Part 5

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.

I HEARD a sprightly swallow say To a gray cuckoo t’ other day,— “Thou art a happy bird indeed; Thou dost not in the chimney breed, Thou dost not hear the eternal jarring, Of sisters and step-sisters warring; Their woes and grievances rehearsing, Cursing themselves, and others cursing. A young step-sister once I saw, Foul language at the elder throw; “Perdition’s daughter! hence depart; Thou hast no fruit beneath thy heart.” And thus the elder one replied: “Curse thy perverseness and thy pride! Mijailo is a son of thine; Now thou shalt bring forth daughters nine, And madness shall their portion be. Thy son shall cross the parting sea; He never shall return to thee, But, bathed in blood and wounded, pine!”

And thus she cursed;—the curse was true; Her sister’s nine fair daughters grew; And madness seized them,—seized them all: Mijailo,—far away, and wounded, By solitude and woe surrounded, I heard him on his mother call: “O mother! mother! send me now A bandage of that snowy linen Which you so thoughtlessly were spinning, When curses wander’d to and fro. In your rage you wove it,—now remove it; Tear it for bandages, as you tore Love and affection all asunder. Where it was bleach’d thy son lies under; With it cover his hot wounds o’er. Rend it, mother! and send it, mother! May it thy suffering son restore!”

FAREWELL. {112}

AGAINST white Buda’s walls, a vine Doth its white branches fondly twine: O, no! it was no vine-tree there; It was a fond, a faithful pair, Bound each to each in earliest vow— And, O! they must be severed now! And these their farewell words:—“We part— Break from my bosom—break—my heart! Go to a garden—go, and see, Some rose-branch blushing on the tree; And from that branch a rose-flower tear, Then place it on thy bosom bare; And as its leavelets fade and pine, So fades my sinking heart in thine.” And thus the other spoke: “My love! A few short paces backward move, And to the verdant forest go; There’s a fresh water-fount below; And in the fount a marble stone, Which a gold cup reposes on; And in the cup a ball of snow— Love! take that ball of snow to rest Upon thine heart within thy breast. And as it melts unnoticed there, So melts my heart in thine, my dear!”

THE VIOLET.

How captivating is to me, Sweet flower! thine own young modesty! Though did I pluck thee from thy stem, There’s none would wear thy purple gem. I thought, perchance, that Ali Bey— But he is proud and lofty—nay! He would not prize thee—would not wear A flower so feeble though so fair: His turban for its decorations Had full blown roses and carnations.

SMILIA. {116}

SWEET Smilia-flowers did Smilia pull, Her sleevelets and her bosom full; By the cool stream she gather’d them, And twined her many a diadem— A diadem of flowery-wreaths;— One round her brows its fragrance breathes; One to her bosom-friend she throws; The other where the streamlet flows She flings, and says in gentlest tone— “Swim on, thou odorous wreath! swim on, Swim to my Juris’ home, and there O whisper in his mother’s ear: ‘Say, wilt thou not thy Juris wed?— Then give him not a widow’s bed; But some sweet maiden, young and fair.’”

HARVEST SONG.

TAKE hold of your reeds, youths and maidens! and see Who the kissers and kiss’d of the reapers shall be. Take hold of your reeds, till the secret be told, If the old shall kiss young, and the young shall kiss old. Take hold of your reeds, youths and maidens! and see What fortune and chance to the drawers decree: And if any refuse, may God smite them—may they Be cursed by Paraskev, the saint of to-day! Now loosen your hands—now loosen, and see Who the kissers and kiss’d of the reapers shall be. {117}

MAIDEN’S PRAYER.

BEAUTY’S maiden thus invoked the Heavens: “Send me down a whirlwind! let it scatter Yonder stony tower—its halls lay open! Let me look on Gertshich Manoīlo. If the otter on his knee is playing— If the falcon sits upon his shoulder— If the rose is blooming on his kalpak.” {118}

What she pray’d for speedily was granted: And a storm-wind came across the ocean; And the stony tower fell down before it: And she look’d on Gertshich Manoīlo: Saw the otter on his knees disporting: Saw the falcon sitting on his shoulder: Saw the rose upon his kalpak blooming.

KISSES.

WHAT’S the time of night, my dear? For my maiden said, “I’ll come”— Said “I’ll come,”—but is not here: And ’tis now the midnight’s gloom. Lone and silent home I turn’d; But upon the bridge I met her— Kiss’d her:—How my hot lips burned!— How forget it—how forget her! In one kiss full ten I drew: And upon my lips there grew, From that hour, a honey-dew, As if sugar were my meat, And my drink metheglin sweet.

HARVEST SONG.

LORD and master! let us homewards, let us homewards haste: Far, far distant are our dwellings—far across the waste. {120a}

Some have aged mothers threat’ning—“Ne’er allow another:” Some male-children {120b} in the cradle, crying for their mother: Some impatient lovers chiding;—dearer they than brother.

CURSE.

THE maiden cursed her raven eyes, She cursed them for their treacheries. “Be blinded now, to you if heaven All that is visible has given! If ye see all, ye traitors, say Why saw ye not my love to day:— He pass’d my door,—but, truants, ye Gave not the gentlest hint to me. He had a nosegay in his hand,— He wore a gold embroider’d band,— ’Twas made by other hands than mine! Upon it wreathing branches twine: May every branch embroidered there, A miserable heart-wound bear;— Upon each branch, may every leaf Bring and betoken toil and grief.”

SALUTATION OF THE MORNING STAR.

Lo! the maiden greets the day-star! “Sister! Sister star of morning! well I greet thee; Thou dost watch the world from thine uprising To thy sinking hour. In Herzgovina, {122} Tell me didst thou see the princely Stephan? Tell me, was his snowy palace open, Were his steeds caparisoned, and ready; And was he equipp’d his bride to visit?”

Gently then the morning star responded: “Lovely sister! beautiful young maiden, True, I watch the world from my uprising To my setting;—and in Herzgovina Saw the palace of the princely Stephan; And that snowy palace was wide open, And his horse was saddled, and was ready, And he was equipp’d his bride to visit: But not thee—not thee—another maiden; False tongues three have whisper’d evil of thee; One has said—thine origin is lowly; One, that thou art treacherous as a serpent; And the third, that thou art dull and dreamy.”

Then the maiden pour’d her imprecations: “He who said my origin was lowly, Never let a child of love be born him; He who called me treacherous as a serpent, Round his heart, O! let a serpent wreathe it; Through hot summers in his hair be tangled, Through cold winters in his bosom nestle; He who dar’d to call me dull and dreamy, Nine long years may he be worn by sickness, And no sleep renew his strength to bear it.”

THE KNITTER.

THE maiden sat upon the hill, Upon the hill and far away, Her fingers wove a silken cord, And thus I heard the maiden say: “O with what joy, what ready will, If some fond youth, some youth adored, Might wear thee, should I weave thee now! The finest gold I’d interblend, The richest pearls as white as snow. But if I knew, my silken friend, That an old man should wear thee, I The coarsest worsted would inweave, Thy finest silk for dog-grass leave, And all thy knots with nettles tie.”

ROYAL CONVERSE.

THE king from the queen an answer craves; “How shall we now employ our slaves?” The maidens in fine embroidery, The widows shall spin flax-yarn for me, And the men shall dig in the fields for thee.

The king from the queen an answer craves; “How shall we, lady, feed our slaves?” The maidens shall have the honey-comb sweet, The widows shall feed on the finest wheat, And the men of maize-meal bread shall eat.

The king from the queen an answer craves; “Where for the night shall rest our slaves?” The maidens shall sleep in the chambers high, The widows on mattress’d beds shall lie, And the men on nettles under the sky.

ROSA.

UNDER roses slept the maiden Rosa, And a rose fell down and waken’d Rosa; To the flower-rose, said the maiden Rosa— “Rose of mine! O fall not on the maiden, I am in no tune of soul to love thee, For a heavy grief o’erwhelms my spirit; Youth would have me,—but old age hath won me. An old bridegroom is a worthless maple; When the wind is up it faints and trembles; When the rain descends, decay decays it: But a young bride, is a roselet budding; When the wind is up, its fair leaves open, When the rain descends, it shines in beauty,— When the sun comes forth, it smiles and glories.”

THE MAIDEN AND THE SUN.

A MAIDEN proudly thus the sun accosted: “Sun! I am fairer far than thou,—far fairer; Fairer than is thy sister {127a} or thy brethren,— Fairer than yon bright moon at midnight shining, Fairer than yon gay star in heav’n’s arch twinkling, That star, all other stars preceding proudly, As walks before his sheep the careful shepherd.” The sun complain’d to God of such an insult: “What shall be done with this presumptuous maiden?” And to the sun God gave a speedy answer: “Thou glorious Sun! thou my beloved daughter! {127b} Be joyous yet! say, why art thou dejected? Wilt thou reward the maiden for her folly— Shine on, and burn the maiden’s snowy forehead. But I a gloomier dowry yet will give her; Evil to her shall be her husband’s brother; Evil to her shall be her husband’s father. Then shall she think upon the affront she gave thee.”

THE MAIDEN’S WISH.

IF I had, ah Laso! All the emp’ror’s treasures, Well I know, ah Laso! What with these I’d purchase; I would buy, ah Laso! Garden on the Sava; Well I know, ah Laso! What my hands would plant there; I would plant, ah Laso! Hyacinths, carnations. If I had, ah Laso! All the emp’ror’s treasures, Well I know, ah Laso! What with these I’d purchase; I would buy, ah Laso! I would purchase Laso, He should be, ah Laso! Gardener in my garden.

THE FALCON.

THE falcon soars both far and high, He spreads his pinions in the sky; Then from his cloudy heights he lowers, And seats him on the city’s towers: He sees a laughing girl of grace, In crystal water bathe her face; And looks with open, eager eye Upon her neck of ivory: White as the snow upon the mountain; And there he hears a youth recounting His tale of love.—“Now bend thy head Upon thy snowy neck,” he said; “Its whiteness is too bright for me: And ’neath it sorrowing heart may be.”

HEROES SERVED.

UPON the silent Danube’s shore, When ev’ning wastes, ’tis sweet to see (Their golden wine cups flowing o’er); Our heroes in their revelry.

A youthful beauty pours the wine, And each will pledge a cup to her; And each of charms that seem divine, Would fain become a worshiper.