,
And every flower in blossom is gay,
To celebrate sweetly the merry May weather,
From dawn to dusk, in dance and play,
Call'd a hundred matrons and maids together.
And the fairest maiden of all, that day,
Was the maid Bolozànovitch loved, they say.

He sought her all a summer noon,
And on to eventide;
He sought her under the summer moon,
Through all the country wide,
Till at nightfall he came, in the mist and murk,
To the lighted house of Djoul, the Turk.

“Djoul, Djoul with the raven hair!
Give me a shift of linen fair,
Such as thyself art wont to wear
On the day when the glad new moon is born;
Paint me the eyebrow with antimony;
These bronzèd cheeks with white and red
Colour; and comb me, and curl me the head;
Hang me over the shoulders free
Silken tresses two or three,

417

Such as by matron or maid are worn;
Bind me the brow with a golden braid,
And clothe me, anon, in the clothes of a maid
From head to foot, with many a fold
Of the milk-white tunic flowing and full;
And give me a distaff of gold
And a ball of Egyptian wool;
Then suffer me thus 'mid the maidens to move,
That I may speak to the maiden I love.”

Djoul, the Turk with the raven hair,
Laught as she listen'd, and granted his prayer.
She clothed him in clothes of a maid,
Comb'd him and curl'd him the hair,
Painted his dark face fair,
Over his long limbs laid
Many a milk-white fold
Of vesture flowing and full;
Then gave him a distaff of gold,
And a ball of Egyptian wool;
And when he was trickt, and pincht, and padded,
And painted, and plaster'd, to look like a lass,
Because he yet lookt like the knave that he was,
This good counsel she added:

“Bolozànovitch, knave, take note!
When anon, 'mid our women ye stand,
The old women take by the hand,
And kiss on their finger tips;
The young women kiss on the lips;
But for those that are maidens and girls,
You shall kiss them under the throat,
And over the collar of pearls.”

418

Bolozànovitch gladly (the knave!)
Gave heed to the counsel she gave,
And of all, as she bade him, took note.
The old women each on the finger tips
He kist, and the young women each on the lips,
And the maidens under the throat.

Maidenlike thus 'mid the maidens he moved,
Drooping the eyelid over the ground;
But when he came to the maiden he loved,
He made her a little red wound
Just in the soft white fold
Of her slender throat. Then she
Cried out to the women around,
“Strike! strike with your distaffs of gold,
The knave who has wounded me!
For this was not a woman. Behold,
'Tis the knave Bolozànovitch, he!

For Gul, the Turk word, meaning rose.

XX.THE WIFE OF HASSAN AGA.

What is it so white on the mountain green?
A flight of swans? or a fall of snow?
The swans would have flown, and the snow would have been

419

Melted away long ago.
It is neither snow-fall, nor yet swan-flight,
But the tent of Hassan Aga so white.
Sore was the wound which in battle he got,
His mother and sister (for these without blame
Might do as they listed) to visit him came;
But his wife, for the modest-minded shame
Of a matron chaste, could not.

Wherefore, when he had heal'd him his wound so sore,
Anger'd he said to his faithful spouse:
“Meet me no more, see me no more,
'Mid our children, within my white house.”
He frown'd and he rode away.
Silent with deep dismay.
The Turkish woman wept,
Bitterly wept at her husband's word,
Clothed herself with sorrow, and crept
Into her chamber, and cover'd her brows,
When the hoof of a horse was heard
At the door of the Aga's house.

The fair Aguinitza fled trembling away
To the window, to fling herself down in her fear:
Her two little daughters came running, and they
Cried, “Mother, come back, mother dear!
For it is not our father Hassan is here,
But our uncle Pintorovitch Bey.”

Back she turn'd, faltering she came,
Weeping she fell on the breast of her brother,

420

And . . . “O my brother,” . . . she cried . . . “the shame,
From her children to sever a mother!”

The Bey held silence, nor answer'd a word,
His smile was stern but his eyes were dim,
As he drew from his silken pouch, and laid
In the hands of his sister, the letter which said
That her dower to her should, in full, be restored,
And she should return to their mother with him.
When the fair Turk that letter had read,
Her children she call'd to her one by one,
She kist her two boys on the brow and cheek:
She kist her two girls on their lips' young red
But when to the little one, lying alone
In the little cradle, she came,
The little one smiled as he slept:
Her heart began to break
With an inward anguish of shame:
She could neither move nor speak:
She sat down by the cradle and wept.

Then her brother Pintorovitch Bey
Drew softly the cradle away,
Lifted her into the saddle behind,
Turn'd, as he mounted, and kist her,
And rode off to his house with his sister,
Over the hills, in the wind.

Not long in the house of her mother
She rested; not even a week.
Lovers, one after the other,

421

Came riding to sue and to seek:
For never more lovely a lady
Breath'd beauty to trouble the land,
And soon from Imoski the Kadi
Came gaily to ask for her hand.

“O spare me, O save me, my brother!
My poor heart in sunder is reft:
My poor eyes are full of old tears:
Let me not be the bride of another,
For the sake of my little ones left,
For the sake of the once happy years!”

But of all this full lightly he thought,
And he gave to the Kadi her hand:
Then sadly the Bey she besought,
And moaning she made her demand—
On a fair paper, pure white,
These words to Imaski to write:

“Fair greeting, in fair courtesy,
From her that hath been given to thee,
And courtesy to her prayer!
When the noble Svals assembled be,

422

And ye come in a noble company
From her white house to carry thy bride,
Bring ye a long white covering fair
To cover her eyes; that so, when ye ride
Beside the white house of the Aga, she
May see not the little ones there.”

When this letter was come to the Kadi's hand,
He assembled the noblest Svats of the land;
And they all in a noble company rode
To carry the bride from her white abode.
Gaily to seek her they started,
And with her they gaily departed.
But, when they were merrily riding before
The Aga's white house, from the window at once
Lookt her two little daughters; her two little sons
Came running to her from the door,
And . . . “Come back, mother dear, with us, come!
For dinner is waiting at home.”

Then, weeping, the twice-wedded spouse
To the bold Stari Svat, . . . “Dear, my brother in God,

423

For the dear love of God, pass not by this abode!
Let the horse wait here by the house;
That I, ere I see them no more,
(My dear ones, my little ones, see them no more!)
May speak, though it be but a while.”
And the horses stopt straightway, and stood by the door,
And she past through the door with a smile.
Gay gifts to her children she gave:
To both of her boys bold and brave
Golden jatagans rich, and to both
Of her girls a long tunic of cloth.
But when to the little one, lying alone
In the cradle, she came, she laid mournfully on
The small cradle a white orphan garment,
A little white garment, and sigh'd,
And turn'd from the cradle wild-eyed,
With looks of despairing endearment.

All of this Hassan Aga espied,
And he turn'd to his two sons, and cried,
“Little orphans, come here! come to me!
For pitiless, children, is she,
Your mother stone-hearted, the bride!”

Cruel, cruel and keen was the word!
Silent she listen'd and heard,
Heard the harsh words that he said.
To the black earth she bow'd her bright head:
She had not another reply,
Than to droop her white forehead, and die:
For the heart of the mother was broken in twain
For the love, and the loss, of her little ones ta'en.

This poem was translated by Goethe into German, in 1789, from an Italian translation published by the Abbé Fortis in 1774; and was thus first of these national songs and legends that ever passed from Servia into more civilized lands. Goethe's translation (Klaggesang von der edeln Fraun des Asan Aga) is unrhymed.

The wife of an Aga; as Pachinitza, wife of a Pacha.

The writing of divorce.

The Servian ceremonial of marriage is very peculiar. On the wedding day the bridegroom proceeds to the house of the bride, accompanied by the guests, of both sexes, who attend the marriage on his invitation; and who in this capacity (of guests or witnesses) are called Svats. He is supported by a Koum, or Best-man, a Stari Svat, or chief guest (the oldest and most honoured of the company), who attest the marriage, and a Dever (paranymph or groomsman), which latter personage may be a married man. These receive the bride from the hands of her parents, and are bound not to lose sight of her till she enters her new home. All participation in the nuptial ceremonial is interdicted by custom to the parents of the bride, who do not again behold their daughter until eight days after the marriage. A mother, indeed, cannot, compatibly with established usage, attend or be near her daughter in child-bed. By being groomsman or witness to a marriage, a relationship is contracted with the bride's family of a nature so close and so strict as to be deemed incompatible with marriage at any future period between the groomsman and any member of that family.

424

XXI.SLEEPLESSNESS.

Sleep will not take the place of Love,
Nor keep the place from Sorrow.
Oh, when the long nights slowly move
To meet a lonely morrow,
The burthen of the broken days,
The grief that on the bosom weighs,
And all the heart oppresses,
But lightly lies on restless eyes
Love seals no more with kisses.

XXII.NEGLECTED FLOWERS.

Little violet, drooping all alone, like my own
Drooping heart, I would pluck thee; but there's none, no, not one!
To whom I dare to give thee: so I leave thee, and pass on.
I would give thee gladly, gladly, if I dared, to Ali Bey;
But too proud (ah well-a-day!) is Ali Bey—so they say!
Proud he is! I do not dare. Would he care, he, to wear
Any flower that buds or blows? . . . save the rose, I suppose!
No! rest there, and despair! Live or die! Thou and I
Have no chance to catch one glance from his eye, passing by.

425

XXIII.PLUCKING A FLOWER.

He.
O maiden, vermeil rose!
Unplanted, unsown,
Blooming alone
As the wild-flower blows,
With a will of thine own!
Neither grafted nor grown,
Neither gather'd nor blown,
O maiden, O rose!
Blooming alone
In the green garden-close,
Unnoticed, unknown,
Unpropt, unsupported,
Unwater'd, unfed,
Unkist, and uncourted,
Unwoo'd, and unwed,
O sweet wild rose,
Who knows? Who knows?
Might I kiss thee, and court thee?
My kiss would not hurt thee!
O sweet, sweet rose,
In the green garden-close,
If a gate were undone,
And if I might come to thee,
And meet thee alone?
Sue thee, and woo thee,
And make thee my own?
Clasp thee, and cull thee,—what harm would be done?

426

She.
Beside thy field my garden blows.
Were a gate in the garden left open . . . who knows?
And I water'd my garden at eventide?
(Who knows?)
And if somebody silently happen'd to ride
That way? And a horse to the gate should be tied?
And if somebody (who knows who?), unespied,
Were to enter my garden to gather a rose?
Who knows? . . . I suppose
No harm need be done. My belovèd one,
Come lightly, come softly, at set of the sun!
Come, and caress me!
Kiss me, and press me!
Fold me, and hold me!
Kiss me with kisses that leave not a trace,
But set not the print of thy teeth on my face,
Or my mother will see it, and scold me.

XXIV.TRANSPLANTING A FLOWER.

O maiden, mother's golden treasure!
Purest gold of perfect pleasure!
Do they beat thee, and ill-treat thee,
That I meet thee all alone?
Do they beat thee, that I meet thee
All too often, all too late,
After nightfall, at the gate

427

Of the garden, all alone?
Tell me, tell me, little one,
Do they do it? If I knew it,
They should rue it! I would come
Oftener, later, yet again,
(Hail, or snow, or wind, or rain!)
Oftener, later! Nor in vain:
For if mother, for my sake,
Were to drive thee out of home,
Just three little steps 'twould take
(Think upon it, little one!)—
Just three little steps, or four,
To my door from mother's door.
Love is wise. I say no more.
Ponder on it, little one!

XXV.A MESSAGE.

Sweet sister of my loved, unloving one,
Kiss thy wild brother, kiss him tenderly!
Ask him what is it, witless, I have done
That he should look so coldly upon me?
Ah, well . . . I know he recks not! Let it be.
Yet say . . . “There's many a woodland nodding yet
For who needs wood when winter nights be cold.”
Say . . . “Love to give finds ever love to get.
There lack not goldsmiths where there lacks not gold.
The wood will claim the woodman by-and-by;
The gold (be sure!) the goldsmith cannot miss;

428

Each maid to win finds lads to woo: and I . . .”
Well, child, but only tell him, tell him this!
Sweet sister, tell him this!

XXVI.ISOLATION.

The night is very dark and very lonely:
And as dark, and all as lonely, is my heart:
And the sorrow that is in it night knows only:
For the dawn breaks, and my heart breaks. Far apart
From my old self seems my new self. And my mother
And my sister are in heaven,—so they say:
And the dear one dearer yet than any other
Is far, far away.
The sweet hour of his coming . . . night is falling!
The hour of our awakening . . . bird on bough!
The hour of last embraces . . . friends are calling
“Love, farewell!” . . . and every hour is silent now.

XXVII.A REGRET.

Lost empire of my maidenhood!
Could I be once more what I would,
Then what I am I would not be.
Ah well-a-day, and woe is me!
Could I a maiden be once more,
And unknow all that I have known,
And feel as I have felt of yore,
I would not change with any queen;
Not for sceptre, crown, or throne,

429

If I could be what I have been
Would I grow what I have grown.

Lost empire of my maidenhood!
Sweetest sweet! and chiefest good!
Now that thou art gone, I know,
Could I call thee back again!
How to keep thee. Even so!
Loss is all my gain!

Would that I were with the flocks
As of old among the rocks!
For the flocks do blithely bleat,
And the mountain airs blow sweet,
And the river runneth fleet,
Running to the happy sea:
But the glory of the river,
And the gladness of the flocks,
And the mirth among the rocks,
And the music on the wind
Ministrant to a merry mind,
These are joyous things, for ever
Dead, or fled, for me!

On the wind there moans for ever
One word only, which the river,
Murmuring, murmurs to the shore,
And the flocks, with chilly bleat,
Evermore that word repeat,
And that word is—Nevermore!
Nevermore, O never, never
Any more, by mount or river,

430

Shall I be as I have been,
A mountain maid, a virgin queen!

XXVIII.THE BAN OF VARADIN.

A wassailer in wildest ways,
But foul befall the churl who says
That what he drinks he never pays,
So mad a devil dwells within
The brain of Peter Doïtchin,
The burly Ban of Varadin!

Three hundred ducats in a day,
Good sooth, he swill'd them all away!
And, when he had no more to pay,
First his massy mace of gold,
Then this coal-black horse he sold.
“Fill up the can, keep out the cold,
And let the merry devil in,
Sweetheart!” laught Peter Doïtchin,
The burly Ban of Varadin!

Quoth King Mathias . . . “Burly Ban,
God curse thee for a brainless man,
Whose goods flow from him in the can!
Three hundred ducats in a day,
Thou hast swill'd them all away,
And, for lack of more to pay,
Thou thy massy mace of gold,

431

And thy coal-black war-steed bold,
For a sorry stoup hast sold.”

“King Mathias, cease thy prattle!
Brainless heads are hard in battle:
Fighting men make thirsty cattle.
Had'st thou the tavern drain'd with me,
The tavern wench upon thy knee,
(So sweet and sound a wench is she!)
Thou would'st have drunk up thy good town
Of Pesth, with Buda tower and down,
Camp, acropolis, court, and crown!”

Servian name for Petervardein, fortress in Hungary.

Probably Mathias Corvinus.

XXIX.FATIMA AND MEHMED.

Beneath a milk-white almond tree,
Fatima and Mehmed be.
The black earth is their bridal bed;
The thick-starrèd sky clear-spread
Is their coverlet all the night,
As they lie in each other's arms so white.
The grass is full of honey-dew;
The crescent moon, that glimmers through
The unrippled leaves, is faint and new:
And the milk-white almond blossoms
All night long fall on their bosoms.