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

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

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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,

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