Chapter II: Introduction (2)

They had quench’d their thirst, and all were seated—
Seated round the head, and look’d about them.
On the verdant turf it lies no longer;
O’er the field the head is slowly moving—
Holy head seeks out the holy body;
Joins it, where that body lay untainted.

When the dawning of the morn had broken,
To the aged priests the youths reported—
To the aged priests, the wond’rous story.
Lo! a crowd of priests are hastening thither—
Crowds of ancient priests—above three hundred,
And twelve high and dignified archbishops,
And four patriarchs, the most exalted:
Him of Pechki, {42a} and the Tzarigrader {42b}
Of Jerusalem, and Vassiljēnski.
All were habited in priestly vestments;
Camilanks their holy heads enshrouded;
In their hands they held old sacred writings—
And they pour’d their fervent prayers to heaven,
And performed their holiest solemn vigils
Through three days, and through three nights of darkness;
Nor for rest they stopp’d, nor for refreshment,
Nor for sleep, nor any interruption:
And they ask’d the holy dead, unceasing,
Where his grave should be—his corpse be buried;
In Opōvo, or in Krushedōli,
Or in Jāssak, or in Beshenōvi,
Or Racōvatz, or in Shisatōvatz,
Or in Jivski, or in Kurejdini, {43}
Or in distant Macedonia rather.
But Lazar will choose no foreign cloister;
He will lie among his own loved kindred,
In his own, his beauteous Ravanītza, {44}
On the mountain forest, broad Kushaja,
In the convent he himself erected;
In his days of life and youthful glory,
He erected for his soul’s salvation;
With his bread and with his gold he raised it;
Not with tears nor wealth from poor men wrested.

JELITZA AND HER BROTHERS.

NINE fair sons possess’d a happy mother;
And the tenth, the loveliest and the latest,
Was Jelitza,—a beloved daughter.
They had grown together up to manhood,
Till the sons were ripe for bridal altars,
And the maid was ready for betrothing.
Many a lover ask’d the maid in marriage;
First a _Ban_; {45} a chieftain was the other;
And the third, a neighbour from her village.
So her mother for the neighbour pleaded;
For the far-off-dwelling ban her brothers.
Thus they urged it to their lovely sister:
“Go, we pray thee, our beloved sister,
With the ban across the distant waters:
Go! thy brothers oft will hasten to thee;
Every month of every year will seek thee;
Every week of every month will seek thee.”
So the maiden listened to her brothers,
With the ban she cross’d the distant waters:
But, behold! O melancholy marvel!
God sent down the plague, and all the brothers,
All the nine, were swept away, and lonely
Stood their miserable sonless mother.

Three long years had pass’d away unheeded;
Often had Jelitza sighed in silence:
“Heaven of mercy! ’tis indeed a marvel!
Have I sinn’d against them?—that my brothers,
Spite of all their vows, come never near me.”
Then did her stepsisters scorn and jeer her:
“Cast away! thy brothers must despise thee!
Never have they come to greet their sister.”

Bitter was the sorrow of Jelitza,
Bitter from the morning to the evening,
Till the God of heaven took pity on her,
And he summon’d two celestial angels:
“Hasten down to earth,” he said, “my angels!
To the white grave, where Jovān is sleeping,—
Young Jovan, the maiden’s youngest brother.
Breathe your spirit into him; and fashion
From the white grave-stone a steed to bear him:
From the mouldering earth his food prepare him:
Let him take his grave-shroud for a present!
Then equip and send him to his sister.”

Swiftly hasten’d God’s celestial angels
To the white grave where Jovan was sleeping.
From the white grave-stone a steed they fashion’d;
Into his dead corpse they breathed their spirit;
From the ready earth the bread they moulded;
For a present his grave-shroud they folded;
And equipp’d, and bade him seek his sister.

Swiftly rode Jovan to greet his sister.
Long before he had approach’d her dwelling,
Far, far off his sister saw and hail’d him;
Hastened to him—threw her on his bosom,
Loosed his vest, and stamp’d his cheeks with kisses.
Then she sobb’d with bitterness and anguish,
Then she wept, and thus address’d her brother:
“O! Jovan! to me—to me, a maiden,
Thou, and all my brothers, all, ye promised
Oft and oft to seek your distant sister:
Every month in every year to seek her,—
Every week in every month to seek her.
Three long years have sped away unheeded,
And ye have not sought me.”—For a moment
She was silent; and then said, “My brother!
Thou art deadly pale! why look so deadly
Pale, as if in death thou hadst been sleeping?”
But Jovan thus check’d his sister: “Silence,
Silence, sister! as in God thou trustest;
For a heavy sorrow has o’erta’en me.
When eight brothers had prepared their nuptials,
Eight stepsisters ready to espouse them,
Hardly was the marriage service ended
Ere we built us eight white dwellings, sister!
Therefore do I look so dark, Jelitza.”

Three white days had pass’d away unheeded,
And the maid equipped her for a journey.
Many a costly present she provided
For her brothers and her bridal sisters:
For her brothers, fairest silken vestments;
For her bridal-sisters, rings and jewels.
But Jovan would fain detain her—“Go not,
Go not now, I pray thee—my Jelitza!
Wait until thy brothers come and greet thee.”
But she would not listen to her brother:
She prepared the costliest, fairest presents.
So the young Jovan began his journey,
And his sister travell’d patient by him.

So as they approach’d their mother’s dwelling,
Near the house a tall white church was standing,
Young Jovan he whisper’d to his sister—
“Stop, I pray thee, my beloved sister!
Let me enter the white church an instant.
When my middle brother here was married,
Lo! I lost a golden ring, my sister!
Let me go an instant—I shall find it.”

Jovan went—into his grave he glided—
And Jelitza stood—she stood impatient—
Wondering—wondering—but in vain she waited.
Then she left the spot to seek her brother.
Many and many a grave was in the church-yard
Newly made—Jovan was nowhere—Sighing,
On she hasten’d—hastened to the city,
Saw her mother’s dwelling, and press’d forward
Eager to that old white dwelling.

Listen
To that cuckoo’s cry within the dwelling!
Lo! it was not the gray cuckoo’s crying—
’Twas her aged, her gray-headed mother.
To the door Jelitza press’d—outstretching
Her white neck, she call’d—“Make ope, my mother!
Hasten to make ope the door, my mother!”
But her mother to her cries made answer:
“Plague of God! avaunt! my sons have perish’d—
All—all nine have perish’d—Wilt thou also
Take their aged mother!” Then Jelitza
Shriek’d, “O open—open, dearest mother!
I am not God’s plague—I am thy daughter,
Thine own daughter—thy Jelitza, mother!”
Then the mother push’d the door wide open,
And she scream’d aloud, and groan’d, and flung her
Old arms round her daughter—All was silent—
Stiff and dead they fell to earth together.

HASSAN AGA’S WIFE’S LAMENT.

WHAT’S so white upon yon verdant forest?
Is it snow, or is it swans assembled?
Were it snow, it surely had been melted;
Were it swans, long since they had departed.
Lo! it is not swans, it is not snow there:
’Tis the tent of Aga, Hassan Aga;
He is lying there severely wounded,
And his mother seeks him, and his sister;
But for very shame his wife is absent.

When the misery of his wounds was soften’d,
Hassan thus his faithful wife commanded:
“In my house thou shalt abide no longer—
Thou shalt dwell no more among my kindred.”
When his wife had heard this gloomy language,
Stiff she stood, and full of bitter sorrow.

When the horses, stamping, shook the portal,
Fled the faithful wife of Hassan Aga—
Fain would throw her from the castle window.
Anxious two beloved daughters follow’d,
Crying after her in tearful anguish—
“These are not our father Hassan’s coursers;
’Tis our uncle Pintorōvich coming.”

Then approached the wife of Hassan Aga—
Threw her arms, in misery, round her brother—
“See the sorrow, brother, of thy sister:
He would tear me from my helpless children.”

He was silent—but from out his pocket,
Safely wrapp’d in silk of deepest scarlet,
Letters of divorce he drew, and bid her
Seek again her mother’s ancient dwelling—
Free to win and free to wed another.

When she saw the letter of divorcement,
Kisses on her young boy’s forehead, kisses
On her girls’ red cheeks she press’d—the nursling—
For there was a nursling in the cradle—
Could she tear her, wretched, from her infant?
But her brother seized her hand, and led her—
Led her swiftly to the agile courser;
And he hastened with the sorrowing woman
To the ancient dwelling of her fathers.

Short the time was—not seven days had glided—
Short indeed the time—and many a noble
Had our lady—though in widow’s garments—
Had our lady ask’d in holy marriage.

And the noblest was Imoski’s Cadi;
And our lady, weeping, pray’d her brother:
“I exhort thee, on thy life exhort thee,
Give me not, oh, give me not in marriage!
For the sight of my poor orphan’d children
Sure would break the spirit of thy sister!”

Little cared her brother for her sorrows;
He had sworn she should espouse the Cadi.
But his sister pray’d him thus unceasing:
“Send at least one letter, O my brother!
With this language to Imoski’s Cadi:
‘Friendly greetings speeds the youthful woman;
But entreats thee, by these words entreats thee,
When the _Suates_ {55} shall conduct thee hither,
Thou a long and flowing veil wilt bring me,
That, in passing Hassan’s lonely dwelling,
I may hide me from my hapless orphans.’”

Hardly had the Cadi read the letter,
Than he gather’d his Suates together,
Arm’d himself, and hasten’d t’wards the lady,
Home to bring her as his bridal treasure.

Happily he reach’d the princely dwelling,
Happily were all returning homeward,
When toward Hassan’s house they were approaching,
Her two daughters saw her from the window,
Her two sons rush’d on her from the portal:
And they cried, “Come hither! O come hither!
Take thy night’s repast with thine own children!”

Sorrowfully Hassan’s consort heard them;
To the Sarisvat she thus address’d her:
“Let the Suates stay, and let the horses
Tarry here at this beloved portal,
While I make a present to the children.”

As they stopp’d at the beloved portal,
Presents gave she unto all the children.
To the boys, boots all with gold embroider’d;
To the girls, long and resplendent dresses;
And to the poor baby in the cradle,
For the time to come; a little garment.

Near them sat their father, Hassan Aga,
And he call’d in sorrow to his children:
“Come to me, poor children! to your father;
For your mother’s breast is turn’d to iron,
Closed against you, harden’d ’gainst all pity.”

When these words were heard by Hassan’s consort,
On the ground she fell, all pale and trembling,
Till her spirit burst her heavy bosom
At the glances of her orphan children. {57}

JAKSHICH’S PARTITIONING. {58}

HARK! the moon is to the day-star calling:
“Morning star! say, where hast thou been wandering;
Tell me where thou hast so long been lingering;
Where hast white days three so wasted,—tell me?”
To the moon, anon, the day-star answer’d:
“I have wander’d, moon! and I have linger’d,
Lingered o’er Belgrad’s white towers, and wondered
At the marvellous things which I have witness’d:
How two brothers have their wealth partitioned,
Jakshich Dmitar and Jakshich Bogdana.
They had thus arranged the shares allotted,
Well their father’s substance had divided:
Dmitar took Wallachia {59a} for his portion,
Took Wallachia and entire Moldavia; {59b}
Banat also, to the river Danube.
Bogdan took the level plains of Sermia,
And the even country of the Sava;
Servia, too, as far as Ujitz’s fortress.
Dmitar took the lower fortress’d cities,
And Neboisha’s tower upon the Danube;
Bogdan took the upper fortress’d cities,
And the church-possessing town, Rujitza.
Then a strife arose about a trifle,—
Such a trifle; but a feud soon follow’d,—
A black courser and a grey-wing’d falcon!
Dmitar claims the steed, as elder brother
Claims the steed, and claims the grey-wing’d falcon.
Bogdan will not yield or horse or falcon.
When the morning of the morrow waken’d,
Dmitar flung him on the sable courser,
Took upon his hand the grey-wing’d falcon,
Went to hunt into the mountain-forest;
And he call’d his wife, fair Angelīa:
“Angelia! thou my faithful lady!
Kill with poison thou my brother Bogdan;
But if thou refuse to kill my brother,
Tarry thou in my white court no longer.”

When the lady heard her lord’s commandments,
Down she sat all sorrowful and gloomy;
To herself she thought, and said in silence,
—“And shall I attempt it?—I, poor cuckoo!
Shall I kill my brother—kill with poison!—
’Twere a monstrous crime before high heaven,
’Twere a sin and shame before my people.
Great and small would point their fingers at me,
Saying,—‘That is the unhappy woman,
That is she who kill’d her husband’s brother!’
But if I refuse to poison Bogdan,
Never will my husband come to bless me!”
Thus she thought, until a thought relieved her;
She descended to the castle’s cavern,
Took the consecrated cup of blessing.
’Twas a cup of beaten gold her father
Had bestow’d upon his daughter’s nuptials;
Full of golden wine she fill’d the vessel,
And she bore it to her brother Bogdan.
Low to earth she bow’d herself before him,
And she kiss’d his hands and garments meekly.

“Lo! I bring to thee this cup, my brother!
This gold cup, with golden wine o’erflowing.
Give me for my cup a horse and falcon.”
Bogdan heard the lady speak complacent,
And most cheerfully gave steed and falcon.

Meanwhile through the day was Dmitar wandering
In the mountain-forest; nought he found there;
But chance brought him at the fall of evening
To a green lake far within the forest,
Where a golden-pinion’d duck was swimming.
Dmitar loosen’d then his grey-winged falcon,
Bade him seize the golden-pinion’d swimmer.
Faster than the hunter’s eye could follow,
Lo! the duck had seized the grey-wing’d falcon,
And against his sides had crush’d his pinion.
Soon as Dmitar Jakshich saw, he stripp’d him—
Stripp’d him swiftly of his hunting garments;
Speedily into the lake he plunged him,
And he bore his falcon from its waters.
Then with pitying voice he ask’d his falcon:
“Hast thou courage yet, my faithful falcon!
Now thy wings are from thy body riven?”

Whispering, said the falcon to his master:
“I without my pinions nought resemble,
But a brother riven from a brother.”
Then the thought pierced through the breast of Dmitar,
That his wife was charged to kill his brother.
Swift he threw him on his mighty courser—
Swift he hurried to Bijōgrad’s {62} fortress,
Praying that his brother had not perished.

He had hardly reach’d the bridge of Chekmel, {63}
When he spurr’d his raven steed so fiercely,
That the impetuous courser’s feet sank under,
And were crushed and broken on the pavement.
In his deep perplexity and trouble,
Dmitar took the saddle off his courser,
Flung it on the courser’s nether haunches,
And he fled alone to Belgrad’s fortress.
First he sought, impatient, for his lady—
“Angelia! thou my bride all faithful!
Tell me, tell me, hast thou kill’d my brother?”
Sweet indeed was Angelia’s answer:
“No! indeed, I have not killed thy brother;
To thy brother have I reconciled thee.”

THE BUILDING OF SKADRA. {64a}

BROTHERS three combined to build a fortress,
Brothers three, the brothers Mrljavchēvich,
Kral {64b} Vukāshin was the eldest brother;
And the second was Uglēsha-Voivode; {64c}
And the third, the youngest brother, Goiko.
Pull three years they labour’d at the fortress,
Skadra’s fortress on Bojana’s river;
Full three years three hundred workmen labour’d.
Vain th’ attempt to fix the wall’s foundation.
Vainer still to elevate the fortress:
Whatsoe’er at eve had raised the workmen
Did the Vila raze ere dawn of morning.

When the fourth year had begun its labours,
Lo! the Vila from the forest-mountain
Call’d—“Thou King Vukashin! vain thine efforts!—
Vain thine efforts—all thy treasures wasting!
Never, never wilt thou build the fortress,
If thou find not two same-titled beings,
If thou find not Stojan and Stojana: {65}
And these two—these two young twins so loving,
They must be immured in the foundation.
Thus alone will the foundations serve thee:
Thus alone can ye erect your fortress.”

When Vukashin heard the Vila’s language,
Soon he call’d to Dēssimir, his servant:
“Listen, Dessimir, my trusty servant!
Thou hast been my trusty servant ever;
Thou shalt be my son from this day onward.
Fasten thou my coursers to my chariot:
Load it with six lasts of golden treasures:
Travel through the whole wide world, and bring me,
Bring me back those two same-titled beings:
Bring me back that pair of twins so loving:
Bring me hither Stojan and Stojana:
Steal them, if with gold thou canst not buy them.
Bring them here to Scadra or Bojana:
We’ll inter them in the wall’s foundation:
So the wall’s foundations will be strengthened:
So we shall build up our Scadra’s fortress.”

Dessimir obey’d his master’s mandate;
Fasten’d, straight, the horses to the chariot;
Fill’d it with six lasts of golden treasures;
Through the whole wide world the trusty servant
Wander’d—asking for these same-named beings—
For the twins—for Stojan and Stojana:
Full three years he sought them,—sought them vainly:
Nowhere could he find these same-named beings:
Nowhere found he Stojan and Stojana.
Then he hasten’d homewards to his master;
Gave the king his horses and his chariot;
Gave him his six lasts of golden treasures:
“Here, my sov’reign, are thy steeds and chariot:
Here thou hast thy lasts of golden treasures:
Nowhere could I find those same-named beings:
Nowhere found I Stojan and Stojana.”

When Vukashin had dismiss’d his servant,
Straight he call’d his builder, master Rado.
Rado call’d on his three hundred workmen;
And they built up Scadra on Bojana;
But, at even did the Vila raze it:
Vainly did they raise the wall’s foundation;
Vainly seek to build up Scadra’s fortress.
And the Vila, from the mountain-forest,
Cried, “Vukashin, listen! listen to me!
Thou dost spill thy wealth, and waste thy labour:
Vainly seek’st to fix the wall’s foundations;
Vainly seek’st to elevate the fortress.
Listen now to me! Ye are three brothers:
Each a faithful wife at home possesses:—
Her who comes to-morrow to Bojana,
Her who brings the rations to the workmen—
Her immure within the wall’s foundations:—
So shall the foundations fix them firmly:
So shalt thou erect Bojana’s fortress.”

When the king Vukashin heard the Vila,
Both his brothers speedily he summon’d:
“Hear my words, now hear my words, my brothers!
From the forest-hill the Vila told me,
That we should no longer waste our treasures
In the vain attempt to raise the fortress
On a shifting, insecure foundation.
Said the Vila of the forest-mountain,
‘Each of you a faithful wife possesses;
Each a faithful bride that keeps your dwellings:
Her who to the fortress comes to-morrow,
Her who brings their rations to the workmen—
Her immure within the wall’s foundations;
So will the foundations bear the fortress:
So Bojana’s fortress be erected.’
Now then, brothers! in God’s holy presence
Let each swear to keep the awful secret;
Leave to chance whose fate ’twill be to-morrow
First to wend her way to Skadra’s river.”
And each brother swore, in God’s high presence,
From his wife to keep the awful secret.

When the night had on the earth descended,
Each one hasten’d to his own white dwelling;
Each one shared the sweet repast of evening;
Each one sought his bed of quiet slumber.

Lo! there happen’d then a wond’rous marvel!
First, Vukashin on his oath he trampled,
Whisp’ring to his wife the awful secret:
“Shelter thee! my faithful wife! be shelter’d!
Go not thou to-morrow to Bojana!
Bring not to the workmen food to-morrow!
Else, my fair! thy early life ’twill cost thee:
And beneath the walls they will immure thee!”

On his oath, too, did Uglesha trample!
And he gave his wife this early warning:
“Be not thou betray’d, sweet love! to danger!
Go not thou to-morrow to Bojana!
Carry not their rations to the workmen!
Else in earliest youth thy friend might lose thee:
Thou might’st be immured in the foundation!”

Faithful to his oath, young Goiko whisper’d
Not a breath to warn his lovely consort.

When the morning dawn’d upon the morrow,
All the brothers roused them at the day-break,
And each sped, as wont, to the Bojana.

Now, behold! two young and noble women;
They—half-sisters—they, the eldest sisters—
One is bringing up her snow-bleach’d linen,
Yet once more in summer sun to bleach it.
See! she comes on to the bleaching meadows;
There she stops—she comes not one step farther.
Lo! the second, with a red-clay pitcher;
Lo! she comes—she fills it at the streamlet;
There she talks with other women—lingers—
Yes! she lingers—comes not one step farther.

Goiko’s youthful wife at home is tarrying,
For she has an infant in the cradle
Not a full moon old, the little nursling:
But the moment of repast approaches;
And her aged mother then bestirs her;
Fain would call the serving maid, and bid her
Take the noon-tide meal to the Bojana.
“Nay, not so!” said the young wife of Goiko;
“Stay, sit down in peace, I pray thee, mother!
Rock the little infant in his cradle:
I myself will bear the food to Scadra.
In the sight of God it were a scandal,
An affront and shame among all people,
If, of three, no one were found to bear it.”

So she staid at home, the aged mother,
And she rock’d the nursling in the cradle.
Then arose the youthful wife of Goiko;
Gave them the repast, and bade them forward.
Call’d around her all the serving maidens;
When they reach’d Bojana’s flowing river,
They were seen by Mrljavchevich Goiko,
On his youthful wife, heart-rent, he threw him;
Flung his strong right arm around her body;
Kiss’d a thousand times her snowy forehead:
Burning tears stream’d swiftly from his eyelids,
As he spoke, in melancholy language:

“O my wife, my own! my full heart’s-sorrow!
Didst thou never dream that thou must perish?
Why hast thou our little one abandoned?
Who will bathe our little one, thou absent?
Who will bare the breast to feed the nursling?”
More, and more, and more, he fain would utter;
But the king allow’d it not. Vukashin,
By her white hand seizes her, and summons,
Master Rado,—he the master-builder;
And he summons his three hundred workmen.

But the young-espoused one smiles, and deems it
All a laughing jest,—no fear o’ercame her.
Gathering round her, the three hundred workmen
Pile the stones and pile the beams about her.
They have now immured her to the girdle.

Higher rose the walls and beams, and higher;
Then the wretch first saw the fate prepared her,
And she shriek’d aloud in her despairing;
In her woe implored her husband’s brothers:

“Can ye think of God?—have ye no pity?
Can ye thus immure me, young and healthful?”
But in vain, in vain were her entreaties;
And her brothers left her thus imploring.

Shame and fear succeeded then to censure,
And she piteously invoked her husband:
“Can it, can it be, my lord and husband,
That so young, thou, reckless, would’st immure me?
Let us go and seek my aged mother:
Let us go—my mother she is wealthy:
She will buy a slave,—a man or woman,
To be buried in the walls’ foundations.”

When the mother-wife—the wife and mother,
Found her earnest plaints and prayers neglected,
She address’d herself to Neimar {74} Rado:
“In God’s name, my brother, Neimar Rado,
Leave a window for this snowy bosom,
Let this snowy bosom heave it freely;
When my voiceless Jovo shall come near me,
When he comes, O let him drain my bosom!”
Rado bade the workmen all obey her,
Leave a window for that snowy bosom,
Let that snowy bosom heave it freely
When her voiceless Jovo shall come near her,
When he comes, he’ll drink from out her bosom.

Once again she cried to Neimar Rado,
“Neimar Rado! in God’s name, my brother!
Leave for these mine eyes a little window,
That these eyes may see our own white dwelling,
When my Jovo shall be brought towards me,
When my Jovo shall be carried homeward.”
Rado bade the workmen all obey her,
Leave for those bright eyes a little window,
That her eyes may see her own white dwelling,
When they bring her infant Jovo to her,
When they take the infant Jovo homeward.

So they built the heavy wall about her,
And then brought the infant in his cradle,
Which a long, long while his mother suckled.
Then her voice grew feeble—then was silent:
Still the stream flow’d forth and nursed the infant:
Full a year he hung upon her bosom;
Still the stream flow’d forth—and still it floweth. {75a}
Women, when the life-stream dries within them,
Thither come—the place retains its virtue—
Thither come, to still their crying infants. {75b}

BATTLE OF KOSSOVA.

FROM Jerusalem, the holy city,
Lo! there flew a gray and royal falcon;
With him came a little flitting swallow.
No! it was no gray and royal falcon;
’Twas Elias! ’twas the holy prophet;
And he brought no little flitting swallow,
But a letter from God’s holy mother
To the Emperor, from Polje Kossova; {76}
At the Emperor’s feet he drops the letter:
And the letter thus address’d the Emperor!

“Tzar Lasar! thou tzar of noble lineage!
Tell me now, what kingdom hast thou chosen?
Wilt thou have heaven’s kingdom for thy portion,
Or an earthly kingdom? If an earthly,
Saddle thy good steed—and gird him tightly;
Let thy heroes buckle on their sabres,
Smite the Turkish legions like a tempest,
And these legions all will fly before thee.
But if thou wilt have heaven’s kingdom rather,
Speedily erect upon Kossova,
Speedily erect a church—of marble;
Not of marble, but of silk and scarlet; {77}
That the army, to its vespers going,
May from sin be purged—for death be ready:
For thy warriors all are doom’d to stumble;
Thou, too, prince, wilt perish with thy army!”

When the Tzar Lasar had read the writing,
Many were his thoughts and long his musings.
“Lord my God! what—which shall be my portion,
Which my choice of these two proffer’d kingdoms?
Shall I choose heaven’s kingdom? shall I rather
Choose an earthly one?—for what is earthly
Is all fleeting, vain, and unsubstantial;
Heavenly things are lasting, firm, eternal.”
So the Tzar preferr’d a heavenly kingdom
Rather than an earthly.—On Kossova
Straight he builds a church, but not of marble;
Not of marble, but of silk and scarlet:
Then he calls the patriarch of Servia,
Calls around him all the twelve archbishops,
Bids them make the holy supper ready,
Purify the warriors from their errors,
And for death’s last conflict make them ready.

So the warriors were prepared for battle,
And the Turkish hosts approach’d Kossova.
Bogdan leads hit valiant heroes forward,
With his sons—nine sons—the Jugovichi,
Sharp and keen—nine gray and noble falcons.
Each led on nine thousand Servian warriors;
And the aged Jug led twenty thousand.

With the Turks began the bloody battle.
Seven pashas were overcome and scattered,
But the eighth pasha came onwards boldly.
And the aged Jug Bogdan has fallen—
Fallen with his sons—nine Jugovichi,
Nine gray noble falcons—all have fallen;
And the host has fallen with its leaders!

Forward press the Mrljashevich warriors,
Ban Uglesha and the Voivode Goiko;
And with them the monarch Tzar Vukashin:
Each one leads full thirty thousand warriors.
With the Turks begins the bloody battle;
Eight pashas are soon o’erwhelm’d and perish,
But the ninth pasha comes boldly onwards—
Brothers Mrljashevich twain have fallen,
Ban Uglesha and the Voivode Goiko,
With a grievous wound sinks down Vukashin,
He is trodden on by Turkish horses,
And the warriors perish with their leaders.

Now the ducal Stephan presses forward:
Strong and mighty is the ducal army;
Strong and powerful; sixty thousand warriors.
And the battle with the Turks is raging;
Nine pashas are soon o’erwhelm’d and perish;
But the tenth pasha comes boldly onward;
And the ducal Stephan is o’erpower’d,
And his warriors perish with their leader.

Then Lasar, the noble lord of Servia;
Seeks Kossova with his mighty army;
Seven and seventy thousand Servian warriors.
How the infidels retire before him,
Dare not look upon his awful visage!
Now indeed begins the glorious battle.
He had triumph’d then,—had triumph’d proudly,
But that Vuk—the curse of God be on him!
He betray’d his father at Kossova.

So the Turks the Servian monarch vanquish’d,
So Lasar he fell, the Tzar of Servia—
With Lasar fell all the Servian army.
But they have been honour’d, and are holy,
In the keeping of the God of heaven.

THE HOLY NICHOLAS.

GOD of mercy! what a wond’rous wonder!
Such a wonder ne’er before was witness’d.
In Saint Paul’s—within the holy cloister,
Gather’d round a golden table, seated
In three ranks, the saints are all collected;
O’er them sits the thunderer Elias; {81a}
In the midst are Sava and Maria;
At the ends are Petka and Nedelia;
And their health the holy Nicholas pledges,
Pledges them their health to Jesus’ glory. {81b}
But behold, behold the saint!—he slumbers;
From his hand the cup of wine has fallen,
Fallen from it on the golden table:
Yet the wine’s unspilt,—the cup unbroken.
Then laugh’d out the thunderer Elias:
“O my brother! O thou holy Nicholas:
Often drank we cooling wine together;
But it was our duty not to slumber,
Not to drop the cup—And tell me, brother,
Why to-day does slumber’s power subdue thee?”

Him thus answer’d Nicholas the holy:
“Jest not thus with me, thou sainted thunderer!
For I fell asleep, and dreamt three hundred,
Dreamt three hundred friars had embark’d them
In one vessel on the azure ocean;
Bearing offerings to the holy mountain,
Offerings,—golden wax, and snowy incense.
From the clouds there broke a furious tempest,
Lash’d the blue waves of the trembling ocean,
Scooping watery graves for all the friars.
Then I heard their blended voices call me,
‘Help, O God! and help, O holy Nicholas!
Would that thou, where’er thou art, wert with us!’
So I hurried down to help the suppliants—
So I saved the whole three hundred friars—
So I shipped them full of joy and courage;
Brought their offerings to the holy mountain,
Brought their golden wax, their snowy incense;—
And meanwhile I seem’d in gentle slumber,
And my cup fell on the golden table.”

ERDELSKA’S BANITZA.

Lo! Erdelska’s lady {84a} reared a fir-tree,
And invoked the fir-tree—thus invok’d it:
“Grow thou, fir-tree, to the height of heaven!
To the green grass bend thy spreading branches;
Let me mount upon thy branches, fir-tree!
From those branches see the white-wall’d Buda,
And in Buda see the Budan Jovan.
Does he bear himself as once he bore him;
Does the feather wave upon his Kalpak; {84b}
Does his steed still bear his high head proudly?”
Thus she spoke and thought that no one heard her;
But the Ban of Transylvania heard her,
Even her lord, the Ban, and thus address’d her:
“Now, by heaven, thou Erdelskan Banitza;
Why is Buda fairer than Erdelska?
Why is Jovan nobler than thy husband?”
Thus replied the Erdelskan Banitza:
“Buda is not fairer than Erdelska,
Jovan is not nobler than my husband.
But my first, my earliest joy, was Jovan;
My first joy—a cup with flowers full laden,
Second joy—a cup with wine o’erflowing,
My third joy—a cup fill’d up with wormwood.”

THE MOORISH KING’S DAUGHTER.

ONCE the mother of the princely Marko
Thus address’d her son:—“Now, Marko, tell me
Why hast thou so many a shrine erected?
Is it for thy sins in lowly penance?
Is it that thy wealth is overflowing?”

Then the noble prince address’d his mother:
“Now, by Heav’n, I’ll tell thee! Erst I travell’d,
Aged mother! in the Moorish country:
To the water-cisterns sped me early,
To refresh my Sharaz:—round the cisterns
Were a dozen Moorish men assembled:
Through the Moors I fain would reach the water—
Reach the water to refresh my Sharaz:
But the dozen Moorish men opposed me,
And we there began a bloody struggle—
There my trusty club aloft I lifted:
One of the black Moors with earth I levell’d:
One I struck to earth,—eleven assail’d me:
Two I struck to earth,—and ten attack’d me:
Three I struck to earth,—and nine engaged me:
Four I struck to earth,—and twice four smote me:
Five I struck to earth, and strove with seven:
Six I struck to earth, and faced as many:
But the six o’erpower’d the weary Marko;
And they bound my hands, and bore me swiftly,
Bore me swiftly to the Moorish palace;
And the monarch sent me to a prison.

“Seven long years I dwelt within my dungeon:
Nothing knew I of the summer’s dawning;
Nothing knew I of returning winter;
Nothing knew I, mother, but that snow-balls,
Snow-balls oft were thrown into my prison—
Thrown into my prison by the maidens:
So I knew it was the winter season.
Sometimes maidens flung me Basil-garlands,
So I knew it was the dawn of summer.
When the eighth year broke upon thy Marko,
It was not my dungeon that distress’d me:
’Twas the sorrow of a Moorish maiden,
And she was the Moorish monarch’s daughter.
When the morn return’d, and when the ev’ning,
To my dungeon-window came she greeting:—
“Nay! thou shalt not perish in thy prison,
Thou poor Marko! give me but thy promise
That thou wilt espouse the Moorish maiden,
When the maiden has unlock’d thy prison—
When she has released thy faithful Sharaz.
I will bring a heap of golden ducats:
All the ducats thou canst wish for, Marko.”

“When I heard her in my misery, mother!
From my head I took my cap, and laid it
On my knees,—and twice I swore upon it:
‘By my faith! I’ll never leave thee, maiden!
By my faith! I never will betray thee!
E’en the golden sun is sometimes treach’rous—
Shines not out in winter as in summer—
But my word, my faith, shall be unchanging!”

And the maiden drank the dear delusion:
She believed the oath that I had sworn her;
And when ev’ning’s fall the earth had shaded,
She flung ope the portals of my dungeon:
From my prison-house she brought me, mother,
Brought me to my proud and prancing Sharaz:
For herself she brought a steed yet nobler:
Both were loaded well with bags of ducats:
And she brought my bright and faithful sabre.
On our steeds we sprung, and swiftly sped us,
In the darkness, from that Moorish country.

“But at last the twilight dawn’d upon us,
And I flung me on the ground to slumber:
And the Moorish maiden laid her near me:
And she threw her ebon arms around me:
But, as daylight came, and I, O mother!
Saw how black her face, her teeth how ivory,
Such a fright, and such a shuddering seized me,
That I drew the sabre from its scabbard,
Plunged it deeply through her silken girdle;
Through and through the bloody sabre smote her.
“Then I sprung upon the back of Sharaz,
And I heard the maiden’s lips address me:
‘Thou in God my brother! thou, O Marko!
Leave me not!—thus wretched do not leave me!”

“Therefore, mother! do I lowly penance:
Thus, my mother! have I gold o’erflowing:
Therefore seek I righteous deeds unceasing.”

MARKO AND THE TURKS.

VISIR Amurath is gone a-hunting;
Hunting in the leafy mountain-forest:
With him hunt twelve warriors, Turkish heroes:
With the heroes hunts the noble Marko:
White days three they hunted in the mountain;
Nothing found they in the mountain-forest.
But, behold! while in the forest hunting,
They a lake, a green-faced lake, discover,
Where a flock of gold-winged ducks are swimming.

There the proud Visir lets loose his falcon,
Bids him pounce upon a gold-wing’d swimmer;
But the falcon turned his glances upwards,
And he mounted to the clouds of heaven.
To the proud Visir said princely Marko:
“Visir Amurath! is it allowed me
To let loose my own, my favourite falcon?
He a gold-wing’d duck shall doubtless bring thee.”
And the Moslem swiftly answer’d Marko:
“’Tis allow’d thee, Marko! I allow thee.”
Then the princely Marko loosed his falcon;
To the clouds of heaven aloft he mounted;
Then he sprung upon the gold-wing’d swimmer—
Seized him—rose—and down they fell together.
When the bird of Amurath sees the struggle,
He becomes indignant with vexation:
’T was of old his custom to play falsely—
For himself alone to gripe his booty:
So he pounces down on Marko’s falcon,
To deprive him of his well-earn’d trophy,
But the bird was valiant as his master;
Marko’s falcon has the mind of Marko:
And his gold-wing’d prey he will not yield him.
Sharply turns he round on Amurath’s falcon,
And he tears away his proudest feathers.

Soon as the Visir observes the contest,
He is fill’d with sorrow and with anger;
Rushes on the falcon of Prince Marko,
Flings him fiercely ’gainst a verdant fir-tree,
And he breaks the falcon’s dexter pinion.
Marko’s noble falcon groans in suffering,
As the serpent hisses from the cavern.
Marko flies to help his favourite falcon,
Binds with tenderness the wounded pinion,
And with stifled rage the bird addresses:
“Woe for thee, and woe for me, my falcon!
I have left my Servians—I have hunted
With the Turks—and all these wrongs have suffer’d.”
Then the hunters in their course pass’d by him—
Pass’d him by, and left him sad and lonely.
There his falcon’s wounds to heal he tarried—
Tarried long amidst the mountain-forests.
When the wounds were heal’d, he sprung on Sharaz,
Spurr’d his steed, and gallop’d o’er the mountain;
Sped as swiftly as the mountain Vila.
Soon he leaves the mountain far behind him:
Reaching then the gloomy mountain’s borders;
On the plain beneath him, with his heroes—
Turkish heroes twelve, the princely Marko
The Visir descries, who looks around him,
Sees the princely Marko in the distance,
And thus calls upon his twelve companions:

“Ye, my children! ye, twelve Turkish heroes!
See ye yonder mountain-mist approaching,
From the darksome mountain travelling hither?
In that mountain-mist is princely Marko;
Lo! how fiercely urges he his courser!
God defend us now from every evil!”
Soon the princely Marko reach’d the Moslems,
From the sheath he drew his trusty sabre,
Drove that arm’d Visir and all his warriors—
Drove them from him—o’er the desert scatters,
As the vulture drives a flock of sparrows.
Marko soon overtakes the flying warriors,
From his neck their chieftain’s head he sever’d;
And the dozen youths his trusty sabre
Into four-and-twenty halves divided.

Then he stood a while in doubtful musing;
Should he go to Jedren {95a} to the sultan—
Should he rather seek his home at Prilip? {95b}
After all his musings he determined:
“Better is it that I seek the sultan;
And let Marko tell the deeds of Marko—
Not the foes of Marko—not the Moslems!”

So the hero Marko speeds to Jedren.
To the sultan in divan he enter’d;
And his fiery eyes look’d fiercely round him,
As the hungry wolves around the forest;
Look’d as fiercely as if charged with lightnings.
And the sultan ask’d the hero Marko,
“Tell me what hath vex’d thee, princely Marko?
Say in what the sultan has annoy’d thee?
Tell me what misfortune has disturb’d thee?”
Then the princely Marko tells the sultan
What with Amurath visir had happened;
And the sultan feign’d a merry laughter:
And with agitated brow responded,
“Blessings be upon thee, princely Marko!
Hadst thou not behaved thee thus, my Marko,
Son of mine I would no longer call thee.
Any Turk may get a visir’s title,
But there is no hero like my Marko.”

From his silken vestments then the sultan
From his purse drew out a thousand ducats,
Threw the golden ducats to the hero:
“Take these ducats from thy master, Marko,
Drink to my prosperity, thou hero!”

Marko took the purse of gold in silence,
Walk’d away in silence from the palace;
’T was no love of Marko—no intention
That the hero’s lips should pledge the sultan:
’T was that he should quit the monarch’s presence,
For his fearful wrath had been awaken’d.

DEATH OF KRALEVICH MARKO.

AT the dawn of day the noble Marko
Rode in sunlight on the Sabbath morning;
By the sea, along the Urvinian mountain,
Towards the mountain-top as he ascended;
Suddenly his trusty Sharaz stumbled;
Sharaz stumbled, and began to weep there.
Sad it fell upon the heart of Marko,
And he thus address’d his favourite Sharaz—
“Ah! my faithful friend, my trusty Sharaz,
We have dwelt a hundred years and sixty,
Dwelt together as beloved companions,
And till now have never, never stumbled.
Thou hast stumbled now, my trusty Sharaz,
Thou hast stumbled, and thine eyes are weeping.
God alone can tell what fate awaits me;—
One of us is surely doom’d to perish,
And my life or thine is now in peril.”

While the prince apostrophized his Sharaz,
Lo! the Vila from Urvina’s mountain
Call’d aloud unto the princely Marko:
“Brother, listen—listen, princely Marko!
Know’st thou why thy faithful Sharaz stumbled?
Know that he was mourning for his master;
Know that ye ere long must be divided.”
Marko answer’d thus the mountain Vila:
“Thou white Vila, let a curse be on thee! {98}
Now shall I be parted from my Sharaz,
Who through many a land and town hath borne me,
From the sun’s uprising to his setting.
Better steed ne’er trod the earth than Sharaz,
As than Marko never better hero.
While my head stays firmly on my shoulders,
Never will I from my steed be sever’d.”

The white Vila answer’d princely Marko:
“Brother, listen!—listen, princely Marko!
Force will never tear thy Sharaz from thee;
Vainly ’gainst thee would the arm of hero
Be uplifted—not the shining sabre,
Not the battle-club—nor lance of warrior.
Earth no hero holds who can alarm thee;—
But the brave must die—and thou art mortal;
God will smite thee—God, the old blood-shedder. {99}
But if thou would’st doubt the mountain Vila,
Hasten to the summit of the mountain,
Look to right and look to left around thee:
Thou wilt see two tall and slender fir-trees,
Fir-trees towering o’er the mountain forests;
They with verdant leaves are cover’d over;
And between the fir-trees is a fountain.
Look! and afterwards rein back thy Sharaz,
Then alight, and bind him to the fir-tree:
Bend thee down,—and look into the fountain;
Look—as if the fountain were a mirror;
Look, and thou shalt see when death awaits thee.”

Marko did, as counsell’d by the Vila.
When he came upon the mountain summit,
To the right and left he look’d around him;
Then he saw two tall and slender fir-trees,
Fir-trees towering high above the forest,
Covered all with verdant leaves and branches.
Then he rein’d his faithful Sharaz backwards,
Then dismounted—tied him to the fir-tree;
Bent him down, and looked into the fountain,
Saw his face upon the water mirror’d,
Saw his death-day written on the water.

Tears rush’d down the visage of the hero:
“O thou faithless world!—thou lovely flow’ret!
Thou wert lovely—a short pilgrim’s journey—
Short—though I have seen three centuries over—
And ’tis time that I should end my journey!”

Then he drew his sharp and shining sabre,
Drew it forth—and loosed the sabre-girdle;
And he hasten’d to his faithful Sharaz:
With one stroke he cleft his head asunder,
That he never should by Turk be mounted,
Never be disgraced in Turkish service,
Water draw, or drag a Moslem’s Jugum. {101}
Soon as he had cleaved his head asunder,
Graved a grave he for his faithful Sharaz,
Nobler grave than that which held his brother.
Then he broke in four his trusty sabre,
That it might not be a Moslem’s portion,
That it might not be a Moslem’s triumph,
That it might not be a wreck of Marko,
Which the curse of Christendom should follow.
Soon as he in four had broke his sabre,
Next he broke his trusty lance in seven;
Threw the fragments to the fir-trees’ branches.
Then he took his club, so terror-striking,
In his strong right hand, and swiftly flung it,
Flung it from the mountain of Urvina,
Far into the azure, gloomy ocean.
To his club thus spake the hero Marko:
“When my club returneth from the ocean,
Shall a hero come to equal Marko.”

When he thus had scatter’d all his weapons,
From his breast he drew a golden tablet;
From his pocket drew unwritten paper,
And the princely Marko thus inscribed it:
“He who visits the Urvina mountain,
He who seeks the fountain ’neath the fir-trees,
And there finds the hero Marko’s body,
Let him know that Marko is departed.
When he died, he had three well-fill’d purses;—
How well fill’d?—well fill’d with golden ducats.
One shall be his portion, and my blessing,
Who shall dig a grave for Marko’s body:
Let the second be the church’s portion;
Let the third be given to blind and maim’d ones,
That the blind through earth in peace may wander,
And with hymns laud Marko’s deeds of glory.”

And when Marko had inscribed the letter,
Lo! he stuck it on the fir-tree’s branches,
That it might be seen by passing travellers.
In the fount he threw his golden tablets,
Doff’d his vest of green, and spread it calmly
On the grass, beneath a sheltering fir-tree;
Cross’d him, and lay down upon his garment;
O’er his eyes he drew his samur-kalpak, {103}
Laid him down,—yes! laid him down for ever.

By the fountain lay the clay-cold Marko
Day and night;—a long, long week he lay there.
Many travellers pass’d, and saw the hero,—
Saw him lying by the public path-way;
And while passing, said, “The hero slumbers!”
Then they kept a more than common distance,
Fearing that they might disturb the hero.

Fortune is the leader of misfortune,
As misfortune oft is fortune’s leader:
’T was a happy fortune, then, that Vaso,
He the _Iguman_ {104a} of the _Holy Mountain_, {104b}
From the white church bound of Vilindari,
With his scholar, with the young Isaja,
Thither came and saw the sleeping Marko.
His right hand then beckon’d to his scholar:
“O, my son, be cautious, lest thou wake him!
When disturb’d he rages full of fury,
And without remorse he might destroy us.”
Then he look’d in anxious terror round him,
Saw the letter on the fir-tree branches;
Read it from a distance;—as he trembled,
Read that Marko had in death departed.
From his horse the astonish’d monk alighted,
Seized the hand of Marko;—Marko moved not!
Long he had been dead,—long since departed!

Tears rush’d swiftly from the eye of Vaso,
Marko’s fate fill’d all his thoughts with sorrow.
From the girdle then he took the purses,
Which he hid beneath his own white girdle:
Round and round inquired Iguman Vaso
Where he should entomb the hero Marko; {105}
Round and round he look’d in fond inquiry.
On his horse he flung the hero’s body,
Brought it safely to the ocean’s borders,
Thence he shipped it for the Holy Mountain;
Near the white church, Vilindari, landed,
To that white church he convey’d the body;
And, as wont, upon the hero’s body
Funeral hymns were sung; and he was buried
In the white church aisle, the very centre,—
There the old man placed the hero’s body.
But no monument he raised above him,
Lest when foes should mark the hero’s grave-stone,
Theirs should be the joy, and theirs the triumph. {106}

LYRICS, SONGS, AND OCCASIONAL POEMS.

THE CURSE.