Part 2

The collection of popular songs, _Narodne __srpske pjesme_, from which most of those which occupy this volume are taken, was made by Vuk, and committed to paper either from early recollections, or from the repetition of Servian minstrels. These, he informs us, and his statement is corroborated by every intelligent traveller, form a very small portion of the treasure of song which exists unrecorded among the peasantry. How so much of beautiful anonymous poetry should have been created in so perfect a form, is a subject well worthy of inquiry. Among a people who look to music and song as a source of enjoyment, the habit of improvisation grows up imperceptibly, and engages all the fertilities of imagination in its exercise. The thought which first finds vent in a poetical form, if worth preservation, is polished and perfected as it passes from lip to lip, till it receives the stamp of popular approval, and becomes as it were a national possession. There is no text-book, no authentic record, to which it can be referred, whose authority should interfere with its improvement. The poetry of a people is a common inheritance, which one generation transfers sanctioned and amended to another. Political adversity, too, strengthens the attachment of a nation to the records of its ancient prosperous days. The harps may be hung on the willows for a while, during the storm and the struggle, but when the tumult is over, they will be strung again to repeat the old songs, and recall the time gone by.

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The historical ballads, which are in lines composed of five trochaics, are always sung with the accompaniment of the _Gusle_. At the end of every verse, the singer drops his voice, and mutters a short cadence. The emphatic passages are chanted in a louder tone. “I cannot describe,” says Wessely, “the pathos with which these songs are sometimes sung. I have witnessed crowds surrounding a blind old singer, and every cheek was wet with tears—it was not the music, it was the words which affected them.” As this simple instrument, the Gusle, is never used but to accompany the poetry of the Servians, and as it is difficult to find a Servian who does not play upon it, the universality of their popular ballads may be well imagined.

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Independently of the measure of ten syllables, universally used in the ballads of the Servians, they have verses of seven syllables, consisting of two trochaics and one dactyl:

Wĭlt thoŭ lōve thy̆ Mīlĭtză?

Of eight syllables, consisting of four trochaics: as,

Hāstăn ōnwărd tō thě wēddĭng.

And of one trochaic between two dactyls:

Mērrĭly̆, dāncĭng, mērrĭly̆.

Of ten syllables, two trochaics and two dactyls:

Mōrăvă’s bānks ăre trōd by̆ thě māidĕn.

Of twelve syllables, composed of two trochaics and one iambic:

Gō thěn, Kūm, thŏu lōv’d ŏne, wāits shě fŏr thēe.

And of thirteen syllables, namely, four trochaics, a dactyl, and a closing trochaic:

Lōok ăroūnd, thŏu lōvěly Crētă, smīlĭngly lŏok rōund.

The translations which have appeared in Germany under the name of Talvj are the work of an amiable woman (Theresa von Jacob), who having passed the earlier part of her life in Russia, and possessing a mind cultivated by literature, and captivated by the natural beauties of Servian poetry, has most successfully devoted herself to their diffusion.

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Professor Eugenius Wessely, of Vinkovcze in Slavonia, has also published a small volume of Translations from the Nuptial Songs of the Servians; {0m} the renderings have the merit of perfect fidelity, and his introduction contains many interesting illustrations of Servian manners.

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In the following translations I have, in all the narrative poetry, preserved the original measure. _Rhyme_ is seldom used by the Servians. It is found in some of the shorter lyrical pieces, in the rendering of which I have allowed myself some latitude of expression. But the wish, above all things, to preserve most faithfully the character of the original, has prevented my introducing many very obvious decorations, and my veiling many equally obvious defects. To fidelity, at least, this volume may lay an honest claim. I have endeavoured to avail myself of all the authors who have written on the subject, particularly of the valuable criticisms of Dr. Kopitar in the Vienna _Iahrbuch der Litteratur_, of the works of Göthe, Grimm, and Vater. The notes attached to Talvj’s translation I have employed, without any special reference to them.

HISTORICAL, TRADITIONAL, AND RELIGIOUS BALLADS.

ABDUCTION OF THE BEAUTIFUL ICONIA.

GOLDEN wine drinks Theodore of Stalach, {3} In his Castle Stalach, on Morava; Pours him out the wine his aged mother. While the wine-fumes to his head were rising, Thus his mother spoke unto the hero:

“Son of mine! thou Theodore of Stalach! Tell me, wherefore hast thou not espoused thee? Thou art in thy youthful days of beauty; In thy dwelling now thine aged mother Fain would see thy children play around her.”

And he answer’d—Theodore of Stalach— “God is witness, O my aged mother! I have roamed through many a land and city, But I never found the sought-for maiden; Or, when found the maiden, found I never Friendly feelings in thy mind towards her; And where thou hast shown thy friendly feeling, There I found the maiden false and faithless. But, as yesterday, at hour of sunset, I was wandering near Resava’s river, Lo! I glanced on thirty lovely maidens On its banks their yarn and linen bleaching: ’Midst them was the beauteous Iconia, Fairest daughter of the Prince Milutin, He the princely sovereign of Resava. She, indeed, would be a bride to cherish; She, indeed, were worthy of thy friendship: But that maiden is betrothed already; She is promised unto George Irēnē— To Irene, for Sredoi, his kinsman. But I’ll win that maiden—I will win her, Or will perish in the deed, my mother!”

But his mother counsell’d him and warn’d him— “Say not so, my son! the maid is promised; ’Tis no jest! she is of monarchs’ kindred.”

But the hero cared not for his mother: Loud he called to Dōbrivi, his servant— “Dobrivi! come hither, trusty servant! Bring my brown steed forth, and make him ready— Make him ready with the silver saddle; Rein him with the gold-embroider’d bridle.” When the steed was ready, forth he hasten’d, Flung him on his back, and spurr’d him onward To the gentle river of Morava, Flowing through Resava’s quiet levels.

And he reach’d Resava’s gentle river: There again he saw the thirty maidens— There he saw the beauteous Iconia. Then the hero feign’d a sudden sickness; Ask’d for help; and sped her courteous greeting— “God above be with thee, lovely maiden!” And the loveliest to his words made answer, “And with thee be bliss, thou stranger-warrior!”

“Lovely maiden! for the love of heaven, Wilt thou give one cup of cooling water? For a fiery fever glows within me; From my steed I dare not rise, fair maiden! For my steed, he hath a trick of evil— Twice he will not let his rider mount him.”

Warm and earnest was the maiden’s pity, And, with gentle voice, she thus address’d him: “Nay! not so—not so, thou unknown warrior! Harsh and heavy is Resava’s water; Harsh and heavy e’en for healthful warriors; How much worse for fever-sickening tired ones! Wait, and I a cup of wine will bring thee.”

Swiftly tripp’d the maiden to her dwelling; With a golden cup of wine return’d she, Which she reach’d to Theodore of Stalach. Out he stretch’d his hand; but not the wine cup, But the maiden’s hand, he seized, and flung her, Flung her on his chesnut steed behind him; Thrice he girt her with his leathern girdle, And the fourth time with his sword-belt bound her; And he bore her to his own white {7} dwelling.

THE STEPSISTERS.

NEAR each other grew two verdant larches, And, between, a high and slender fir-tree: Not two larches were they—not two larches, Not a high and slender fir between them— They were brothers, children of one mother. One was Paul; the other brother, Radul. And, between them, Jēlitza, their sister. Cordial was the love her brothers bore her; Many a token of affection gave her, Many a splendid gift and many a trifle, And at last a knife, in silver hafted, And adorn’d with gold, they gave their sister.

When the youthful wife of Paul had heard it, Jealousy swell’d up within her bosom: And she call’d, enraged, to Radul’s lady: “Sister mine! thou in the Lord my sister, {9} Dost thou know some plant of demon-virtue, Which may bring our sister to perdition?” Radul’s wife her sister swiftly answered— “In the name of God, what mean’st thou sister? Of such cursed weeds I know not.—Did I, Never would I tell thee of them, never; For my brothers love me; yes! they love me— To their love full many a gift bears witness.”

When Paul’s youthful wife had heard her sister, To the steed she hastened in the meadow, Gave the steed a mortal wound, and hurried To her husband, whom she thus accosted:— “Evil is the love thou bear’st thy sister, And thy gifts are worse than wasted to her; She has stabb’d thy courser in the meadow.”

Paul inquired of Jelitza, his sister, “Why this deed, as God shall recompense thee!”

High and loudly then the maid protested, “By my life, it was not I, my brother; By my life, and by thy life, I swear it!” And the brother doubted not his sister. Which when Paul’s young wife perceived, at even To the garden secretly she hasten’d, Wrung the neck of Paul’s grey noble falcon,— To her husband sped she then and told him: “Evil is the love thou bear’st thy sister, And thy gifts to her are worse than wasted; Lo! she has destroy’d thy favourite falcon.”

Paul inquired of Jelitza his sister, “Tell me why, and so may God reward thee!”

But his sister swore both high and loudly, “’Twas not I, upon my life, my brother; On my life and thine, I did not do it!” And the brother still believed his sister. When the youthful bride of Paul discover’d This, she slunk at evening,—evening’s meal-time, Stole the golden knife, and with it murder’d, Murder’d her poor infant in the cradle! And when morning’s dawning brought the morning, She aroused her husband by her screaming Shrieking woe; she tore her cheeks, exclaiming: “Evil is the love thou bear’st thy sister, And thy gifts to her are worse than wasted; She has stabb’d our infant in the cradle! Will thine incredulity now doubt me? Lo! the knife is in thy sister’s girdle.”

Up sprang Paul, like one possess’d by madness; To the upper floor he hasten’d wildly; There his sister on her mats was sleeping, And the golden knife beneath her pillow. Swift he seized the golden knife,—and drew it— Drew it, panting, from its silver scabbard;— It was damp with blood—’twas red and gory!

When the noble Paul saw this, he seized her,— Seized her by her own white hand, and cursed her: “Let the curse of God be on thee, sister! Thou didst murder, too, my favourite courser; Thou didst murder, too, my noble falcon; But thou should’st have spared the helpless baby.”

Higher yet his sister swore, and louder— “’Twas not I, upon my life, my brother; On my life, and on thy life, I swear it! But if thou wilt disregard my swearing, Take me to the open fields—the desert; Bind thy sister to the tails of horses; Let four horses tear my limbs asunder.” But the brother trusted not his sister: Furiously he seized her white hand—bore her To the distant fields—the open desert: To the tails of four fierce steeds he bound her, And he drove them forth across the desert;— But, where’er a drop of blood fell from her, There a flower sprung up,—a fragrant flow’ret; Where her body fell when dead and mangled, There a church arose from out the desert.

Little time was spent, ere fatal sickness Fell upon Paul’s youthful wife;—the sickness Nine long years lay on her,—heavy sickness! ’Midst her bones the matted dog-grass sprouted, And amidst it nestled angry serpents, Which, though hidden, drank her eyelight’s brightness. Then she mourn’d her misery—mourn’d despairing; Thus she spoke unto her lord and husband: “O convey me, Paul, my lord and husband! To thy sister’s church convey me swiftly; For that church, perchance, may heal and save me.”

So, when Paul had heard his wife’s petition, To his sister’s church he swiftly bore her. Hardly had they reach’d the church’s portal, When a most mysterious voice address’d them: “Come not here, young woman! come not hither! For this church can neither heal nor save thee.” Bitter was her anguish when she heard it; And her lord the woman thus entreated: “In the name of God! my lord! my husband! Never, never bear me to our dwelling. Bind me to the wild steeds’ tails, and drive them; Drive them to the immeasurable desert; Let them tear my wretched limbs asunder.”

Paul then listened to his wife’s entreaties: To the tails of four wild steeds he bound her; Drove them forth across the mighty desert. Wheresoe’er a drop of blood fell from her, There sprang up the rankest thorns and nettles. Where her body fell, when dead, the waters Rush’d and form’d a lake both still and stagnant. O’er the lake there swam a small black courser: By his side a golden cradle floated: On the cradle sat a young grey falcon: In the cradle, slumbering, lay an infant: On its throat the white hand of its mother: And that hand a golden knife was holding.

THE BROTHERS.

Two young boys a happy mother nurtured; Nurtured them through years of dearth and sorrow; Ever toiling at her restless spindle. Sweetest names she gave her hopeful children; One was named Predrāg, {15a}—Nenād {15b} the other. When Predrag could spring upon his courser, Rein his courser, and his weapon brandish, Lo! he left his home and aged mother, To the mountain fled, and join’d the bandits: And Nenad alone was left to cheer her. Of his brother’s fate he nothing guess’d at; But, as soon as he could mount his courser, Rein his courser, and his weapon brandish, He too left his home, and aged mother, To the mountains fled, and join’d the bandits.

Three long years he dwelt among the bandits: He was full of wisdom and discretion; And in every fray him fortune favour’d: He became the leader of the bandits. Full three years he bore him as their leader; Then did mother-longings move his spirit, And he thus address’d his fellow-robbers:

“Comrades mine! mine own beloved comrades! I have heartfelt longings for my mother. Let us, comrades! now divide our treasures, And let each go home and seek his mother.” Willingly they listened to his counsel; And, as each received his destined portion, Many a loud oath swore they in their gladness: By their brothers swore they, and their sisters. And Nenad, their leader, piled his treasure, And again address’d his fellow-robbers:

“Comrades mine! mine own beloved comrades! I no brother have—no sister have I; But I swear by the eternal heaven, Be my right hand smitten by the palsy, Let my good steed’s mane be shrunk and shrivell’d, My sharp sabre rust within its scabbard, If I add one para to my treasure!”

So the robbers all their gold partition’d. Sprung Nenad upon his own good courser, And he hasten’d to his aged mother.

Cordial was the greeting, great the gladness; Hospitality made cheerful welcome: And, while seated at the feast together, Nenad whisper’d to his aged mother: “Mother mine! thou venerable woman! If it be no shame before the people, If it be no sin in God’s high presence, I will ask one question, O my mother! Tell me why thou gav’st me not a brother? Tell me why I had no little sister? When we each received our treasure-portion, Each in earnest and in eager language By his brother swore, or by his sister; I could only swear by my good weapon, By myself, and by the steed I mounted.”

Then his mother laugh’d, and laughing answer’d, “Thou, my son, dost talk a little wildly; For, indeed, a brother have I given thee; Long before thy birth Predrag had being: Only yesterday the sad news reach’d me, That he is become a highway robber, In the verdant forest Garevitza, Where he is the leader of the bandits.” Then Nenad his mother answer’d quickly, “Mother dear! O thou most honour’d woman! Now thou must another dress prepare me, Skirted-short, and forest-green the colour, That the forest trees I may resemble. I will go, and I will see my brother, So my inner longings may be silenced.”

Then his aged mother made him answer: “Play not, son Nenad, with words so idle; So thou wilt be sacrificed.”—But, reckless, Little cared Nenad for mother-counsels; But he did whate’er his spirit prompted. He was clad in new short-skirted vestment Of green cloth, the green that dyes the forests; So a forest tree Nenad resembled. Then he sprung upon his faithful courser; On they sped, to seek his distant brother, And to still his spirit’s inward longings.

And he spoke not—no! his lips were silent; Spoke not to his steed, nor to his falcon. When he reach’d the forest Garevitza, Loud he cried, as cries the grizzled falcon, “Garevitza! verdant mountain forest! Dost thou then possess a youthful hero? Dost thou hide Predrag, my only brother? Are there other heroes in thy thickets? Are there fellow-comrades of my brother?” Near at hand, beneath a shading fir-tree, Sat Predrag, the golden wine enjoying.

When he heard that voice within the forest, Thus he call’d upon his bandit-comrades: “Now, ye comrades mine! beloved brothers! Hide ye in your ambuscades, and listen To that voice,—the voice of unknown warrior; Smite him not; but take his treasures from him, And then bring him to your chief in safety. Woe to him who does not thus obey me!”

So they issued forth, just thirty bandits, In three companies; in each ten bandits:— By the first ten, lo! he pass’d unheeded; No one moved to interrupt his progress; No one bade him halt, or bade his courser: Each one bent his bow and held his arrow; And Nenad, with courtesy address’d them: “Draw not! draw not! brothers of the forest! God preserve you from the impassion’d longing That impels me now to seek my brother O’er the weary world, a tired one, wandering.” So in peace and undisturb’d he passes; To the next embattled ten advances. All their bows are bent, their arrows ready; And Nenad thus speaks, and passes forward: “Draw not! draw not! brothers of the forest! God preserve you from the impassion’d longing That impels me now to seek my brother O’er the weary world, a tired one, wandering.” So in peace and undisturb’d he passes; To the next embattled ten advances, With their bows all bent, their arrows ready. Then impatient rage the youth possesses, And he rushes on the thirty heroes. Ten his trusty sabre soon has vanquish’d, Ten his steed into the dust has trampled, And the third ten drives he to the forest, To the forest by the frigid water. Then Predrag, the bandit chieftain, heard it. “Help us, now, Predrag! our valiant leader! For there is a brave and unknown warrior: He has overwhelm’d thy valiant comrades.” Swiftly sprung Predrag upon his feet, and Seized his bow, and seized his arrows swiftly; To the ambuscade he straightway hastens: Draws his arrow,—makes his bow-string ready:— Oh! sad destiny! ill-fated arrow! Wing’d by fate, the hero’s heart it pierces! Like a falcon springs Nenad, loud screaming. Loudly scream’d he to his starting courser: “Woe! woe! woe! thou hero of the forest! Brother! brother! woe! the Lord will smite thee! Thy right hand shall be struck dead with palsy; That right hand which sped the arrow forward! Thy right eye shall leap forth from thy forehead; That right eye which saw my heart blood sprinkled! Let the impassion’d longings for a brother Trouble thee as they a brother troubled! O’er the weary world, a lone one, wandering, Now has stumbled on his own perdition!”

When Predrag had heard these words unwonted, Lo! he sprung up from the pine, inquiring, “Who art thou, and who thy fathers, hero?” Then the wounded youth thus feebly answer’d: “Ask’st thou who I am, and who my fathers? Wilt thou own me? wilt thou claim my kindred? I am young Nenad—a hapless hero! I had once one venerable mother, And one brother, too, Predrag—one brother: He my elder and my only brother, Whom to seek through all the world I wander Forth, to still my soul’s impassion’d longings; But to-day ’tis ended—and I perish!”

When Predrag thus heard his brother’s language, Misery-stricken pull’d he forth the arrow; Bent him o’er the young and wounded hero; Took him from his horse, and gently seated Nenad on the grass:—“And is it, brother! Is it thou, indeed?—Thine elder brother, Thy Predrag, am I:—but sure not mortal Are thy wounds:—O let me tear asunder— Let me tear thy shirt—and let me bind them! Let me bind thy wounds—O let me heal them!”

Then to him the wounded youth:—”Thank heaven! Thou, thou art Predrag—thou art my brother— And my eyes may dwell upon thy visage! God hath still’d my soul’s impassion’d longings: I shall die—I know the wounds are mortal: But to thee my blood shall be forgiven!”

So he cried,—and soon he sunk in slumber— And despair possess’d his brother’s spirit. “O Nenad! Nenad! my light—my sunshine! Early and serene was thy uprising; Early, too, and clouded thy downsitting, O thou sweetest flow’ret of my garden! Early was thy opening, beauteous flow’ret; Earlier, earlier far, alas! thy fading!”

Then he took a dagger from his girdle: Deep he plunged the dagger in his bosom, And sank down in death beside his brother.

DUKA LEKA.

YESTERDAY was married Duka Leka: Comes to-day a mandate from the emperor: “Duka! on—on, Leka! to the army.” Duka’s steed caparisons he quickly;— His love holds him by the bridle, weeping:— “Woe is me!—woe’s me! thou voivode {25} Leka! Goest thou with thy noble steed to battle, Leav’st alone thy young bride inexperienced?” ‘With thy mother, and with mine I leave thee.’ “Woe is me! woe’s me! thou voivode Leka!— Thee away—and what avail two mothers?”

Duka Leka arms him for the battle: His young bride stands by his courser, weeping:— “Woe is me! woe’s me! thou voivode Leka! Goest thou with thy noble steed to battle? And with whom dost leave thy bride untutor’d?” ‘With thy father, and with mine I leave thee.’ “Woe, my Duka! woe! thou voivode Leka!— Thee away—and what avail two fathers?”

Duka Leka girds him for the battle; Weeping holds his wife his horse’s bridle:— “Woe is me! woe, Duka!—voivode Leka! Dost equip thy good steed for the battle? Who shall care about the unpractised loved one?”

‘To thy brother, and to mine, I leave thee.’ “Woe! O Duka, woe! thou voivode Leka! Thee away—and what avail two brothers?”

AJKUNA’S MARRIAGE.

NEVER, since the world had its beginning, Never did a lovelier flow’ret blossom Than the flow’ret we ourselves saw blooming In the white court of the Bey Liubōvich. High above the level Nevesin̄a {27} Tower’d the fascinating maid Ajkuna; She, the Bey Liubōvich’s lovely sister.