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their contents makes them desirable always and 
 ! everywhere. The series includes 
 
 1 STORIES, ESSAYS, SKETCHES, AND POEMS 
 
 ! 
 
 SELECTED FROM THE WRITINGS OF 
 
 Emerson, 
 
 
 Tennyson, 
 
 Longfellow, 
 
 
 Lowell, 
 
 Whittier, 
 
 
 Holmes, 
 
 Hawthorne, 
 
 
 Browning, 
 
 Carlyle, 
 
 
 Macaulay, 
 
 Aldrich, 
 
 
 Milton, 
 
 Hood, 
 
 
 Campbell, 
 
 Gray, 
 
 
 Owen Meredith 
 
 Aytoun, 
 
 Thomson 
 
 Pope, 
 
 AND OTHERS OF EQUAL FAME. 
 
 The volumes are beautifully printed, many of them 
 illustrated, and bound in flexible cloth covers, at a 
 uniform price of 
 
 FIFTY CENTS EACH. 
 
 JAMES R. OSGOOD & CO., 
 
 Publishers, Boston. 
 
National Songs of Servia. 
 
 TBANSLATED BV 
 
 OWEN MEREDITH. 
 
 Omne meum : nihil meum. 
 
 BOSTON: 
 JAMES It. OSGOOD AND COMPANY, 
 
 Late Ticknor and Fields, and Fields, Osgood, & Co. 
 
 1877. 
 

 m T out 
 
 W. L. Sbo6m»k»r 
 II « 'Oo 
 
INTKODUCTION. 
 
 |~1N the following Poems no attempt lias been 
 made at accurate verbal translation from 
 the original language. They cannot, in- 
 deed, be called translations in the strict sense of the 
 word. "What they are, let the reader decide. What 
 they are meant to be, is nothing more than a rude 
 medium through which to convey to other minds 
 something of the impression made upon my own by 
 the poetry of a people amongst whom literature is 
 yet unborn ; who in the nineteenth ceutury retain, 
 with the traditions, many also of the habits and 
 customs, of a barbarous age ; and whose social life 
 represents the struggle of centuries to maintain, 
 under the code of Mahomet, the creed of Christ. It 
 is indeed this strange intermixture of Mahometan 
 with Christian association which gives to the poetry 
 of the Serbs its most striking characteristic. It is 
 the sword of a Crusader in the scabbard of a Turk. 
 That, however, which maiuly distinguishes this 
 
4 INTRODUCTION". 
 
 from all other contemporary poetry with which I 
 am acquainted, is the evidence borne on the face of 
 it of an origin, not in the heads of a few, hut in the 
 hearts of all. This is a poetry of which the People 
 is the Poet. The " People," not as representing, in 
 contradistinction to all other constituent parts of a 
 community, that class which lies broadly at the ba- 
 sis of a civilization culminating through many social 
 ranks and orders in a high degree of refinement, but 
 " the People," as expressive of one great nationality, 
 which, however geographically subdivided, is yet in 
 that rude and elementary social condition which con- 
 sists but of a single class, and admits but one aspect 
 of life, one mode of thought, one series of sensations, 
 one train of association. And as is the people, so is 
 the poetry. It is inferior to the poetry of the Per- 
 sians inasmuch as it is less intellectual, has less fancy, 
 Lss wisdom, less art. It is destitute of whatever 
 indicates individual thought or personal observation 
 of life. It has nothing of the graceful fancy which 
 glitters through the Gulistan, and never rises to 
 such sweet and noble tones as those which render 
 harmonious some portions of the Shah Nam eh. 
 Here we shall find no trace of that gracious chivalry 
 which Ferdausi, perhaps, bequeathed to Ariosto, and 
 assuredly none of that shrewd and somewhat sad 
 experience of mankind which followed, among the 
 roses of his immoital Garden, Sadi, "the wanderer 
 oi the woild." But such merits are perhaps incom- 
 
INTRODUCTION. O 
 
 patible with the poetry in what, of the Serbs, is 
 most remarkable, — I mean, that spontaneity and 
 unity, that evidence of collective inspiration, which 
 has never survived the childhood of a people. Such 
 floAvers as grow here may be merely mountain 
 weeds, but the dew of the morning is on them. 
 
 There is a period in the early life of every people, 
 before man has been divided into men, when the 
 many are still tbe one. Special and particular 
 sources of interest are as yet neither sought nor dis- 
 covered. Popular sympathy exists only for subjects 
 of general history or universal experience ; and in 
 regard to these all men feel the same feeling and 
 think the same thought. The individual mind lies 
 yet unformed in the matrix of the general life, and 
 the only individual is the Race. Even the gods be- 
 long to it. Whoever, then, is the first to speak 
 aloud has the advantage of speaking for all. He 
 expresses not only his own, but every man's sensa- 
 tions and experience. It follows that there is be- 
 tween the fact and the word a directness, closeness, 
 and simplicity of connection which cannot after- 
 wards be realized. For, of all things in nature, tli3 
 first description is likely to be the best, because ifc 
 is the most obvious, and therefore the most gen- 
 erally true. The earth is black, the grass is green, 
 the heaven is high, the sea is deep. To say more 
 about them is, in reality, to say less of them. For, 
 as we cannot extend or vary the Universal, every 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 word added to that which expresses the permanent 
 and general quality of a- thing can only relate to 
 what is partial and particular, and, therefore, less 
 valuable, lint so inherent to the thing spoken of 
 fs the attribute first selected to qualify it, that by 
 the process of universal usage the epithet is soon 
 absorbed back into the noun. The words "deep 
 sea" and "black earth" imperceptibly cease to ex- 
 press anything more than "the sea" and "the 
 earth"; and the modern poet, in order to refresh 
 the sense of perception, is constrained to designate 
 these things anew by some epithet which, in pro- 
 portion as it is original, expresses only a limited 
 and special experience. It is this primitive univer- 
 sality which gives to the poetry of the Serbs its 
 freshness and its force. Adopting a word now gen- 
 erally admitted into our vocabulary from the Ger- 
 man, I would describe it as especially " objective." 
 The smallest Servian song is therefore rather dra- 
 matic than lyrical. For the lyrical poet necessarily 
 expresses a subjective state of mind, and the shallow 
 critic who accuses him of egotism is simply accusing 
 him of being a lyric poet. 
 
 It is so impossible to separate the Servian poetry 
 from the Servian people, and so difficult to form 
 any judgment of the former without reference to the 
 latter, that I entreat the reader's sufferance to say 
 a few words about the Serbs, preliminary to his 
 perusal of this attempted reproduction of some of 
 
INTRODUCTION. 7 
 
 their songs. Those who edit other men's poems 
 are wont to affix to the poetry an introductory no- 
 tice of the author. I claim a very brief use of this 
 privilege ; for the Servian people is the author of 
 the Servian poetry. 
 
 This people, a branch of the old Slavonic family, 
 descended in the seventh century from the Krapak 
 mountains, and established themselves, under per- 
 mission of the Emperor Heracleus, in Mesia Supe- 
 riora. Until 923, Servia formed a small state, with 
 its kings and history but little known. At that 
 epoch it was conquered by the Bulgarians, and soon 
 passed, with them, under the dominion of the Greek 
 emperors. In the twelfth century the Serbs, tak- 
 ing advantage of the weakness of the Lower Empire, 
 rendered themselves independent under Tchoudomil, 
 and founded an empire which, in the fourteenth 
 century, became very powerful under Douchan the 
 Magnanimous, who assumed the title of tzar or em- 
 peror. 
 
 This empire included a portion of Thrace and 
 Macedonia, and many towns in Thessaly and Alba- 
 nia. Under the reign of Ouroch the First the power 
 of it declined; and at the battle of Kossovo (15th 
 June, 1389), Lazarus, the last Servian Knes, was 
 destroyed, with his army, by the Sultan Amurath 
 the First. After this fatal day Servia ceased to be 
 a nation. The name of it was effaced from the 
 map of Europe, and the country portioned out into 
 
5 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 various paehaliks, of which the principal was that 
 of Belgrade, then called the Sandgaciat of Semen- 
 dria. From this epoch the Serbs remained for four 
 hundred years victims of an oppression so unspeak- 
 ably bitter that it would be difficult to convey to 
 the mind of a modern European any idea of the 
 intolerable nature of it. Thus subjected to a domi- 
 nation brutal and sanguinary in the extreme, at a 
 period when, throughout Europe, arts, letters, and 
 commerce were on the decline, the people soon lost 
 every vestige of an imperfect civilization. From 
 discouragement they sunk into degradation, — the 
 degradation of a people which has ceased to hope. 
 To escape as much as might be from the sight of 
 their oppressors, they abandoned their towns, and 
 dwelt concealed among the woods and mountains, 
 where they bred and tended swine. 
 
 At this day the results of prolonged oppression 
 are unhappily to be traced throughout Servia in all 
 that debases the character and contracts the self- 
 development of a people. That universal worship 
 of the lie which is the creed of the slave, that pre- 
 disposition to frantic ferocity which is the reaction 
 from suppressed and impotent hatred — insincerity 
 and servility, cunning and cruelty — these are at 
 once the defects of the Servian character and the 
 results of the Turkish rule. The demoralization of 
 the people is sadly to be seen in their poetry. It 
 extols, as a public virtue, treachery to the public foe, 
 
INTRODUCTION. V 
 
 mistakes trickery for strategy, falsehood for finesse, 
 cruelty for valor, and admits into the character of a 
 hero every vice save' that of physical cowardice. 
 
 In the war declared by Josef II. against the 
 Porte, the Serbs took arms with the Austrians. 
 Accustomed, during that brief period, to the enjoy- 
 ment of comparative independence, they resolved, 
 after the peace of Sistov, not lightly to part with the 
 blessing of it. About a tenth part of the population 
 withdrew armed, in little bauds, into their forests 
 and mountains. These little armed companies, 
 leading amongst their natural mountain fastnesses a 
 marauding migratory life, partly of a predatory, 
 partly of a political character, called themselves 
 Haidouks, or Bandits, and form a social phenome- 
 non not very dissimilar to that represented by the 
 banditti of Marco Sciarra in the forests around me- 
 diaeval Rome. It is but a very few years since the 
 Haidouk has ceased to be a prominent social feature 
 in Servia. He is a principal personage in the poe- 
 try of the people, and Monsieur Dozon, to whose 
 able and interesting little work upon the poetry of 
 the Serbs I am largely indebted,* relates that he 
 
 * Those who may feel interested to know more of the he- 
 roic pesmas, will find in this work a faithful though slightly 
 abbreviated prose translation of them, together with an ex- 
 cellent criticism on the poetry of the Serbs, from which I 
 have herein adopted many statements entirely confirmed by 
 my own experience in the country. 
 
10 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 was informed by a late Minister of the Interior in 
 Servia, that in certain portions of the principality 
 it had been found necessary to prohibit the recita- 
 tion of the popular songs about the Haidouks, as 
 numbers of those who listened to them had been 
 incited to adopt the lawless life therein described. 
 
 The revolt of the Serbs under Kara-George (or 
 Black George), and the disastrous result of it, are 
 well known. It was reserved for the present Prince 
 of Servia, Milosch Obrenovitch, to achieve the ad- 
 ministrative independence of the Principality.* 
 
 The Servian Pesmas, which are the work of cen- 
 turies, and which, more than anything else perhaps, 
 have served to keep alive in the people the sentiment 
 of nationality, and to unite in a common animosity 
 to the Turk all the kindred branches of the great 
 Slave race in the East, may, all of them, be said 
 to be lyrical, in so far as they are all of them made 
 to be sung or recited to the gousle, a rude musical 
 instrument, with a single string, played on by a 
 bow. But I have already observed that none of 
 them possess those qualities which belong to what 
 we now call lyric poetry. They may be classified 
 under two heads, — the heroic pesmas, relating to 
 
 * Since these words were written, that extraordinary man 
 has terminated a life perhaps unparalleled both in the dura- 
 tion and the activity of it. He is succeeded by his son, 
 Prince Michael. 
 
INTRODUCTION. 1 1 
 
 historical events and characters ; and the domestic, 
 or songs sung by the women, of an erotic or fan- 
 tastic character. Of the former, I have given hut 
 a single specimen : that which relates to the battle 
 of Kossovo, an event which was to the Serbs what 
 the battle of Ceuta was to the Spaniards, of Hastings 
 to the Saxons, and of Mohacs to the Magyars ; for 
 I must avow that the greater number of these heroic 
 pesmas abound in the description of atrocities which 
 would be sickening to an English reader. They 
 are, however (some of them), so deeply tinctured 
 with a kind of terror unlike that suggested by any 
 poetry which is known to me, that I greatly regret 
 having been unable to reproduce them in some form 
 which, whilst excluding revolting details, might 
 have still preserved the inspiration of terror. 
 
 It is bat a very few years since the poetry of the 
 Serbs was first reduced to writing. I believe that 
 M. Vouk Stefanovitch Karadjitch was the first to 
 rescue these pesmas from that state of oral tradition 
 in which they had existed for ages. Like the Greek 
 rhapsodies, they are composed and sung about the 
 land, from village to village, by blind beggars. The 
 poets of Servia are the blind ; and surely there is 
 something touching in this common consecration of 
 the imaginary world as an hereditary possession to 
 those from whose sense this visible world is dark- 
 ened. The traveller, or the huntsman reposing from 
 the chase, in some wild wayside mehana or tavern 
 
12 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 (a mere mud-cabin on the windy mountain-side, and 
 generally near a mountain spring), as, followed by 
 his dogs, he seats himself upon the bench by the 
 ingle, may yet see, amid a group of eager, weather- 
 beaten faces, the blind bard with his hollow wooden 
 goasle, covered with sheepskin, and traversed by a 
 single string. This instrument is placed upon the 
 knee, and played like a violoncello. First a series 
 of long wailing notes commands the attention of 
 the audience ; then a pause, through which you 
 hear the harsh grating of the gousle string ; and 
 then forth roll the long monotonous verses of the 
 pesma, of which Marko Kralievitch is probably the 
 hero ; a sort of burly brawling Viking of the land, 
 with just a touch in his composition of Roland and 
 the Cid, but with much more about him of Gargan- 
 tua. 
 
 I have already noticed the primitive simplicity of 
 the Servian Pesmas. Amongst other causes, two 
 chiefly have no doubt combined to preserve this in 
 its original purity, — one, the mountain life, and the 
 social isolation which has for centuries withdrawn 
 the Serbs from the influence of any foreign history, 
 religion, or mythology ;* and the other, the fact 
 
 * It is indeed singular that, considering the relations once 
 existing between Montenegro and the Republics of Venice 
 and Ragusa, the national poetry of these mountaineers should 
 have been so little influenced from abroad. 
 
INTRODUCTION. 1 3 
 
 that tLe Turk, uniike European conquerors, has ever 
 contented himself with superimposing on the con- 
 quered the authority of Islam, without any attempt 
 to assimilate to himself the annexed population, 
 either as regards language or legislation. 
 
 Another fact remains to be noticed in connection 
 with the poetry of the Serbs. This is the almost 
 entire absence of the mythic element. Nothing 
 like the mysticism of the early Teutonic literature, 
 the fairy fantasies of the Persian, or the weird cos- 
 mogony of the Scandinavian Eddas, is to be found 
 in these pesmas. This, I suppose, must be attrib- 
 uted to the character of the Slavonic race. Neither 
 is any trace to be found in their poetry of super- 
 stitions which are to this day dominant amongst 
 the people themselves, such as the vampire and the 
 witch. One striking exceptioti, however, to this 
 general rejection of the mystical exists in the fre- 
 quent introduction of the vila as a supernatural 
 agent. Here is, perhaps, the fragment of an un- 
 conjectured myth. These strange and solemn beings, 
 whose vague and varying forms have not yet been 
 defined, even by the imagination, — rarely seen, 
 but, often making heard, from the mountain and the 
 wild, their voice of prophecy and of warning, — 
 menacing and sometimes deadly to man when he 
 invades their mighty solitudes, yet gifted with be- 
 neficent powers and healing arts, are they not, per- 
 haps, symbols of forces, at once terrible and salutary 
 
14 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 in Nature, apparitions of her power, and echoes of 
 her awful voice ? 
 
 Of the domestic pesmas I have given many speci- 
 mens, and yet barely enough to indicate their vast 
 variety. The sentiment of love as expressed in 
 these songs is not (it will be remarked) that tender 
 metaphysical motion of the soul which belougs to 
 the North, and is perhaps the growth of a high civ- 
 ilization. It is rather a fierce, quick, meridional 
 passion, the eager, iustinctive, mi place of the South, 
 sensual but natural, and not without grace and deli- 
 cacy. 
 
 What is most remarkable in these songs is their 
 essentially dramatic character. Either they repre- 
 sent, in short close dialogue, a particular "situation," 
 or they treat a particular phase of a particular sen- 
 timent or passion; or else they relate in rapid 
 narrative a particular event, commencing, without 
 preamble, where the action commences, and termi- 
 nating, without reflection or remark, where the 
 action terminates. Another peculiarity is a certain 
 playful slyness, which hardly amounts to humor, 
 but is like the sport of an infant savage. They also 
 abound in what appears, if I may say so, a sort of 
 naive cynicism, — the cynicism, not of embittered 
 experience, but of childish incapacity for deep or 
 earnest thought. The propensity to personify all 
 things, and the familiar intercourse indicated in 
 these pesmas, as existing between man and all nat- 
 
INTRODUCTION. 15 
 
 ural objects, whether animate or inanimate, affords 
 obvious proof of those primitive conditions of soci- 
 ety 10 which I have already alluded. 
 
 The Servian metres are unrhymed, and trochaic 
 or dactylic in character. They consist of verses 
 varying from three to seventeen syllables in length. 
 Here is a specimen, — 
 
 Oblak se viye | povedrom nebu. 
 
 " The cloud floats in the pure ether." 
 
 It is an interesting and suggestive fact that the 
 natural quantily of the syllables is modified, in poe- 
 try, to suit the necessities of the metre. The fol- 
 lowing woids, for instance, if pronounced without 
 reference to prosody, would be thus accentuated, — 
 
 I ponese | tri trovera blaga. 
 
 But when sung to the goasle as a verse, they are to 
 be scanned thus, — 
 
 I ponese | tri trovara blaga. 
 
 May not this throw a ray of light on the uueluci- 
 dated question of Greek accent and quantity ? 
 
 But I have said enough. I will only add of the 
 contents of this little volume that, whether they be 
 weeds or wild-flowers, I have at least gathered them 
 on their native soil, amidst the solitudes of the .Car- 
 pathians, and along the shores of the Danube. ; 
 OWEN MEREDITH. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Page 
 
 INTRODUCTION 3 
 
 HEROIC PESMA. 
 
 The Battle of Kossovo 19 
 
 POPULAR OR DOMESTIC PESMAS. 
 
 The Stag and the Vila 55 
 
 Love and Sleep 58 
 
 Tittle-Tattle 60 
 
 Matrimonial Considerations .... 61 
 
 Love confers Nobility 64 
 
 A Soul's Sweetness 65 
 
 Reminiscences 66 
 
 Sleep and Death 67 
 
 A Conjugal Dispute 69 
 
 Degrees of Affection 73 
 
 The Fair Ikonia 75 
 
 A Wish 78 
 
 Imperfection 79 
 
18 CONTENTS. 
 
 Emancipation 80 
 
 The Voice of Nature ; or, What the Fish said 
 
 ■ft) the Maiden 81 
 
 The Malady of Mo'io 82 
 
 A Servian Beauty .85 
 
 A Discreet Young Woman .... 87 
 
 Bolozanovitch, the Knave 90 
 
 The Wife of Hassan Aga .... 93 
 
 Sleeplessness 101 
 
 Neglected Flowers 101 
 
 Plucking a Flower 102 
 
 Transplanting a Flower .... 104 
 A Message . . . . . . .105 
 
 Isolation 106 
 
 A Regret 107 
 
 The Ban of Varadin 109 
 
 Fatima and Mehmed Ill 
 
HEROIC PESMA. 
 
 THE BATTLE OF K0SS0V0. 
 
 f]HL Sultan Murad o'er Kossovo comes 
 With banners and drums. 
 
 There, all in characters fair, 1 * 
 
 He wrote a letter ; and there 
 
 Bade his estaffettes despatch 
 
 To bear it to Krouchevatch, 
 
 To the white-walled town of the Tzar, 
 
 To the hands of Prince Lazar. 
 
 " Listen, Lazarus, 2 chief of the Serbs, to me ! 
 That which never hath been, that which never 
 shall be, 
 
 * See Notes, pp. 51 - 54. 
 
20 THE BATTLE OF KOSSOVO. 
 
 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." 
 
 When Lazarus this letter had read, 
 Bitter, bitter were the tears he shed. 
 
 A gray bird, a falcon, comes flying apace 
 From Jerusalem, from the Holy Place ; 
 And he bears a light swallow abroad. 
 It is not a gray 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 knees of the 
 Tzar, 
 
THE BATTLE OF KOSSOVO. 21 
 
 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, 
 
 At Kossovo build ye a temple fair. 
 
 There no foundations of marble lay, 
 
 But only silk of the scarlet dye. 
 
 llange ye the army in battle array, 
 
 Aud let each and all full solemnly 
 
 Partake of the blessed 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. 
 
2 THE BATTLE OP KOSSOVO. 
 
 " 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 tliis world's renown ? " 
 
 (His heart was heavy, his soul was stirred.) 
 
 " Shall an earthly empire be preferred 
 
 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. 
 
 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. 
 
THE BATTLE OP KOSSOVO. 23 
 
 Ivan Kossantchitch, my pobratime, 3 
 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 Obilitch, 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. 
 Prom Erable to Sazlia, brother, my feet 
 Have wandered; from Sazlia round by the 
 
24 THE BATTLE OF KOSSOVO. 
 
 Where the river comes round to the bridge 
 
 with a bend ; 
 And over the bridge to the town of Zvetchan ; 
 From Zvetchan to Tchechan, and farther, and 
 
 ever 
 Farther, and over the mountains, wherever 
 Foot may fall, or eye may scan, 
 1 saw naught 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 for- 
 ward, 
 White tents like snow-drifts 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. 
 
THE BATTLE OF KOSSOVO. 25 
 
 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 ? 
 Tor I have sworn to the Prince Lazar 
 A solemn vow upon Holy Hood, 
 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 ? 
 Iu 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 ; 
 
26 THE BATTLE OF KOSSOVO. 
 
 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 
 (Though 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 the promise of plunder from places afar ; 
 Priests and pedlers, 
 Jugglers and fiddlers, 
 Dancers and drummers, 
 
THE BATTLE OF KOSSOVO. 27 
 
 Yarlets 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.' " 
 
 IV. 
 
 Lazarus, lord of the Serbs, our Tzar, 5 
 At Krouchevatch high Slava doth hold. 
 Around him, sitting by cups of gold, 
 His sons and his seigneurs are. 
 
 To right, the revereud Youg Bogdan ; 6 
 Round whom the nine young Yougovitch ; 
 To left, that thrice-accursed man, 
 The traitor black, Vouk Brankovitch ; 
 And many a lord, along the board, 
 And last of all, in the knightly train, 
 Milosch, the manly Vo'ivod ; 
 Next him, Servian Vo'ivodes twain, 
 
28 THE BATTLE OP KOSSOVO. 
 
 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, 
 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. T 
 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 valor, more than even 
 Stature, beauty, friendship, age, 
 
THE BATTLE OF KOSSOVO. 29 
 
 Our first honors 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 betrayed 
 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 ! ' ■ 
 
 Lightly Milosch bounded up, 
 Lightly caught the golden cup, 
 To the black earth bowed his head, 
 
30 THE BATTLE OF KOSSOVO. 
 
 And, " Noble master, thanks ! " lie said, 
 
 " For tlie pledge thou pledgest me, 
 
 And thanks that, of thy courtesy, 
 
 Thou to me dost first allot, 
 
 A true, true health, King, to thee, 
 
 To pledge back in this golden token ; 
 
 Thanks for this, my lord, but not 
 
 Tor the words which thou hast spoken. 
 
 For, O, (and may my loyalty, 
 
 Dear liege, not fatal prove to me, 
 
 Before the truth is judged between 
 
 Us, and this 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 kiug he hath foully lied, 
 
 Vouk Brankovitch, the servile-eyed, 
 
THE BATTLE OF KOSSOVO. 31 
 
 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, 
 
 Tor at Kossovo all men shall see 
 
 What is the truth betwixt us two, 
 
 And who is traitor, and who is true. 
 
 Tor 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-walled Krouchevatch, 
 
 And there that traitor foul I catch, 
 
 Youk 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, 
 
32 THE BATTLE OF 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." 
 
 At the royal board a noble pair 
 
 Sit together, and full sad they are. 
 
 Lazarus and his Militza fair, 
 
 Tlie 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 Voivodes. 
 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, 
 
THE BATTLE OF KOSSOVO. 33 
 
 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 ! " 8 
 
 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 answered, " Bocko Yougovitch." 
 
 And Lazarus, lord of the Serbs, replied : 
 " Militza, sweetheart, wife true-eyed, 
 
34: THE BATTLE OP KOSSOVO. 
 
 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 turned 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." 
 
THE BATTLE OF KOSSOVO. 35 
 
 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. 
 
36 THE BATTLE OP KOSSOVO. 
 
 All blazing gold Lis corselet beamed, 
 Imperial purple fold on fold, 
 The mighty Christian ensign streamed 
 Over his red-roan courser bold ; 
 And high upon the standard top 
 Against the merry morning gleamed 
 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 pawed the ground. 
 About her brother's bended neck 
 Her milk-white arm she softly wound, 
 And half in hope, and half in fear, 
 She whispered 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, 
 
THE BATTLE OF KOSSOVO. 37 
 
 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, " Eoul 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 't is 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 
 
 You 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 feared to find a saintly death, 
 
 Nor poured his blood for Holy Rood, 
 
 Nor fell for the Christian faith.' " 
 
 He prickt his horse toward the gate, 
 
38 THE BATTLE OP KOSSOVO. 
 
 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 followed the trumpet call. 
 
 And after these, a little space, 
 Voin Yougovitch not far 
 She spied come riding at slow pace, 
 Leading the destriers of the Tzar, 9 
 All trapt and housed with gold be they, 
 Aud going an amble by the way. 
 His good steed was of dapple gray. 
 She caught the bridle-ring : in check 
 The good gray courser pawed the ground. 
 Her milk-white arm she softly wound 
 About her brother's bended neck ; 
 And half in hope, and half in fear, 
 She whispered in the young man's ear : 
 
THE BATTLE OF KOSSOVO. 39 
 
 "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 Hood, 
 
 To fight to the death for the Christian faith^ 
 
 With my kinsmen all to fight and fall, 
 
 With our foreheads against the foe." 
 
40 THE BATTLE OF KOSSOVO. 
 
 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 curbstone. 
 
 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 swerved 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 called 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 ; 
 
THE BATTLE OF KOSSOVO. 41 
 
 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, ] 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 pawed the ground, 
 
 And blithely from his nostrils blew 
 
 The morning mist. Then Gouloban 
 
42 THE BATTLE OF KOSSOVO. 
 
 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. 
 
 All when the misty morn was low, 
 And the rain was raining heavily, 
 Two ravens came from Kossovo, 
 Flying along a lurid sky : 10 
 One after one, they perched 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 : 
 
THE BATTLE OF KOSSOVO. 43 
 
 "Id 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 vauquisht ? 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, carved and cleft, 
 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 ; 
 
44 THE BATTLE OF KOSSOVO. 
 
 Gaslit with gashes seventeen 
 Yawned his body where he stood, 
 And his horse was dripping blood. 
 
 " 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 ; 
 
 And washt his wounds in water cold, 
 
THE BATTLE OF KOSSOVO. 45 
 
 For they were deep and manifold ; 
 Full ghastly did they gape and bleed : 
 She stanched 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 questioned 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 Youk Brankovitch ? 
 And where Strahinia Banovitch ? 
 
 Then when the servant, Miloutine, 
 Three draughts had drained 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 ; 
 
46 THE BATTLE OF KOSSOVO. 
 
 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, 
 Shivered both shield and spear, 
 And shattered 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 ! 
 
THE BATTLE OF KOSSOVO. 47 
 
 " 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 gray-haired Youg Bogdan. 
 And following him, the noblest man 
 That ever wore the silver crown 
 Of age, grown gray 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 burned, 
 And streamed and flasht, 
 
48 THE BATTLE OF KOSSOVO. 
 
 Like flame before the wind upturned 
 
 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 blessed be the womb that bore him. 
 
 Not alone he fell. Before him 
 
 Twelve thousand Turkish soldiers fell, 
 
 Slaughtered 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 
 
THE BATTLE OP KOSSOVO. 49 
 
 (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 widowed 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 
 
50 THE BATTLE OF KOSSOVO. 
 
 Eternally singe in hell-fire ! 
 Curst be the womb that bore liim ! 
 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 ! 
 Tor 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 betrayed the Tzar at Kossovo." 
 
Note 1, page 19. 
 
 The word is sitni, " fine, slender, elaborate." This, in 
 Servian poetry, is the epithet invariably applied to hand- 
 writing; and the deference and wonder with which the 
 writing of a letter, or the use of pen, ink, and paper, in any 
 shape, is alluded to throughout the poetry of the Serbs, 
 sufficiently indicates an elementary and barbarous condition 
 of social life. 
 
 Note 2, page 19. 
 
 Lazarus Grebleanovitch is sometimes called Tzar, some- 
 times knes or prince. But he was consecrated Tzar in 1376. 
 
 Note 3, page 23. 
 The word Pobratime (from brat, "brother") denotes a re- 
 lationship (independent of blood or kindred) between per- 
 sons of the same sex, which is peculiar to the Serbs. For 
 in the Bulgarian the word signifies nothing more than 
 friend. But in Servia it constitutes a relationship volunta- 
 rily contracted, but so close as to be incompatible with mar- 
 riage between the one Pobratime and the sister of the other 
 {see note to page 97). In the ancient Servian liturgies are 
 to be found prayers applicable to the consecration of this 
 
52 THE BATTLE OF KOSSOVO. 
 
 relationship by the priest. It is a sort of freemasonry, and 
 obliges those who have contracted it to succor each other in 
 danger or'sickness. Appeal in such cases, the usual form of 
 which it is held impious to reject, and which, in tbe Serb 
 poetry, is sometimes placed in the mouth even of Turks and 
 Vilas, is " Botjom bratd (or sestra) i soetim Jovanom" " My 
 brother, or sister, in God and Saint John." 
 
 Note 4, page 24. 
 The whole of this passage is quite Oriental in the hyper- 
 bolical character of tbe similes it piles togetber. Strange, 
 that Marlowe, in (perhaps his greatest) play of " Tambur- 
 laine," should have placed in the mouth of an Oriental mon- 
 arch very similar language : 
 
 (Ki ng of Morocco, loquitur :) 
 " The spring is hindered by your smothering host ; 
 For neither rain can fall upon the earth, 
 Nor sun reflex his virtuous beams thereon, 
 The ground is mantled with such multitudes." 
 
 Was it by intuition ? But Marlowe himself rivals tbe Ori- 
 entals in gigantesque exaggeration and supercilious indiffer- 
 ence to simplicity. 
 
 Note 5, page 27. 
 The slava (literally " glory ") is a very ancient custom 
 peculiar to the Serbs, and still honored in the observance. 
 Every family, or tribe (rather in the sense of the Roman 
 gens), independently of the patron saints particular to each 
 of its individual members, lias a patron common to them 
 all, as Saint Dimitri, Saint Nicholas, Saint Elias, etc. ; who 
 is, on periodical occasions, celebrated with certain ceremo- 
 nies of a convivial kind, beginning in solemn libation to some 
 sacred toast, and ending in general intoxication. These 
 ceremonies are called slaviti slavou, and the toasts zradavita. 
 It is the popular belief that the celebrated Servian hero, 
 
NOTES. 53 
 
 Marko Kralievitch, annually returns to life on the 5th of 
 May, and holds, in the church of Prilip, the Slava of St. 
 George. 
 
 Note 6, page 27- 
 
 All these personages are historical, and figure in the Pes- 
 mas which refer to the great battle of Kossovo. Youg Bog- 
 dan (i/oiiff, " South") was the father-in-law of Lazarus, and 
 Governor of Acarnania and Macedonia. Yougovitch, the 
 sons of Youg — vitch, or vitz, always implying "son of" — 
 as Alexander Karageorgiovitz, son of Kara-George ; Milosch 
 Obrenovitz, son of Obren, the last and present Prince of 
 Servia. 
 
 Note 7, page 28. 
 
 Vouk Brankovitcb, a son-in-law of Lazarus. A circum- 
 stance similar to that which forms the main plot of the 
 Niebelungen, namely, a quarrel between the wives of the 
 two men, is supposed to have led to that deadly hatred be- 
 tween Vouk and Miloscb Obilitch, whicli ultimately brought 
 about the defection of the one and the death of the other. Of 
 the estimation in which the memory of this personage is held 
 amongst the Serbs and other Sclavic races, judge from the 
 following passage in the Code of Monteuegro, dated 1803 : 
 
 "And if, from this day henceforth, any Montenegrin 
 should be found capable of betraying his country, we de- 
 vote him, beforehand, to the eternal malediction reserved 
 for Judas, who betrayed the Lord God, and the infamous 
 Vouk Brankovitcb, who betrayed the Serbs at Kossovo, and 
 thus forfeited the divine mercy." 
 
 Note 8, page 33. 
 The affection between brother and sister, or brother and 
 brother, would appear to be held among the Serbs as more 
 sacred than that arising out of any other relationship. 
 Ironical comparison frequently occurs throughout the Ser- 
 vian poetry between the affection of wife to husband, and of 
 
54 THE BATTLE OF KOSSOVO. 
 
 sister to brother, not to the advantage of the former. Con- 
 sequently the oath sworn " by a brother " is especially sa- 
 cred, and not to have " a brother to swear by " is held to be 
 a family disgrace. The whole poem of " Predag and Nenad " 
 (which I have not translated) is founded on this sense of 
 humiliation, involved in the fact of not having a brother to 
 swear by. 
 
 Note 9, page 38. 
 Tor the use of this word, destriers, I plead the authority 
 of Chaucer. 
 
 " And, for he was a knight auntrous. 
 He n'olde sleepen in none hous, 
 
 But liggen in his hood, 
 His brighte helm was his avenger, 
 And by him baited his destrer, 
 Of herbes fine and good." 
 
 Rime of Sir Thopas. 
 Note 10, page 42. 
 In the Servian poetry, ravens are the invariable bearers 
 of ill tidings. 
 
POPTJLAE OE DOMESTIC PESMAS, 
 
 THE STAG AND THE VILA. 
 
 'ER the mountain the wild stag browses 
 the mountain herbage alone, 
 At morn he browses, at noon he sick- 
 ens, at eve he maketh moan. 
 From the rifts of the rocky quarries the Yila * 
 hears him, and calls, 
 
 * The Vilas are supernatural beings that appear frequently 
 in the poetry, and exist to this day in the popular supersti- 
 tion, 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, not- 
 withstanding the presence of perhaps almost as many "holy 
 freres" as those to whose " blessing of tltorpes and dairies" 
 Chaucer, in his day, attributed the fact that " there bin no 
 faeries." 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 dis- 
 tinctly ascertainable, but they are mostly terrible, and hos- 
 
56 THE STAG AND THE VILA. 
 
 " 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, mourn- 
 fully moaning low : 
 
 tile 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 ex- 
 ploits 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 hun- 
 dred and fifty years at the period of his death, and, accord- 
 ing 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 Ravioela, who wounded the vo'ivode Milosch with a 
 golden arrow, was nearly massacred by Marko. They pre- 
 serve, 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-M-hite 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. 
 
THE STAG AND THE VILA. 57 
 
 " queen of the mountain, my sister ! I mourn 
 for my lost white doe, 
 
 My milk-while doe, my darling ! from me, o'er 
 the mountain track, 
 
 She wandered away to the fountain ; she wan- 
 dered, she never came back. 
 
 Either forlornly she wanders, mourning me, 
 missing her way, 
 
 Or the hunters have followed 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 hol- 
 lows 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, wan- 
 dering 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." 
 
58 LOVE AND SLEEP. 
 
 LOVE AND SLEEP. 
 
 WALKT the high and hollow wood, 
 
 from dawn to even-dew, 
 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 : 
 
 All the little leaves lay flat, unmoved of bird 
 or breeze : 
 
 Day was losing light all round, by indolent de- 
 grees. 
 
 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. 
 
LOVE AND SLEEP. 59 
 
 Slipping down, a sunbeam bathed her brows 
 
 with bounteous gold, 
 Unmoved upon her maiden breast her heavy 
 
 hair was rolled, 
 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 blessed 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. 
 Her sweet eyes oped, and looked on me. 
 
 How can I tell the rest ? 
 
60 TITTLE-TATTLE. 
 
 TITTLE-TATTLE. 
 
 WO 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, 
 
 Mowing 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 forever, 
 
 Grass, grow not henceforth from the mould of 
 thee! 
 
 Elock, be devoured by the wolf! 
 
MATRIMONIAL CONSIDERATIONS. 61 
 
 Shepherd, the Turk seize hold of thee ! 
 Traveller, rot of the fever ! 
 Mariner, drown in the gulf ! 
 Bark, may the whirlwind perplex thee, 
 And break thee against the shore ! 
 Sea, may the moon ever vex thee ! 
 River, be dry evermore ! " 
 
 MATRIMONIAL CONSIDERATIONS. 
 
 riHERE 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 ! ) 
 
62 MATRIMONIAL CONSIDERATIONS. 
 
 If I knew thou shouldst be kist 
 By any husband, withered, old, and gray, 
 I would wander, mist-like, with the mist, 
 The monstrous mountain many a league away, 
 Until, in some abandoned 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 mildewed stones, 
 The harsh-blowing absinthe 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 em- 
 brace 
 Death on thy rosy portals, 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, 
 
MATRIMONIAL CONSIDERATIONS. 63 
 
 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 
 Prom 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 re- 
 
 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." 
 
 «<3XXS> 
 
64 LOVE CONFERS NOBILITY. 
 
 LOVE CONFERS NOBILITY. 
 
 ( IOLET,* little one mine ! 
 
 I would love thee, but thou art so 
 small. 
 
 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. 
 
 r&^zr 
 
a soul's sweetness. 65 
 
 A SOUL'S SWEETNESS. 
 
 MAIDEN of my soul ! 
 What odor 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 ? 
 
 By the sweet heavens, young lover ! 
 No odor from the orange have I stole ; 
 Nor have I robbed for thee, 
 Dearest, the amber dower 
 Of the building bee, 
 
66 REMINISCENCES. 
 
 From any hollow tower 
 
 In oaken bole : 
 
 But if, on this poor breast thou dost discover 
 
 Fragrance of such sweet power, 
 
 Trust me, my beloved and my lover, 
 
 J T is not of basil, nor the immortal flower, 
 
 But from a virgin soul. 
 
 REMINISCENCES. 
 
 ND art thou wed, my Beloved ? 
 My Beloved of long ago ! 
 
 I am wed, my Beloved. 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 Beloved ! " 
 
SLEEP AND DEATH. 67 
 
 SLEEP AND DEATH. 
 
 HE morning is growing : the cocks 
 are crowing : 
 Let me away, love, away ! 
 
 'T is 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 ! 
 
 'T is 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 : 't is 
 
 morning : 
 Let me away, love, away ! 
 
68 SLEEP AND DEATH. 
 
 'T is 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 chil- 
 dren screaming : 
 Let me away, love, away ! 
 
 'T is 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 ! 
 
 ? 
 
A CONJUGAL DISPUTE. 69 
 
 A CONJUGAL DISPUTE. 
 
 |gS| LL at the mid of the night, there arose 
 ^J» A quarrel 'twixt husband and wife ; 
 
 ' For, the young Onier Bey and his 
 
 spouse, 
 Ealling 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 past 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, 
 Broidered 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 bordered with gold, 
 And scented with amber and rose, 
 
70 A CONJUGAL DISPUTE. 
 
 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, 
 Broidered 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 : 
 
A CONJUGAL DISPUTE. 71 
 
 " Wife of our friend, Zekir Bey, 
 
 Long live thy husband, naught ail him, 
 
 Mayst 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, 
 
 Didst thou give a white handkerchief, brightly 
 
 Embroidered 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 I" 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 pondered with many a sigh, 
 " I choose of two evils the least, 
 If my husband must die, let him die ! 
 
72 A CONJUGAL DISPUTE. 
 
 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 : 
 Aud she wrote to her sister-in-law : 
 
 " 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 
 
 Embroidered 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." 
 
DEGHEES OF AFFECTION. 
 
 DEGREES OF AFFECTION. 
 
 ? and down the Tchardak,* under- 
 neath the blossomed roof, 
 Musing, young I6vo,t 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 claimed in price of service, ere 
 
 the cure began, 
 The right hand of the mother of the maimed 
 
 and mangled man; 
 The long hair of his sister with the riband in 
 the hair ; 
 
 * A sort of gallery or veranda, running round a house. 
 Also, sometimes, a pavilion, summer-house, or granary, 
 t Diminutive for Iovan or John. 
 
74 DEGEEES OP AFFECTION. 
 
 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. 
 5 T was my dowry from my father, and I mean 
 
 to wear it yet." 
 This the Vila of the mountain heard; and, 
 
 angered in her mood, 
 She dropt a little purple drop of poison in the 
 
 food 
 Of young Iovo, and he died. 
 
 Then, for the murdered man, 
 
 Those three women to lament, in funeral dole 
 began. 
 
 One there was that, deeply mourning, ever- 
 more did grieve : 
 
 One that missed and mourned for him at morn- 
 ing and at eve : 
 
 One that mourned him now and then, with 
 eyes a little dim, 
 
THE FAIR IKONIA. 75 
 
 And looks a little changed, whenever she re- 
 membered him. 
 She whose sorrow ceased not, mourning more 
 
 than any other, 
 Missing aye her murdered son, was young 
 
 Iovo's mother : 
 She that mourned at morning, and at evening 
 
 mourned, and missed her 
 Brother, when day came or went, was young 
 
 Iovo's sister. 
 She that mourned him now and then, when 
 
 sometimes in her life 
 Old memories filled vacant hours, was young 
 
 Iovo's wife. 
 
 THE PAIR IKONIA. 
 
 HE fair Ikonia boasted at the bath, 
 Gayly, amidst the matrons ..." Tell 
 me which 
 
 Amongst you, matrons, such a husband hath 
 As mine, 16 vo Morniakovitch ? 
 Where he goeth, there I go : 
 
76 THE FAIR IKONIA. 
 
 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 : 
 ' Bear, the dawn begins to break, 
 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 splendor 
 And she stood, in rich array, 
 Where, from the Bazar, 16 vo 
 Came home, singing all the way : 
 Deckt her cheeks with painted roses, 
 Darker dyed her midnight hair, 
 Breathed the breath of perfumed posies, 
 
THE FAIR IKONIA. 77 
 
 Laid her bounteous bosom bare, 
 
 Stood like glory in the gateway, 
 
 Murmured, mild as evening air, 
 
 " Sad, Iovo, seems thy case, 
 
 Wedded to a barren wife ; 
 
 If thou wouldst 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 listened : soft her voice was ; 
 Long he lookt : her dark eyes glistened. 
 As the counsel, so the choice was. 
 All too long he lookt and listened. 
 Thus the wily widow, Anna, 
 Won Iovo then and there : 
 And each year a boy she bore him 
 With strong hands and golden hair. 
 Silent walkt the fair Ikonia, 
 
 * The epithet " golden" generally implies " strength " in 
 the Serb poetry. The words are literally " with golden 
 hands," etc. 
 
78 
 
 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 fastened, 
 And she hanged herself thereon. 
 
 Came one running to Iovo, 
 " On thy golden orange-tree, 
 Fair Ikonia, dead, is hanging." 
 
 " Hanging ? Let her hang ! " quoth lie, 
 " I 've a fairer far than she." 
 
 A WISH. 
 
 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 
 
IMPERFECTION. 79 
 
 By the rudder ; and whether the rose 
 Which, at parting, I put m 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. 
 
 IMPERFECTION. 
 
 ' LL 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 
 
 Answered her reproachfully 
 
 (All in the spring, 
 
 When little birds sing, 
 
 And flowers do talk 
 
80 EMANCIPATION. 
 
 From stalk to stalk) : 
 
 " Violet, I marvel me 
 
 Of fairest flowers by lawn or lea 
 
 The fairest thou shouldst boast to be ; 
 
 For one small defect I spy, 
 
 Should make thee speak more modestly : 
 
 Thy face is fashioned tenderly, 
 
 But then it hangs awry." 
 
 EMANCIPATION. 
 
 'JHE Day of Saint George ! and a girl 
 
 prayed thus : 
 " Day of Saint George, when again 
 
 to us 
 Thou returnest, and they carouse 
 Here in my mother's house, 
 Mayst 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." 
 
THE VOICE OF NATURE. 81 
 
 THE VOICE OF NATURE ; OB, "WHAT 
 THE FISH SAID TO THE MAIDEN. 
 
 Y tbe sea a maiden is sitting, 
 And she says to herself at her knit- 
 ting: 
 
 " 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 ? " 
 
 And a fish from the sea replies : 
 
 " maiden, but 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 ; 
 
 &nd a lover more dear than all other." 
 
82 THE MALADY OP MOIO. 
 
 THE MALADY OF MOIO. 
 
 010, 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 ardors 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 ecstasy, 
 Thrilled with a rapture delicious and dim, 
 Mute on the pale Pachinitza the Tzarovitch 
 Gazed, and the pale Pachinitza on him. 
 Mo'io walkt silently back to his palace : 
 Troubled his heart was, and changed was his 
 
 mood. 
 Straightway he sickened of love, and lay dying, 
 Dying of love for the wife of Mahmoud. 
 Ladies the loveliest all came to visit him : 
 
THE MALADY OF MOIO. 83 
 
 Only the wife of Makmoud stayed away. 
 Then the Sultana rose up and wrote to her : 
 " Wouldst thou be greater than all of us, say ? 
 Molo is lying upon his couch dying ; 
 Sore is his sickness, and fatal, they say : 
 Ladies the loveliest all come to visit him, 
 Tliou, 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, 
 Pigs from the sea-coast, and grapes from Mos- 
 
 tar. 
 Lightly she trod o'er the long golden gallery, 
 Past all ungreeted the corridor dim, 
 Pale, the dumb purple pavilion she entered, 
 Where the Sultana was watching by him. 
 Softly she sat by his bedside, 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 maddened, unable to move : 
 
84: THE MALADY OF MOIO. 
 
 Poison they said it was. I, too, have drank 
 
 of it. 
 This is the passionate poison of love." 
 Trembling he listened, as trembling she ut- 
 tered it. 
 Lightly he leapt from the couch where he lay, 
 Fastened, 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, 
 Sealed by sweet kisses in silent caresses, 
 Rested, while round them May melted to June. 
 Gayly the nightingale sang in the garden. 
 Love the bird sang of, and sweet was the tune. 
 Three white days, little loving the daylight, 
 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 : 
 
A SERVIAN BEAUTY. 85 
 
 " Sultan Imperial, dear master of all ! 
 
 There 's a white dove, with a gold treasure 
 
 casket, 
 Elown 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 uuhooded, 
 And what he hath taken he never lets 20." 
 
 A SERVIAN BEAUTY. 
 
 IS the Kolo*that dances before the 
 
 white house, 
 And 't is Stoian's fair sister, O fair, 
 
 fair is she ! 
 
 * Kolo, signifying literally a wheel, is the generic term for 
 all the Servian national dances : in most of which the (lan- 
 cers, either taking hands, or united each to each by a hand- 
 kerchief tied round the waist or to the girdle, form a ring 
 and advance or retreat to and from the centre to a monoto- 
 nous 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. 
 
86 A SERVIAN BEAUTY. 
 
 Too fair she is truly, too fair, heaven knows, 
 
 (God forgive lier !) so cruel to be. 
 
 The fair Yila, 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 swal- 
 low 
 
 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-bloomed cheeks are the ripe river 
 peaches, 
 
 Her teeth are white pearls from the sea ; 
 
 Her lips are two half-opened roses ; 
 
 And her breath tlfe south-wind, which dis- 
 closes 
 
 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, — ? t is the peacock's full splen- 
 dor ! 
 
 * A strange, but very frequent, simile in Servian poetry. 
 
A DISCREET YOUNG WOMAN. 87 
 
 Hear her talk, — 't is the coo of the dove ! 
 
 And, only but let her look tender, — 
 
 'T is all heaven melting down from above ! 
 
 A DISCREET YOUNG WOMAN. 
 
 ILITZA 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, 
 Has such drooping ways about it, 
 I have watcht her, many an hour, 
 Three full years, (0 never doubt it ! ) 
 And yet never have seen fairly 
 Eyes or face, — revealed so rarely ! 
 
 Only just to rob one glance 
 From the happy grass beneath her, 
 On the green where maidens dance 
 
A DISCREET YOUNG WOMAN. 
 
 When the month makes merry weather, 
 I the Kolo called 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, 
 llolling darkness drowned 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 shattered, 
 
 Shedding rubies, shedding pearls, 
 
 Here and there the Kolo scattered 
 
 All its bevy of bright girls. 
 
 Little, darling, timid creatures ! 
 
 Each, with frightened, fluttered features, 
 
 Lifted up her pretty eyes 
 
 To the tempest growling o'er her ; 
 
 But Militza, very wise, 
 
 Still kept looking straight before her. 
 
 Little voices, silvery, wild, 
 All at once, in fretful cadence, 
 
A DISCREET YOUNG WOMAN. 89 
 
 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, 
 Wooes 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." 
 
90 BOLOZANOVITCH, THE KNAVE. 
 
 BOLOZANOVITCH, THE KNAVE. 
 
 JOUL,* 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 dauce and play, 
 Called a hundred matrons and maids together. 
 And the fairest maiden of all, that day, 
 Was the maid Bolozanovitch 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. 
 
 (l Djoul, Djoul with the raven hair ! 
 Give me a shift of linen fair, 
 
 * For Gul, the Turk word, meaning rose. 
 
BOLOZANOVITCH, THE KNAVE. 91 
 
 Such as thyself art wont to wear 
 
 On the day when the glad new moon is born; 
 
 Paint me the eyebrow with antimony ; 
 
 These bronzed cheeks with white and red 
 
 Color ; and comb me, and curl me the head ; 
 
 Hang me over the shoulders free 
 
 Silken tresses two or three, 
 
 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 listened, and granted his prayer. 
 She clothed him in clothes of a maid, 
 Combed him and curled him the hair, 
 Painted his dark face fair, 
 Over his long limbs laid 
 Many a milk-white fold 
 Of vesture flowing and full ; 
 
92 BOLOZANOVITCH, THE KNAVE. 
 
 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 plastered, to look like a lass, 
 
 Because he yet lookt like the knave that he 
 
 was, 
 This good counsel she added : 
 
 " Bolozanovitch, 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." 
 
 Bolozanovitch 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 ; 
 
THE WIFE OP HASSAN AGA. 93 
 
 But when lie 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, 
 
 5 T is the knave Bolozanovitch, lie ! " 
 
 THE WIFE OF HASSAN AGA* 
 
 HAT 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 
 Melted away long ago. 
 
 * This poem \ras translated by Goethe into German, in 
 1789, from an Italian translation published by the Abbe 
 Fortis in 1774; and was thus the first of these national 
 songs and legends that ever passed from Sen ia into more 
 civilized lands. Goethe's translation (Klaggesang von der 
 edeln Fraun dos Asan Aga) is unrhymed and remarkably 
 literal. 
 
94 THE WIFE OF HASSAN AGA. 
 
 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 healed him his wound 
 
 so sore, 
 Angered he said to his faithful spouse : 
 " Meet me no more, see me no more, 
 Mid our children, within my white house." 
 He frowned 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 covered her brows, 
 When the hoof of a horse was heard 
 At the door of the Aga's house. 
 
 The fair Aguinitza * fled trembling away 
 
 * The wife of an Aga; as Pachbiitza, wife of a Pacha. 
 
THE WIFE OP HASSAN AGA. 95 
 
 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 turned, faltering she came, 
 Weeping she fell on the breast of her brother, 
 And . . . " O my brother," . . . she cried . . . 
 
 "the shame, 
 Erom her children to sever a mother ! " 
 
 The Bey held silence, nor answered a word, 
 His smile was stern, but his eyes were dim, 
 As lie 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 re- 
 stored, 
 And she should return to their mother with 
 
 him ! * 
 When the fair Turk that letter had read, 
 Her children she called to her one by one, 
 
 * The writing of divorce. 
 
96 THE WIFE OF HASSAN" AG A. 
 
 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 aloue 
 
 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, 
 Turned, 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, 
 Came riding to sue and to seek : 
 Tor never more lovely a lady 
 Breathed beauty to trouble the land, 
 And soon from Imoski the Kadi 
 Came gayly to ask for her hand. 
 
THE WIFE OP HASSAN AGA. 97 
 
 " spare me, 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, 
 Tor 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 Imoski to write : 
 
 " Fair greeting, in fair courtesy, 
 From her that hath been given to thee, 
 And courtesy to her prayer ! 
 
 i the noble Svats * assembled be, 
 
 * 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 at- 
 tend the marriage on his invitation ; and who in this capac- 
 ity (of guests or witnesses) are called Svats. He is sup- 
 ported by a Koum, or Best-man, a Stari Svat, or chief guest 
 (the oldest and most honored of the company), who attest 
 the marriage, and a Dever (paranymph or groomsman), which 
 
98 THE WIFE OF HASSAN AGA. 
 
 And ye come in a 2 
 
 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 her 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. 
 
 Gayly to seek her they started, 
 
 And with her they gayly departed. 
 
 But, when they were merrily riding before 
 
 The Aga's white house, from the window at 
 
 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 partici- 
 pation 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 be- 
 tween the groomsman and any member of that family. 
 
THE WIFE OF HASSAN AGA. 99 
 
 Xiookt 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, 
 Eor the dear love of God, pass not by this 
 
 abode ! 
 Let the horses 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 
 
100 THE WIFE OP HASSAN AGA. 
 
 In the cradle, she came, she laid mournfully on 
 The small cradle a white orphan garment, 
 A little white garment, and sighed, 
 And turned from the cradle wild-eyed, 
 With looks of despairing endearment. 
 
 All of this Hassan Aga espied, 
 
 And he turned to his two sons, and cried, 
 
 tf Little orphans, come here ! come to me ! 
 
 Tor pitiless, children, is she, 
 
 Your mother stone-hearted, the bride ! " 
 
 Cruel, cruel and keen was the word ! 
 
 Silent she listened and heard, 
 
 Heard the harsh word that he said. 
 
 To the black earth she bowed 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 
 
 Tor the love, and the loss, of her little ones ta'en. 
 
NEGLECTED FLOWERS. 101 
 
 SLEEPLESSNESS. 
 
 LEEP will not take the place of Love, 
 Nor keep the place from Sorrow. 
 0, 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. 
 
 NEGLECTED FLOWERS. 
 
 ITTLE 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 
 AliBey; 
 
102 PLUCKING A FLOWER. 
 
 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. 
 
 PLUCKING A FLOWER. 
 
 MAIDEN, vermeil rose ! 
 
 Unplanted, unsown, 
 
 Blooming alone 
 As the wild-flower blows, 
 With a will of thine own ! 
 Neither grafted nor grown, 
 Neither gathered nor blown, 
 O maiden, O rose ! 
 Blooming alone 
 
PLUCKING A FLOWER. 103 
 
 In the green garden-close, 
 Unnoticed, unknown, 
 Unpropt, unsupported, 
 Unwatered, unfed, 
 Unkist, and uncourted, 
 Un wooed, and unwed, 
 O sweet wild rose, 
 Who knows ? Who knows ? 
 Might I kiss thee, and court thee ? 
 My kiss would not hurt thee ! 
 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 ? 
 
 Beside thy field my garden blows. 
 
 Were a gate in the garden left open . . . who 
 
 knows ? 
 And I watered my garden at eventide ? 
 
104 TRANSPLANTING A FLOWER. 
 
 (Who knows ?) 
 
 And if somebody silently happened 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 beloved 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. 
 
 TRANSPLANTING A FLOWER. 
 
 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 
 
A MESSAGE. 105 
 
 All too often, all too late, 
 After nightfall, at the gate 
 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 : 
 Tor if mother, for my sake, 
 Were to drive thee out of home, 
 Just three little steps 't would 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 ! 
 
 A MESSAGE. 
 
 [jWEET sister of my loved, unloving one, 
 Kiss thy wild brother, kiss him ten- 
 derly ! 
 Ask him what is it, witless, I have done 
 
106 ISOLATION. 
 
 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 nod- 
 ding 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 ; 
 
 Each maid to win finds lads to woo : and I . . . " 
 
 Well, child, but only tell him, tell him this ! 
 
 Sweet sister, tell him this ! 
 
 ISOLATION. 
 
 HE 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. 
 Ear apart 
 
A REGRET. 107 
 
 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 honr of his coming . . . night is fall- 
 ing! 
 
 The hour of our awakening . . . bird on bough ! 
 
 The hour of last embraces . . . friends are calling ! 
 
 " Love, farewell ! " . . . and every hour is silent 
 
 A REGRET. 
 
 OST 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, 
 
108 A REGRET. 
 
 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, forever 
 Dead, or fled, for me ! 
 
 On the wind there moans forever 
 One word only, which the river, 
 
THE BAN OF VAKADIN. 109 
 
 Murmuring, murmurs to the shore, 
 And the flocks, with chilly bleat, 
 Evermore that word repeat, 
 And that word is — Nevermore ! 
 Nevermore, never, never 
 Any more, by mount or river, 
 Shall I be as I have been, 
 A mountain maid, a virgin queen ! 
 
 THE BAN OF VARADIN. 
 
 WASSAILER in wildest ways, 
 But foul befall the churl who says 
 3 That what he drinks he never pays, 
 So mad a devil dwells within 
 The brain of Peter Doitchin, 
 The burly Ban of Varadin ! * 
 
 Three hundred ducats in a day 
 
 Good sooth, he swilled them all away ! 
 
 And, when he had no more to pay, 
 
 * Servian name for Petervardein, fortress in Hungary. 
 
110 THE BAN OF VARADIN. 
 
 First his massy mace of gold, 
 Then his coal-black horse he sold. 
 " Fill up the can, keep out the cold, 
 And let the merry devil in, 
 Sweetheart ! " laught Peter Doitchin, 
 The burly Ban of Varadin ! 
 
 Quoth King Matliias * . . . " 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 swilled them all away, 
 And, for lack of more to pay, 
 • Thou thy massy mace of gold, 
 And thy coal-black war-steed bold, 
 For a sorry stoup hast sold." 
 
 " King Matliias, cease thy prattle ! 
 Brainless heads are hard in battle : 
 Fighting men make thirsty cattle. 
 Hadst thou the tavern drained witli me, 
 The tavern wench upon thy knee, 
 (So sweet and sound a wench is she !) 
 
 * Probably Matliias Corvinus. 
 
FATIMA AND MEHMED. Ill 
 
 Thou wouldst have drunk up thy good town 
 Of Pesth, with Buda tower and down, 
 Camp, acropolis, court, and crown ! " 
 
 FATIMA AND MEHMED. 
 
 BENEATH a milk-white almond-tree, 
 
 Eatima and Mehmed be. 
 
 The black earth is their bridal bed ; 
 The thick-starred 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. 
 
 Cambridge : Printed by Welch, Bigelow, & Co. 
 
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