Part 7

“Shoot me not, ye sportsmen! I will give you music, In the verdant garden, On the crimson rose-tree.”

But the sportsmen seize her; They deceive the songster, In a cage confine her, Give her to their loved one.

Nightingale will sing not— Hangs its head in silence: Then the sportsmen bear her To the verdant forests.

Soon her song is waken’d; “Woe! woe! woe betides us, Friend from friend divided, Bird from forest banish’d!”

THE DANCE.

OMER’S court is near to Sarajevo; {181a} All around it is a woody mountain: In the midst there is a verdant meadow; There the maidens dance their joyous Kolo. {181b} In the Kolo there is Damian’s loved one; O’er the Kolo her fair head uprises, Rises gay and lustrous in her beauty. ’Midst the Kolo Nicholas address’d her: “Veil your face, thou Damian’s best beloved! For to-day death’s summons waits on Damian. Half thy face veil over, lovely maiden!” Hardly the prophetic words were utter’d, Ere a gun was heard from the green forest; Damian, wounded, fell amidst the Kolo— Damian fell, and thus his love address’d him: “O my Damian! O my sun of springtime! Wherefore, wherefore didst thou shine so brightly, Thus so soon to sink behind the mountain?” “My beloved! O thou rose all beauteous! Wherefore didst thou bloom so fair, so lovely, And I never can enjoy, nor wear thee?”

ELEGY.

KONDA died—his mother’s only offspring. O what grief was hers the youth to bury Far away from his own natural dwelling! So she bore him to a verdant garden, And ’neath gold pomegranate trees interr’d him. Every, every day she wandered thither: “Doth the earth, sweet son, lie heavy on thee? Heavy are the planks of maple round thee?” From his grave the voice of Konda answers: “Lightly presses the green earth upon me, Lightly press the planks of maple round me. Heavy is the virgins’ malediction; When they sigh, their sighs reach God’s high presence; When they curse, the world begins to tremble; When they weep, even God is touch’d with pity.”

INQUIRY.

A MAIDEN sat on th’ ocean shore, And held this converse with herself: “O God of goodness and of love! What’s broader than the mighty sea, And what is longer than the field, And what is swifter than the steed, What sweeter than the honey dew, What dearer than a brother is?” A fish thus answer’d from the sea: “O maid! thou art a foolish girl. The heaven is broader than the sea; The sea is longer than the field; The eye is swifter than the steed; Sugar more sweet than honey dew; Dearer than brother is thy love.”

DOUBT.

THREE young travellers travell’d forth to travel: On their travels met a lovely maiden: Each will give the lovely maid a present: One presents her with a fresh-pluck’d apple: One presents her with _bosilka_ {185a} flowering: One a gold ring for the maiden’s finger. He who gave the maiden the bosilka Said, “The maid is mine—I claim the maiden.” He who gave the maid the fresh-pluck’d apple Said, “The maid is _mine_—I claim the maiden.” He who gave the gold ring to the maiden Said, “We’ll go and seek the judge {185b} together: He shall say to whom belongs the maiden.” So they went and sought the judge’s presence: “Judge, thou honourable judge! between us: We three travellers travell’d forth together, And we met a maiden in our travels, And we gave her—gave her each a present: One of us a green and fresh-pluck’d apple: One presented her bosilka flowering; And the third a gold ring for her finger:— Now decide to whom belongs the maiden.”

Thus the honourable judge decided: “We present bosilka for its odour: As a pledge of love we give an apple: But to give a ring is a betrothing;— He who gave the ring must have the maiden.”

THE SULTANESS.

LISTEN! I hear a cry, a cry! The bells are ringing lustily; And the hens are cackling all in riot. No! no! no! the bells are quiet; The hens at rest with one another: ’Tis the sister calls the brother:

“Brother! I am a Moslem slave: Tear me from my Turkish grave. Small the price which sets me free: Of pearls two measures—of gold but three.”

In vain she calls her brother.—‘O no! My treasures to my apparel go: The gold my horse’s bridle must deck: My pearls must grace my maiden’s neck; Must buy a kiss—must buy a kiss.’ The maid her brother answer’d with this: “I am no slave! I am no less Than the sultan’s chosen sultaness.”

BETROTHING.

HERE there is a maiden, Young, and yet a virgin: Give her then a husband, Or give us the maiden, And we will betroth her To Ivan the student. He’s our parson’s nephew— He has art to write on Pinions of the eagle. What shall be his subject? What—but bright-eyed maidens And the brows of heroes?

CAUTIONS.

O THOU lovely maiden! Lo! thy praise has mounted To the monarch’s city! Maiden! thou hast planted The six-branch’d _kaloper_ {190a} And bosilka {190b} early. But the youths unmarried Long have been in waiting To tear up thy balsam— Thy bosilka pillage. Know’st thou not they linger Just to steal thy kisses? Maiden! maiden! never Let those youths betray thee!

MAIDEN’S CARES.

O SLEEP! sweet sleep! in vain, in vain I bid thee visit me: The anxious thought disturbs my brain— Whose shall the maiden be? My mother says, “The goatherd, child! The goatherd, child! for thee.” Nay, mother, nay! not he, not he; That were no happiness for me: He tracks the mountains steep and wild Where rocks and dangers be.

O sleep! sweet sleep! in vain, in vain I bid thee visit me: The anxious thought disturbs my brain— Whose shall the maiden be? My mother says, “The shepherd, maid! The shepherd, maid! for thee.” Nay, mother, nay! not he, not he; That were no happiness for me: He wanders through the distant glade Where wolves and perils be.

O sleep! sweet sleep! in vain, in vain I bid thee visit me: The anxious thought disturbs my brain— Whose shall the maiden be? My mother says, “The tradesman, dear! The tradesman, dear! for thee.” Nay, mother, nay! not he, not he; That were no happiness for me: He is a wanderer far and near, His house no home may be.

O sleep, sweet sleep! in vain, in vain I bid thee visit me: The anxious thought disturbs my brain— Whose shall the maiden be? My mother says, “The tailor, then, The tailor, then, for thee!” Nay! mother! nay; not he, not he! That were no happiness for me; The tailor’s needle may be keen, His children hungry be.

O sleep, sweet sleep! in vain, in vain I bid thee visit me; The anxious thought disturbs my brain, Whose shall the maiden be? My mother says;—“The peasant, take The peasant, child! for thee.” Yes! mother, yes! in him I see Both love and happiness for me; For though his labouring hands are black, The whitest bread eats he.

MAHOMMEDAN SONG.

HIS breath is amber,—sharp his reed; The hand which holds it, O! how white. He writes fair talismans,—a creed, For maidens doth the loved one write: “Of him that will not have thee,—think not! From him that fain would have thee, shrink not.”

MINE EVERY WHERE.

“COME with me, thou charming maiden! Be my love and come with me.” ‘Wherefore play with words so foolish? That can never, never be; I had rather in the tavern Bear the golden cup, than ever,— Ever promise to be thine.’ “I am the young tavern-keeper, So thou wilt indeed be mine.”

‘Wherefore play with words so foolish? No such fate will e’er befall; In the coffee-house I’d rather Serve, envelop’d in my shawl, Rather than be thine at all.’ “But I am the coffee boiler, Thee, my maiden, will I call.”

‘Wherefore play with words so foolish? That can never, never be; Rather o’er the field I’ll wander, Changed into a quail, than ever, Ever give myself to thee.’ “But I am a vigorous sportsman, And thou wilt belong to me.”

‘Play not, youth! with words so foolish, That can never, never be; Rather to a fish I’d change me, Dive me deep beneath the sea, Rather than belong to thee.’ “But I am the finest network, Which into the sea I’ll cast; Mine thou art, and mine thou shalt be,— Yes! thou must be mine at last; Be it here, or be it there, Mine thou must be every where.”

MAID AWAKING.

LOVELY maiden gather’d roses, Sleep overtook her then; Pass’d a youth and call’d the maiden, Waked the maid again: “Wake! O wake! thou lovely maiden, Why art slumbering now? All the rosy wreaths are fading, Fading on thy brow. He, thy heart’s own love, will marry; He will break his vow!” ‘Let him marry, let him marry, I shall not complain; But the thunderbolt of heav’n Shall destroy him then.’

MOTHER’S LOVE.

ON the balcony young Jovan sported, While he sported, lo! it crash’d beneath him, And he fell,—his right arm broke in falling! Who shall find a surgeon for the sufferer? Lo! the Vila of the mountain sends one, But the recompense he asks is heavy; Her white hand demands he of the mother,— Of the sister all her silken ringlets,— Of the wife he asks her pearl-strung necklace.

Freely gave her hand young Jovan’s mother, Freely gave her silken hair his sister, But his wife refus’d her pearly treasure:— “Nay! I will not give my pearl-strung necklace, For it was a present of my father.” Anger then incens’d the Mountain-Vila, Into Jovan’s wounds she pour’d her poison, And he died,—Alas! for thee, poor mother!

Then began the melancholy cuckoos,—{199} Cuckoos then began their funeral dirges; One pour’d out her mournful plaints unceasing, One at morning mourn’d, and mourn’d at ev’ning, And the third whene’er sad thoughts came o’er her. Tell me which is the unceasing mourner? ’Tis the sorrowing mother of young Jovan. Which at morning mourns and late at evening? ’Tis the grieving sister of young Jovan. Which when melancholy thoughts come o’er her? ’Tis the youthful wife,—the wife of Jovan.

THE GREYBEARD.

I HEARD young Falisava say: “I’ll have no ancient greybeard, nay! A sprightly beardless youth for me.” An aged man the maiden heard, He shaves his long and snowy beard, And paints his chin like ebony: To Falisava then he goes— “My heart! my soul! my garden rose! A beardless youth is come for thee.” And then she listen’d—they were wed— And to the old man’s home they sped.

Then twilight came, and evening’s shade— And said the old man to the maid: “Sweet Falisava! maiden fair! Our bed beside the stove prepare, And the warm feather-mattress bear”— The maiden heard—the maiden went, And gather’d flowers of sweetest scent— Of sweetest scent and fairest hue, Which on the old man’s bed she threw, And like a strong-wing’d eagle then Flew to her father’s home again.

MAHOMMEDAN TALE.

WHO is mourning there in Glamotz’s fortress? ’Tis the Vila—’tis an angry serpent? ’Tis no Vila—’tis no angry serpent! ’Tis the maid Emina there lamenting— There lamenting, for her woe is grievous! Lo! the _Ban_ the maiden hath imprison’d— Hath imprison’d her, and will baptize her; But Emina never will be faithless— From the white-wall’d tower will fling her rather.

Thus the unbelieving Ban address’d she: “Unbelieving Ban! a moment tarry, While I hasten to the upper story.” And she hasten’d to the upper story; Look’d around her from the white-wall’d fortress: In the distance saw her father’s dwelling— Saw the white school where she pass’d her childhood. “O my father’s home! my poor heart’s sorrow! School of childhood! once that childhood’s terror! Many a day of weariness and sorrow Did thy small-writ lessons give Emina.” Then she wrapp’d her snowy robes around her— Thought not of the band that bound her tresses, And she flung her from the fortress turret. But her hairband caught the open window— From the window, ah! she hung suspended— Hung a week suspended from the window— Then her hair gave way—and then the maiden On the greensward fell. The Christian heard it— He, the Christian Ban, and hasten’d thither; Oft and oft he kiss’d the dead Emina; And he peacefully entomb’d the maiden. O’er her grave a chapel he erected, And with golden apples he adorn’d it. Ere a week had pass’d away, descended On her tomb a beauteous light from heaven; At her head a beauteous light was kindled; At her feet another light shone sweetly; And her aged mother saw and wonder’d. From her chain she took her knife, and plunged it— Plunged it deep within her troubled bosom— Fell, and died—O melancholy mother!

LOVE’S DIFFICULTIES.

I LOVED her from her infancy, Lado! Lado! From childhood to maturity, Lado! Lado! And when I claim’d the smiling maid, Lado! Lado! “Ye are of kindred blood!” they said, Lado! Lado! “Brother and sister’s children ye, Lado! Lado! It were a sin to steal a kiss,” Lado! Lado! Oh what a sacrifice is this! Lado! Lado! I’ll steal a kiss though I be riven, Lado! Lado! From every, every hope of heaven, Lado! Lado! For what would heaven become to me, Lado! Lado! When the long nights of autumn flee, Lado! Lado! {206}

WITCHES.

THE sky is cover’d with stars again: The plains are cover’d with flocks of sheep: But where is the shepherd? On the plain The shepherd is lost in careless-sleep: The youthful Rādoje sleeps:—Arise! Awake! his sister Jania cries.

“Jania! sister! nay! depart! My body to witches is plighted: My mother has torn away my heart, And my aunt my mother lighted.”

PLEDGES.

THE wind was with the roses playing: To Ranko’s tent it blew their leaves: Militza, Ranko, there were staying; And Ranko writes—Militza weaves. His letter done, he drops his pen: Her finish’d web she throws aside: And lo! I heard the lover then Low whisper to his promised bride: “Militza! tell me truly now And dost thou love me—love me best? Or heavy is thy nuptial vow?”— And thus the maid the youth address’d: “O trust me—thou my heart—my soul! That thou art dearer far to me— Far dearer, Ranko! than the whole Of brothers—many though they be: And that the vows we pledged together Are lighter than the lightest feather.”

COMPLAINT.

O FLOWER! so lovely in thy bloom, Be evil fate thy mother’s doom! Thy mother, who so kindly nurst, And sent thee to our village first. Where heroes o’er their cups romancing, And our young striplings stones are flinging, And our delighted brides are dancing, And our gay maidens songs are singing— ’Twas then I saw thee, lovely flower! And lost my quiet from that hour.

SONG.

The winter is gone, Beloved, arise! The spring is come on, The birds are all singing: Beloved, arise!

The roses are springing; Earth laughs out in love: Beloved, arise! And thou, my sweet dove! O waste not thy time: Beloved, arise!

Enjoy the sweet bliss Of a kiss—of a kiss: Beloved, arise! In the hour of thy prime, Beloved, arise!

MAHOMMEDAN SONG.

I HAVE piercing eyes—the eyes of falcons: I am of undoubted noble lineage: I can read the heart of Osman Aga: I was ask’d by Osman Aga’s mother: “Cursed witch: and yet most lovely maiden! Why with white and red dost paint thy visage? Fascinate no longer Osman Aga! I will speed me to the verdant forest, Build me up of maple-trees a dwelling, And lock up within it Osman Aga.”

Then the maid replied to Osman’s mother: “Lady Anka! Osman Aga’s mother— I have falcon eyes—and eyes of devils: With them I can ope thy maple dwelling— With them visit, too, thy Osman Aga.”

BROTHERLESS SISTERS.

TWO solitary sisters, who A brother’s fondness never knew, Agreed, poor girls, with one another, That they would make themselves a brother: They cut them silk, as snow-drops white; And silk, as richest rubies bright; They carved his body from a bough Of box-tree from the mountain’s brow; Two jewels dark for eyes they gave; For eyebrows, from the ocean’s wave They took two leeches; and for teeth Fix’d pearls above, and pearls beneath; For food they gave him honey sweet, And said, “Now live, and speak, and eat.”

MISFORTUNES.

ON the hill, the fir-tree hill, Grows a tall fir-tree: There a maiden, calm and still, Sits delightedly. To a youthful swain she pledges Vows: “O come to me: Lightly spring across the hedges: Come—but silently. Come at eve—lest harm betide thee. If any home thou seek, In our quiet dwelling hide thee; Not a whisper speak.” As he o’er the hedges sprung, Lo! a twig he tore: When the house-door ope he flung, Noisy was the door. When he enter’d in, there fell Shelves upon the floor, ’Twas the broken china’s knell— O the luckless hour! Then her mother comes afeard, Trips and cuts her knee; And her father burns his beard In perplexity. And the youth must quench the fire, And the maiden must retire.

TIMIDITY.

Lo! upon the mountain green Stands a fir tree tall and thin— ’Tis no fir tree—none at all— ’Tis a maiden thin and tall. Three long years the enamour’d one Fed upon her eyes alone; On the fourth, he sought the bliss Of the maiden’s primal kiss: “Why, thou witching maid! repel me— Why with foot of scorn dost tread, On my feet, my boots of red! Why despise me, maiden! tell me.”

“No, my friend, I will not tread On thy feet, thy boots of red! Come at evening—come and string Pearls for me—and thou shalt fling O’er me my embroider’d shawl. We will go at morning’s call To the Kolo—Friend! but thou Must not touch the maiden _now_— Know’st thou not that busy slander Follows us where’er we wander? Evil tongues are ever talking; Calumny abroad is walking. Know’st thou that a simple kiss Ample food for slander is? ‘Never did we kiss,’ you’ll say, ‘Till last evening and to-day.’ Come at evening—come my dear! Sisters’ eyes will watch thee here.”

YOUTH ENAMOURED.

“WHERE wert thou, Misho! yesterday?” ‘O ’twas a happy day to me! A lovely maiden cross’d my way, A maiden smiling lovelily. And those sweet smiles for me were meant; I claimed her—mother answer’d ‘No!’ Would steal her—vain was the intent, For many guardians watch’d her so. There grows a verdant almond-tree Before her house—its boughs I’ll climb; Wail like a cuckoo mournfully, And swallow-like, at evening time, Pour forth my woe in throbbings deep, And like a sorrowing widow sigh, And like a youthful maiden weep. So may her mother turn her eye, Pitying my grief, her heart may move, And she may give me her I love.’

BLUE AND BLACK EYES.

I WISH the happy time were nigh, When youths are sold, that I might buy. But for an azure-eyed _Milinar_, {219} I would not give a single dinar, Though for a raven-black eyed youth, A thousand golden coins, in truth. Alas! alas!—and is it true? My own fair youth has eyes of blue; Yes! they are blue—yet dear to me— Will he forgive my levity? Ye maidens! pray him to forgive me; Nay! spare me now—and rather leave me To tell him “I am yours”—and smile In fond affection all the while.

THE WIDOW.

ROSE! O smile upon the youth no longer; He, in his impatience to be wedded, Chose a widow for his years unsuited, And where’er she goes, where’er she tarries, She is mourning for her ancient husband.

“O my husband! first and best possession! Happy were the days we spent together! Early we retired and late we waken’d. Thou didst wake me kissing my white forehead, ‘Up, my heart! the sun is high in heaven, And our aged mother is arisen.’”

ALARMS.

FAIREST youths are here—but not the fairest! Could I hear him now, or could I see him,— Could I know if he be sick, or faithless! Were he sick, my ears would rather hear it, Than that he had loved another maiden. Sickness may depart, and time restore him,— If enamour’d,—never! never! never!

FOND WIFE.

O! if I were a mountain streamlet, I know where I would flow; I’d spring into the crystal Sava, Where the gay vessels go, That I might look upon my lover— For fain my heart would know If, when he holds the helm, he ever Looks on my rose, and thinks Of her who gave it;—if the nosegay I made of sweetest pinks Is faded yet, and if he wear it. On Saturday I cull To give him for a Sabbath present All that is beautiful.

UNHAPPY BRIDE.

THE maiden gave the ring she wore To him who gave it her before: “O take the ring,—for thou and thine Are hated,—not by me,—but mine:— Father and mother will not hear thee, Brother and sister both forswear thee: Yet, think not, youth,—O think not ill Of her who needs must love thee still! I am a poor unhappy maid, Whose path the darkest clouds o’ershade; I sowed sweet basil, and there grew On that same spot the bitterest rue: And wormwood, that unholy flower, Is now alone my marriage dower; The only flower which they shall wear Who to the maiden’s marriage come, When for my marriage altar there The guests shall find the maiden’s tomb.”

LAST PETITION.

UPON her mother’s bosom lay Young Mira, and she pined away. ’T was in her own maternal shed; And thus the anxious mother said:— “What ails thee, tell me, Mira! pray?”

“O ask me not, my mother dear! I feel that death approaches near; I shall not rise from this my bed; But, mother mine! when I am dead— O mother mine! call round me all My playmates to my funeral: And let the friends I loved receive The little gifts that I shall leave; Then let me sleep in peace beneath.— There’s one, my mother, I should grieve To be divided from in death. Then call around me priests divine, And pious pilgrims, mother mine! The forehead of thy dying daughter Steep in the rose’s fragrant water. And, mother, let my forehead be Dried with the rose-leaves from the tree; And pillow not thy daughter’s head, O mother! with the common dead; But let me have a quiet tomb Adjacent to my Mirjo’s home, And near my Mirjo’s nightly bed; So when he wakes his thoughts shall dwell With her he loved, and loved so well.”

LOVE FOR A BROTHER.

THE sun sank down behind the gold-flower’d hill; The warriors from the fight approach the shore: There stood young George’s wife, serene and still: She counted all the heroes o’er and o’er, And found not those she loved—though they were three:— Her husband, George; her marriage friend, another, Who late had led the marriage revelry; The third, her best-beloved, her only brother.