University of Virginia Library

Of all the songs that have been sung,
Of all the tales that have been told,
One never wearies, young or old,
Nor has since this old world was young—
The tale, the song that celebrates
That fiery something in the breast
Which makes man do his worst and best,
And underlies his loves and hates,
The basis of the iron will
That is wrought up at once to kill,
Nor cares whose heart's blood it may spill.
Such strength is grand, no doubt, but still
There is a stronger and a better,
That strikes no blow and knows no fetter,
Yet makes its stubborn sinews bend,
And overcomes it in the end.
The strength of weakness, which above
The angels call the might of love,
And bow to with adoring awe,
As did the little Wratislaw.

Where now the Servian and the Turk,
Born foes, as slave and master are,
Are at their grim old murderous work,
Grappling in most unequal war,
Six hundred years ago, or more,
The land was wasted, as to-day,
Overrun, as when the shore gives way
And the wild waves devour the shore,
By Tartar tribes as wild as they,
The barbarous horde of Genghis Khan,
Who scourged mankind as never man
Before or since, as if he were
Hell-sent to pitch his dark pavilions
Upon the grave of slaughtered millions,
And make the earth a sepulchre!
Down from the steppes of Tartary
His countless thousands swept for years,
His long-haired horsemen with their spears,
His bowmen with their arrows keen;
Such pitiless fiends were never seen
Till then, and worst of all was he,
Destruction's self whose iron tread
Shook kingdoms: peaceful peoples lay
Secure before him in Cathay;
He passed that way and they were dead.
Across the swift, swollen winter rivers,
Across the hot, parched summer sands,
With bended bows and bristling quivers,
And spears and scymetars in their hands,
Rushed Tartar, Mongol, Turkoman,
To do the bidding of Genghis Khan,
Through Russia, Poland, down to where
Morava is; they halted there.
Before they came there was—if not
Perpetual peace, which nowhere reigns,
So darkly Nature shapes our ends—
There still were times when men forgot
They had been foes, and might be friends,
Having the same blood in their veins.
Princes and peoples prospered. Now—
How do we track the savage sea,
When its spent waves no longer roar,
But by their ravage of the shore
Whose once tall cliffs have ceased to be?
Such was the track of Genghis Khan,
Who from his boyhood overran
The lands, and made their rulers bow
To his imperious will, or whim,
As if the world belonged to him.
Temples and towers were trampled down,
Were pillaged, and were set on fire:
Pagoda, mosque, and Christian spire,
The great walled city, little town,
The herdsman's hut, the monarch's hall,
He pillaged and destroyed them all:
Nor stayed the hands of his rough horde
Who put their dwellers to the sword,
The soldier fighting on the wall,
The old, old man with snow-white hair,
Mothers with children at the breast,
Virgins—but let thy curtain fall,
Oblivion, and conceal the rest!
The work of death was never done,
For everywhere along their track
Were flights of vultures; everywhere
The wolves came trooping from their lair,
Came famished, and went glutted back.
The smoke of battle dimmed the sun,
And darkness like a funeral pall
Was on the ruins, all were black
Save when the embers smouldered red:
It was as if the Earth were dead,
And they heaped ashes on her head!
They halted in Morava. Nay,
They were defeated there and then,
By Slavic chiefs and Slavic men,
Warriors more desperate than they,
Whose spears and lances cleft their way
To where their horsemen were at bay,
And horse and rider rolled in dust,
And whose sharp swords with lightning thrust,
Ringing on helmet, armor, shield,
Pierced, clove, until they turned and fled,
And left them masters of the field
Piled with a hundred thousand dead!

This Sir Berka, valiant knight,
Though too old for combat now,
From his castle on the height
Saw, and hungered for the fight,
Saw, but with an anxious brow.
All that day and all the morrow
On his battlements he stood,
Now in joy, and now in sorrow,
Gazing on the distant wood,
In whose depths, like frightened deer,
He saw the Tartars disappear.
Sitting at the old man's side,
But no help to the old man,
Was Ludmilla, once his pride,
Wife of his first-born, his Jan,
Jan, who girt on his good sword,
And pursued the flying horde;
Who returned not with his train,
To the castle gates again,
And who was not with the slain!
She was gazing on his track,
And her heart was sore afeard,
For the Tartars disappeared,
And her husband came not back!
There was yet another one
Clinging to Sir Berka's side,
Wratislaw, his youngest son,
Who his sorrow strove to hide,
For some one must be brave, he saw,
And cheer his father, poor, old man,
Whose heart had gone out after Jan,
And had forgotten Wratislaw.
A piece of childhood, for, in sooth,
One might not call the lad a youth;
The suns of twelve short summers had shed
Their light upon his little head,
Upon the golden locks that shone
With greater glory than their own;
The flowers of twelve short springs had come
And looked upon him, like the sun,
And seen their loveliness outdone
By something in his pensive face:
Perhaps it was his winning grace,
Perhaps its might of martyrdom;
For there was that about the boy,
Young as he was, and slight of frame,
Which only tenderness could tame,
And only death destroy.
Such was the child, and such the fire
That in his fair, frail body burned,
As he beheld the wasted land;
He sighed, but wept not, for his sire
Hated the sight of tears; he turned
And shut them back, and kissed his hand.

There are seasons, hours of dread,
When something must be done or said;
Hearts bear much, but their tense chords
Must be touched, or they will break.
Nature then, for sorrow's sake,
Smites its silence into words.
The woman's heart was here the first
That into lamentation burst,
And thus the pale Ludmilla spake:
“Ah, my hero, ah, my Jan,
Dearest husband, princely man,
Woe to thy poor wife, to me,
Who have lost my sons with thee!
Woe to thy forefathers' land,
Whose bright star hath set with thine;
It hath now nor head nor hand,
The strongest is as weak as mine.
O, that we have lived to pray
As we must on this dark day,
For we cannot be comforted
But by the thought that thou art dead.
Bitter comfort, dreadful prayer,
Death to thee, to us despair!
But better so, if so it be,
Far better thou wert in thy grave
Than living captive and a slave:
But none can make a slave of thee;
Slaves die a thousand deaths a day,
Thou hast but one death, Jan, and I,
Thy childless widow, bid thee die,
And I will follow!” “Sister, nay,”
Said Wratislaw, and stole to her,
“There is a better Comforter.”

Sir Berka was the last to speak,
And bitter were the words he said,
And piteous were the tears he shed,
For tears would come, and all the same
When brushed away they came and came.
“What have I done, Lord, to arouse
Thine anger on our ancient house?
For thou art angry, sure, with me.
Why are its deep foundations shaken?
Why is its last strong pillar taken?
Why am I thus in age forsaken?
Lord God! what have I done to thee?
Behold me here, a broken man,
For they have taken my hero, Jan,
Who should my feeble hands sustain,
And plant my name and race again!
Calamities have fallen before
Upon my house, but not another
Like unto this, and nevermore
Can this befall, for none remain;
For what is she, and what am I?
A weeping woman, not a mother,
And an old man, soon to die!”

The young child, Wratislaw, till now
Had kept his tears back, inly grieved
To see his father so bereaved;
But now they gushed, and his pale brow
Flushed for his brother's childless wife
Who by his father's taunt was stung,
And for himself, for he, though young,
Would not be blotted out of life,
Even by his father's evil tongue.
So with a hurt, proud look he said,
“O father! wherefore dost thou say
That thy great stem is broken—dead,
Because one branch is torn away?
True, Jan is gone, but Jan lives still,
And Wratislaw is still with thee;
It is his duty now to be
What the brave Jan was, and to fill,
Till he returns, his vacant place,
And so uphold the name and race.”
Sir Berka answered not, but smiled,
A smile that was not good to see,
Then, turning to his daughter, he:
“The spirit of his ancestry
Flames up a moment in the child,
Crackles in words, but words are wild,
For deeds, not words, are wanted now.
To think this weakling sprung from me,
This slip from our ancestral tree!
He has his mother's eye and face,
And he repeats her saintly race,
Not mine, by Heaven! his woman's hand
Will never bear the battle brand,
It may the censer; he shall be
A servant in some pious place,
And pray for me with shaven brow;
And if I live—but I shall die,
He shall prepare me for the sky!”
The child a moment crouching low,
For every word had been a blow
That smote his heart, started at length,
And rose up in his boyish strength:
“My lord and father, we are taught,
By holy men in Holy Writ,
The boasted strength of man is naught,
Unless the Lord sustaineth it.”
“Peace! I have heard the words before,
And I will hear the words no more;
They will not rescue my poor Jan
From the claw of Genghis Khan!”
Sadly, but proudly, Wratislaw,
Whose courage in his clear blue eye
Shot like a falcon through the sky,
Answered, but with a voice of awe,
“God's ways are not the ways of man,
For when He wills the weak are strong:
And, father, thou hast done me wrong;
But thou my face no more shall see,
For, though the sword I cannot draw,
I will go find my brother Jan.
Farewell; he will return with me.”

Before Sir Berka could reply
The boy had gone, but none knew where,
Had vanished, like a flying hare
That in an instant flashes by.
They sought him here, they sought him there,
They rode, they ran, like hounds in cry,
But nowhere found a trace of him;
For how he vanished no man saw,
So swift the steed, and strong of limb—
If steed he saddled for the flight
That swept him from his father's sight.
Sir Berka was a woeful man;
Before he had but lost his Jan,
Now he had lost his Wratislaw!
He cursed his wild, unpitying mood,
He cursed his dark and savage heart
That now against itself took part,
Because too late it understood
How dear the boy was, and how good.
He loved him now, if not before,
But he had always loved him, yes,
And hungered for his fond caress,
And now he loved him more and more.
Sir Berka was an altered man,
Whether he sat within his hall,
Or wandered slowly round his lands;
His wrinkled features grew more wan,
More white his hair that used to fall
So darkly down his shoulders; all
The man was shaken, most his hands,
That scarce could carve his meat, and raise
The wine cup to his withered lips;
He had no hope of better days,
A strong soul setting in eclipse.
Darkly Sir Berka's days were spent,
Darkly the seasons came and went;
Whether the flowers of spring were growing,
Whether the summer fruits were glowing,
Whether the autumn winds were blowing,
Whether the winter sky was snowing,
He knew not, cared not; all he saw
Was nothing to this lonely man,
Since tidings there were none of Jan,
And none of Wratislaw!
He had but one strong hold of life,
That poor, weak, fading, childless wife,
Whose pardon twenty times a day
He begged, whose dear head he caressed,
And closely to his bosom pressed,
Lest she, too, should be torn away.

One day, as thus disconsolate
Sir Berka sat within his hall,
A stranger rode up to the wall,
And halted at the castle gate:
A stalwart figure came in sight,
Of whom, if one but marked his height,
The noble carriage of his head,
He would—he must at once have said,
The stranger is a valiant knight.
He looked at first a Christian man,
But one who journeyed from afar,
And Christian armor surely wore,
But closer like a Tartar khan,
For he was dark or tanned, and bore,
As the khans did, a scymetar.
He strode—he seemed to know the way—
Straight through the castle to the door
That opened in Sir Berka's hall;
He strode between him and the day
That smote his shadow on the floor,
Weaponed, and broad, and tall.
He kneeled down at the old man's chair,
And at his childless daughter's feet,
Whose startled heart did strangely beat,
As if a ghost were there!
“Who is this kneeling, silent man?”
“O father, it is Jan!”
Who will may paint this, or may try,
I will go on, and tell the rest;
The secrets of the human breast
Are not for every curious eye.
Pass over, then, the shock of meeting,
Sir Berka's and Ludmilla's greeting,
And see the son and husband seated
Between his father and his wife,
Holding a hand in each hard palm,
Erect, and resolute, and calm.
They asked the story of his life
Since that destructive, glorious hour
That broke the dreaded Tartar's power.
This is the story he repeated;
“You stood upon the battlement
That day and watched the way I went;
You saw a portion of the fight;
The Tartars fled, and we pursued
Pell-mell behind the multitude,
And harried their disastrous flight.
They fled like hares, in such dismay
That had we numbered man for man
There would not be a Tartar clan
Upon the earth to-day!
But one fled not, but stood at bay,
With ten or twelve brave fellows more,
All horsemen; by the garb he wore
He should have been a khan.
He rode at me, and I at him,
We fought like men who fight to die,
Not careless, though, of life or limb,
But with a wary eye.
I smote his helmet off, and might
Have cloven his Tartar skull in twain,
But when I saw his hair was white,
I could not strike him,—wrong, perchance,
But I would do the like again.
He smiled, and shot a lightning glance
Full in my face, but never stirred;
He waved his hand without a word,
And in an instant I was bound,
Tied hand and foot upon my horse,
And borne, as all were borne along,
For now the panic was so strong
That nothing could withstand its force.
It was not long before I found
That old, bare-headed, white-haired man
I should have slain was Genghis Khan!
At first I knew the way they fled,
The woods they pierced, the streams they crossed,
The mountain passes and defiles;
But when one flees a thousand miles,
And sees strange starlight overhead,
The knowledge of his path is lost.
I only knew, or cared to know,
That they were driven back, and back,
That they were harried on their track,
That thousands perished in the snow;
I thanked the Lord God it was so!
I suffered somewhat, but you see
It did not make an end of me,
For, father, here I am with thee,
With thee, Ludmilla.” Neither spake,
For fear, perhaps, their tears would break,
Their full hearts overflow.
“At last we reached the Tartar land,
The kingdom that is Genghis Khan's,
The remnant of a thousand clans,
But still a mighty band.
Pass lightly over them and him,
For they were sullen, he was grim,
And had a hasty hand.
Pass lightly over what came next,
As over a dream that long perplexed
The short hours of the night, and fled,
And left the morning in its stead,
And me—not as it threatened, dead,
But living, as I am to-day.
For God the Lord is strong to save
The hearts that trust him; only say
That I was there a slave.
You know what that is, you have seen
Those who have Tartar captives been,
But never one, I think, like me;
Or so, at least, thought Genghis Khan.
Dark man! he knew enough of man
To know that I was free,
And would be, though in chains, until
Death or deliverance came; his will
Was met and matched by mine; so he—
He went his way, and I went mine.
He never saw me peak and pine,
Nor heard me sigh for rest.
I thought to fill a Tartar grave
Were better than to live—a slave,
But God knew better, He knew best.
I was not wholly downcast; I
Believed the day and hour would come
(May Heaven forgive me if I lie!)
When I should rise, and journey home
And be with you—I was in heart;
There was no day, there was no hour
But I was here; no earthly power
Could keep our souls apart!
I saw you as I see you now,
With fewer furrows on your brow,
Father; and you, Ludmilla, saw,
And my young brother, Wratislaw,
His frank blue eyes, his yellow hair,
There never was a child so fair!
I think we never understood
How brave he was, as brave as good.”
Sir Berka groaned, Ludmilla sighed;
But Jan went on, with tender pride:
“I loved the boy; my own dear son—
If God had pleased to send me one—
Could not have dearer been than he,
The flower of all our family!
Night after night I dreamed of him,
Bright dreams that did till morning last;
At length they lessened and were dim,
At last they vanished in the past.
Then suddenly I was aware,
Still in my dreams that sadder grew,
That something, some one followed me,
Some one did day and night pursue;
It might be beast, it might be man,
The face, the form I could not see,
Nor knew I when it was, or where:
And once my name was shouted, ‘Jan!’
This happened many moons ago,
When mountain sides were white with snow,
And I was slave to Genghis Khan.
One day he summoned me; I went,
And found him in his battle tent,
Girt round by bowmen; there I saw—
Great God!—my brother Wratislaw!
The grim, old king looked up and smiled.
‘Come here, my slave, beside this child;
Behold how pale he is, how weak,
His wasted form, his sunken cheek;
He says he is your brother, says
He comes to get your freedom,—he
Who sees the end of all his days
Is nigh, death waiting, comes to me,
Offers himself to be my slave,
If I will set you free.
Slavonian, speak, I know you brave.
Would you advise this less than man
(Support him, for he faints you see,)
To be the slave of Genghis Khan?’
My brother proudly raised his head,
And with a flashing eye he said,
‘Look not upon my wasted frame,
For thine will one day be the same,
But think, remember how I came,
Over mountain, over plain,
Where thy flying clans were slain,
Where unburied they remain;
From far Morava to thy throne
I came, but did not come alone,
For God was with me, led my hand,
Guided the feet that bore me here,
Through Poland, Russia, Tartar land;
Six moons of travel for a man,
Through ways a man might fear.
Now listen, therefore, Genghis Khan,
For God speaks through me and to thee:
Thou art to set my brother free,
I am to be thy slave!
The youngest I, the oldest he;
A man with one foot in the grave
Our father, with no son but Jan,
My brother, who is wed to one
That loves him, but has borne no son;
He must return, and I remain.
But hear, O Genghis Khan, again,
If thou refuse, what will be done:
Thou hast seven sons, and all men say
That they are what thy sons should be;
But thou shalt see them fade away
In seven short months, and from to-day,
But not if Jan is free.’
Seven long, dark days of dread suspense,
Days, ages that would not depart,
Interminable and intense,
That almost broke my heart—
I could not suffer more—
Then I was summoned, as before,
By Genghis Khan, who thus began:
‘Slavonian, I have sent for you,
For you have done what few have dared,
Fought hand to hand with Genghis Khan,
Who, when he sees him, knows a man,
And, fighting, knows if he is brave;
It was for this your life was spared,
And you were made a slave.
I have subdued, and can subdue.
It suits me now to set you free,
Not for yourself, but for your brother,
For I have never seen another
That was as brave as he.
I have seven brothers, but not one
Would do for me what he has done;
I have seven sons, but not a son
Would do the same for me:
I would not do it for any man,
And not for God—if God there be—
For I am Genghis Khan!
But for that boy, that tender bird
That from his nest should not have stirred,
Too stout of heart, too weak of wing,
Methinks I would do anything.
Take him, and go. Through all my land
I have sent word that you are free;
Return to peace and happiness;
Depart, and think no more of me!’
I knelt and kissed—I could no less—
His world-dividing hand.”
“And Wratislaw?” “But you shall hear.
They brought me armor, mine, you see,
And that great helmet shagged with hair,
And from his own side Genghis Khan
Took off the scymetar I wear;
They girt it on me—I was free!
Two steeds were brought me to pursue
My long, long journey back to you.
I rode, for all the ways were clear,
I rode and rode, as if for life,
And here I am, the same old Jan.”
“But Wratislaw?” He rose up then,
And led his father and his wife
Straight to the casement, whence they saw
In the court-yard two Tartar steeds,
And his squire holding them: like reeds
They trembled, for two serving-men
Bore something forward—Wratislaw?
No, no, it was not he they bore
With slow steps through the castle gate,
And up the stairs, and in the hall.
It was a strong box, that was all,
Studded with knobs and bands of gold;
And it was heavy, too, to hold,
The bearers drooped beneath the weight;
An oaken chest, wherein of old
Brave Genghis Khan his treasure stored,
The crowns he had conquered with his great sword,
A treasure chest, no more.
Jan put his hand within his breast,
And then took out a curious key,
And, kneeling down where they could see,
Unlocked the treasure chest.
Yes, it was Wratislaw! He died
The day he found his brother Jan,
Died then, and almost at his side.
Struck with his greatness, Genghis Khan,
Whose stormy soul for once was calmed,
Had the dear body then embalmed.
It was his body that they saw,
The treasure there was Wratislaw!
They stood and looked at one another,
Like men whose days are nearly done:
“I thank thee, God, for such a brother!”
“I thank thee, God, for such a son!”
How beautiful he was! The child
Was lovelier than in life: his face
Had caught a more than earthly grace;
It was as if an angel smiled,
But a strong angel, one whose might
Was manifested there in light,
To which the light of day was dim.
Yes, it was Wratislaw who slept.
In the rich chest of Genghis Khan.
His promise had been kept,
For he had found his brother Jan,
And Jan had now returned with him.