Orval, or The Fool of Time And Other Imitations and Paraphrases. By Robert Lytton |
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| THE BATTLE OF KOSSOVO. |
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 | Orval, or The Fool of Time |  |
365
THE BATTLE OF KOSSOVO.
I.
The Sultan Murad o'er Kossovo comes
With banners and drums.
With banners and drums.
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.
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.”
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
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.
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:—
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,
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.”
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.”
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.
(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.
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?
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;
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.
“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
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.”
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
A solemn vow upon Holy Rood,
To bring him the head of the Turkish Tzar,
And set my feet in his infidel blood.”
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
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.”
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,
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.’”
(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
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.
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.
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.
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,
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;
And, since to thee I fill it up,
Take thou too this golden cup,
And add it to ill-gotten wealth—
Milosch, thy health!”
“If first to age, this health should be,
372
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
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,
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.”
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
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
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:—
375
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
To swear by when the rest be gone!”
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
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,
And turn about from the battle-field,
In our white palace with thee to rest.”
“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
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;
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.
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
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.”
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,
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.
“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
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,
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.”
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
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,
With my kinsmen all to fight and fall,
With our foreheads against the foe.”
“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 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.
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
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
I meet thee, if I be not slain,
Howbeit, I deem my doom at hand,
For the Turk is lord of half the land.”
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
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.
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.
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
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?”
And the rain was raining heavily
383
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?”
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;
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.
“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
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 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;
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?”
“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
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:
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.
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!
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
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.
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.
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.
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
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
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.
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!
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.”
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
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.”
| Orval, or The Fool of Time | |