I heard a sprightly swallow sayTo 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!Mihailo 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;[2]Her sister's nine fair daughters grew;And madness seized them,—seized them all:Mihailo,—far away, and wounded,By solitude and woe surrounded,I heard him on his mother call:"O mother! mother! send me nowA bandage of that snowy linenWhich 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 toreLove 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!"S. J. B.
Against white Buda's walls, a vineDoth 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 of rose-flower tear,Then place it on thy bosom bare;And as its leaflets 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 restUpon thine heart within thy breast.And as it melts unnoticed there,So melts my heart in thine, my dear!"S. J. B.
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 wearA flower so feeble though so fair:His turban for its decorationsHad full blown roses and carnations.S. J. B.
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 flowsShe flings, and says in gentlest tone—"Swim on, thou odorous wreath! swim on,Swim to my Juris' home, and thereO 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.'"S. J. B.
Take hold of your reeds, youths and maidens! and seeWho 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 oldTake hold of your reeds, youths and maidens! and seeWhat fortune and chance to the drawers decree:And if any refuse, may God smite them—may theyBe cursed by Paraskeva, the saint of to-day!Now loosen your hands—now loosen, and seeWho the kissers and kiss'd of the reapers shall be.[6]S. J. B.
Beauty's maiden thus invoked the Heavens:"Send me down a whirlwind! let it scatterYonder stony tower—its halls lay open!Let me look on Gerčić Manoilo.If the otter on his knee is playing—If the falcon sits upon his shoulder—If the rose is blooming on his kalpak."[7]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 Gerčić Manoilo:Saw the otter on his knees disporting:Saw the falcon sitting on his shoulder:Saw the rose upon his kalpak blooming.S. J. B.
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.S. J. B.
Lord and master! let us homewards, let us homewards haste:Far, far distant are our dwellings—far across the waste.[8]Some have aged mothers threat'ning—"Ne'er allow another:"Some male-children[9]in the cradle, crying for their mother;Some impatient lovers chiding;—dearer they than brother.S. J. B.
The maiden cursed her raven eyes,She cursed them for their treacheries."Be blinded now, to you if heavenAll that is visible has given!If ye see all, ye traitors, sayWhy saw ye not my love to-day:—He pass'd my door,—but, truants, yeGave not the gentlest hint to me.He had a nosegay in his hand,—He wore a gold embroider'd band.[10]'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 leafBring and betoken toil and grief."
Lo! the maiden greets the day-star! "Sister!Sister star of morning! well I greet thee;Thou dost watch the world from thine uprisingTo thy sinking hour. In Hercegovina,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 uprisingTo my setting;—and in HercegovinaSaw 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."S. J. B.
Lo! the maiden greets the day-star! "Sister!Sister star of morning! well I greet thee;Thou dost watch the world from thine uprisingTo thy sinking hour. In Hercegovina,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 uprisingTo my setting;—and in HercegovinaSaw 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."S. J. B.
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[11]should wear thee, IThe coarsest worsted would inweave,Thy finest silk for dog-grass leave,And all thy knots with nettles tie."
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 the nettles under the sky.S. J. B.
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 the nettles under the sky.S. J. B.
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."S. J. B.
A maiden proudly thus the sun accosted:"Sun! I am fairer far than thou,—far fairer;Fairer than is thy sister[12]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![13]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."S. J. B.
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.S. J. B.
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 eyeUpon her neck of ivory:White as the snow upon the mountain;And there he hears a youth recountingHis tale of love.—"Now bend thy headUpon thy snowy neck," he said;"Its whiteness is too bright for me:And 'neath it sorrowing heart may be."S. J. B.
A young deer tracked his way through the green forest,One lonely day—another came in sadness;And the third dawn'd, and brought him sighs and sorrow:Then he address'd him to the forest Vila:"Young deer!" she said, "thou wild one of the forest,Now tell me what great sorrow has oppress'd thee?Why wanderest thou thus in the forest lonely:Lonely one day,—another day in sadness,—And the third day with sighs and anguish groaning?"And thus the young deer to the Vila answer'd:"O thou sweet sister! Vila of the forest!Me has indeed a heavy grief befallen;For I had once a fawn, mine own beloved,And one sad day she sought the running water:She enter'd it, but came not back to bless me:Then tell me, had she lost her way and wander'd?Was she pursued and captured by the huntsman?Or has she left me?—has she wholly left me?—Loving some other deer—and I forgotten.O! if she has but lost her way, and wanders,Teach her to find it—bring her back to love me.O! if she has been captured by the huntsman,Then may a fate as sad as mine await him.But if she has forsaken me—if, faithless,She loves another deer—and I forgotten—Then may the huntsman speedily o'er take her."S. J. B.
A young deer tracked his way through the green forest,One lonely day—another came in sadness;And the third dawn'd, and brought him sighs and sorrow:Then he address'd him to the forest Vila:"Young deer!" she said, "thou wild one of the forest,Now tell me what great sorrow has oppress'd thee?Why wanderest thou thus in the forest lonely:Lonely one day,—another day in sadness,—And the third day with sighs and anguish groaning?"
And thus the young deer to the Vila answer'd:"O thou sweet sister! Vila of the forest!Me has indeed a heavy grief befallen;For I had once a fawn, mine own beloved,And one sad day she sought the running water:She enter'd it, but came not back to bless me:Then tell me, had she lost her way and wander'd?Was she pursued and captured by the huntsman?Or has she left me?—has she wholly left me?—Loving some other deer—and I forgotten.O! if she has but lost her way, and wanders,Teach her to find it—bring her back to love me.O! if she has been captured by the huntsman,Then may a fate as sad as mine await him.But if she has forsaken me—if, faithless,She loves another deer—and I forgotten—Then may the huntsman speedily o'er take her."S. J. B.
Over Sarajevo flies a falcon,Looking round for cooling shade to cool him.Then he finds a pine on Sarajevo;Under it a well of sparkling water;By the water, Hyacinth, the widow,And the Rose, the young, unmarried virgin.He look'd down—the falcon—and bethought him:"Shall I kiss grave Hyacinth, the widow;Or the Rose, the young, unmarried virgin?"Thinking thus—at last the bird determined—And he whisper'd to himself sedately,"Gold—though long employ'd, is far, far betterThan the finest silver freshly melted,"So he kiss'd—kiss'd Hyacinth, the widow.Very wroth wax'd then young Rose, the virgin:"Sarajevo! let a ban be on thee!Cursed be thy strange and evil customs!For thy youths they love the bygone widows,And thy aged men the untried virgins."S. J. B.
All the night two nightingales were singingAt the window of th'affianced maiden;And th'affianced maiden thus address'd them:"Tell me, ye two nightingales, O tell me!Are ye brothers? are ye brothers' children?"Thus the nightingales made speedy answer:"Brothers are we not, nor brothers' children:We are friends—friends of the verdant forest.Once we had another friend—another—But that friend is lost to us for ever.We have heard that nuptial bliss awaits him;And we came the youthful bride to look on,And to offer her a golden spindle,With the flax of Egypt bound around it."S. J. B.
All the night two nightingales were singingAt the window of th'affianced maiden;And th'affianced maiden thus address'd them:"Tell me, ye two nightingales, O tell me!Are ye brothers? are ye brothers' children?"
Thus the nightingales made speedy answer:"Brothers are we not, nor brothers' children:We are friends—friends of the verdant forest.Once we had another friend—another—But that friend is lost to us for ever.We have heard that nuptial bliss awaits him;And we came the youthful bride to look on,And to offer her a golden spindle,With the flax of Egypt bound around it."S. J. B.
The streamlet ripples through the mead, beneath the maple tree;There came a maiden that stream to draw—a lovely maid was she;From the white walls of old Belgrade that maid came smilingly.Young Mirko saw, and offer'd her a golden fruit and said:"O take this apple, damsel fair! and be mine own sweet maid!"She took the apple—flung it back—and said, in angry tone,"Neither thine apple, Sir! nor thee—presumptuous boy, be gone!"The streamlet ripples through the mead, beneath the maple tree;There came a maid that stream to draw—a lovely maid was she;From the white walls of old Belgrade that maid came smilingly.Young Mirko saw, and proffer'd her a golden brooch, and said:"O take this brooch, thou damsel fair! and be mine own sweet maid!"She took the brooch, and flung it back and said, in peevish tone,"I'll neither have thee nor thy brooch—presumptuous boy, be gone!"The streamlet ripples through the mead, beneath the maple tree;There came a maid that stream to draw—the loveliest maid was she;From the white walls of old Belgrade that maid came smilingly.Young Mirko saw, and proffer'd her a golden-ring, and said:"O take this ring, my damsel fair! and be mine own sweet maid!"She took the ring—she slipp'd it on—and said, in sprightliest tone,"I'll have thee and thy golden ring, and be thy faithful one."S. J. B.
The streamlet ripples through the mead, beneath the maple tree;There came a maiden that stream to draw—a lovely maid was she;From the white walls of old Belgrade that maid came smilingly.
Young Mirko saw, and offer'd her a golden fruit and said:"O take this apple, damsel fair! and be mine own sweet maid!"She took the apple—flung it back—and said, in angry tone,"Neither thine apple, Sir! nor thee—presumptuous boy, be gone!"
The streamlet ripples through the mead, beneath the maple tree;There came a maid that stream to draw—a lovely maid was she;From the white walls of old Belgrade that maid came smilingly.
Young Mirko saw, and proffer'd her a golden brooch, and said:"O take this brooch, thou damsel fair! and be mine own sweet maid!"She took the brooch, and flung it back and said, in peevish tone,"I'll neither have thee nor thy brooch—presumptuous boy, be gone!"
The streamlet ripples through the mead, beneath the maple tree;There came a maid that stream to draw—the loveliest maid was she;From the white walls of old Belgrade that maid came smilingly.
Young Mirko saw, and proffer'd her a golden-ring, and said:"O take this ring, my damsel fair! and be mine own sweet maid!"She took the ring—she slipp'd it on—and said, in sprightliest tone,"I'll have thee and thy golden ring, and be thy faithful one."S. J. B.
Between two mountains sank the sun—Between two maids the enamour'd one.He gave his kiss to one alone;The other maid grew jealous then:"Most faithless thou of faithless men!"She said—and he replied—"Fair maid!I fain would kiss thy cheeks of red,But thou hast got a bickering brother,Who loves to quarrel with another,And I no quarrel seek, my love!"She hied her to the darksome grove—Silent—she turn'd o'er many a rock,And look'd 'neath many a broken stock;Probed weeds and briars, till she foundA poisonous serpent on the ground.She smote it with her golden ring,Tore from its mouth the venomy fang;Its poisonous juice her hands did wringInto a wine cup—and she sprangOn swiftest feet to Raduli—Her own—her only brother he—Her hands the fatal cup supplied—He drank the poison—and he died.Then sped she to the youth—"A kiss—At least one kiss of love for this—For this—for thee—I dress'd the cupWith poison—and he drank it up—The brother that thou lov'st not—heI poison'd for a kiss from thee"—Away! away! thou murd'rous maid!Avaunt! Avaunt!—the lover said:"What fame—what courage could confideIn thee—a heartless fratricide."S. J. B.
Between two mountains sank the sun—Between two maids the enamour'd one.He gave his kiss to one alone;The other maid grew jealous then:"Most faithless thou of faithless men!"
She said—and he replied—"Fair maid!I fain would kiss thy cheeks of red,But thou hast got a bickering brother,Who loves to quarrel with another,And I no quarrel seek, my love!"
She hied her to the darksome grove—Silent—she turn'd o'er many a rock,And look'd 'neath many a broken stock;Probed weeds and briars, till she foundA poisonous serpent on the ground.She smote it with her golden ring,Tore from its mouth the venomy fang;Its poisonous juice her hands did wringInto a wine cup—and she sprangOn swiftest feet to Raduli—
Her own—her only brother he—Her hands the fatal cup supplied—He drank the poison—and he died.
Then sped she to the youth—"A kiss—At least one kiss of love for this—For this—for thee—I dress'd the cupWith poison—and he drank it up—The brother that thou lov'st not—heI poison'd for a kiss from thee"—
Away! away! thou murd'rous maid!Avaunt! Avaunt!—the lover said:"What fame—what courage could confideIn thee—a heartless fratricide."S. J. B.
The youth he struck on the tambourine,And nought was so bright as its golden sheen;Of the hair of maidens twined togetherIts strings, which he struck with a falcon's feather.The maid look'd down from the balcony,And thus to her inner self said she:—"O heaven! what a noble youth is he!Would'st thou but give this youth to me,I would make of the garden-pinks his bed,I would lay fair roses under his head;And waked by perfume, with what delightWould he kiss the maiden's forehead white!"S. J. B.
The youth he struck on the tambourine,And nought was so bright as its golden sheen;Of the hair of maidens twined togetherIts strings, which he struck with a falcon's feather.The maid look'd down from the balcony,And thus to her inner self said she:—
"O heaven! what a noble youth is he!Would'st thou but give this youth to me,I would make of the garden-pinks his bed,I would lay fair roses under his head;And waked by perfume, with what delightWould he kiss the maiden's forehead white!"S. J. B.
O thou brotherly maple tree!Wilt thou be a friend to me?Be a brother, and a friend!To the green grass thy branches bend,That I may climb to their highest tip!Look o'er the sea, and see the ship,Where my lover sits smiling now;He binds the turban round his brow,And over his shoulders the shawl he flings,Which is full of mine own embroiderings.For three long years my hands inwoveThose golden flowers to deck my love:The richest silk of the brightest dyesI work'd for him, and now my eyesWould fain my absent lover see:Assist me, brotherly maple tree!And tell me, if he thinks of me!S. J. B.
Lovely maiden of Semendria!Hail thee, youth! and health be with thee!Hast thou visited the markets?Saw'st thou there a sheet of paper?Like that paper is my forehead.Hast thou ever seen the vineyard,Seen the rosy wine that flows there?Youth! my cheeks that wine resemble.Didst thou ever walk the meadows,Hast thou seen the black sloe-berry?That black sloe my eyes will paint thee:Hast thou wandered near the ocean?Hast thou seen thepijavica?[14]Like it are the maiden's eye-brows.S. J. B.
A maiden to the fountain went;I saw her overhang the place—And—she was young and innocent—I heard her say with simple grace,"Indeed she has a pretty face;And if she had a spring-flower wreath,How well 'twould sit upon her brow;And she might hear the shepherd breathe,Yes! thou shalt be my maiden now!The shepherd—'midst his fleecy drove,Goes like a moon the stars above."S. J. B.
Maiden! let us share each other's kisses!Tell me, tell me, where shall be our meeting,In thy garden, or in mine, sweet maiden?Under thine, or under my green rose-tree;Thou shalt be a rose, my gentle angel:I to a fond butterfly will change me,Everlastingly o'er thee to flutter—On thy flowers untired I will suspend me,Living blest upon mine own love's kisses.S. J. B.
The maiden made a foolish vow:"I'll never wear a flow'ret now:—No flow'ret shall be ever mine—I'll never drink the proffer'd wine.No wine I'll drink—no friend I'll kissNo, never more—my vow is this."So rashly, rashly spoke the maid,But soon—ah, soon—repentance said:"A flowery garland o'er me,How beautiful 'twould be:And wine—it would restore me,My heart's own gaiety:And love might play before,If one sweet kiss were free."S. J. B.
The maiden made a foolish vow:"I'll never wear a flow'ret now:—No flow'ret shall be ever mine—I'll never drink the proffer'd wine.No wine I'll drink—no friend I'll kissNo, never more—my vow is this."So rashly, rashly spoke the maid,But soon—ah, soon—repentance said:
"A flowery garland o'er me,How beautiful 'twould be:And wine—it would restore me,My heart's own gaiety:And love might play before,If one sweet kiss were free."S. J. B.
Višnja,[15]lovely višnja!Lift thy branches higher;For beneath thy branches,Vilas[16]dance delight:While Radiša[17]dashesFrom the flow'rs the dewdrops.Vilas two conveying,To the third he whispers:"O be mine, sweet Vila!Thou, with mine own mother,In the shade shalt seat thee;Silken vestments spinning,Weaving golden garments."S. J. B.
Lepota went forth to the harvest—she heldA sickle of silver in fingers of gold:And the sun mounted high o'er the parched harvest field;And the maiden in song all her sympathies told,"I'll give my white forehead to him who shall bindAll the sheaves which my sickle leaves scatter'd behind:I'll give my black eyes to the friend who shall bringA drought of sweet waters just fresh from the spring;And to him who shall bear me to rest in the shade,I will be—and for aye—an affectionate maid."And she thought that her words were all wasted in air:But a shepherd—just watching his sheepfold, was there;And he flew, and with sedges he bound all the sheaves;And he made her an arbor of hazelwood leaves;And he ran to the spring, and he brought the sweet water;And he look'd on the face of Beauty's young daughter,And he said, "Lovely maiden, thy promise I claim;"But the cheeks of the maiden were cover'd with shame,And she said to the shepherd, while blushing—"Not so!Go back to thy sheepfold—thou wanderer, go!For if thou didst bind the loose sheaves, thou hast leftThy sheep in the stubble, to wander bereft;And if from the fountain the water thou beared'st,Its freshness and coolness thou equally shared'st;And if thou hast reared up an arbor of shade,For thyself as for me it refreshment has made."S. J. B.
Lepota went forth to the harvest—she heldA sickle of silver in fingers of gold:And the sun mounted high o'er the parched harvest field;And the maiden in song all her sympathies told,"I'll give my white forehead to him who shall bindAll the sheaves which my sickle leaves scatter'd behind:I'll give my black eyes to the friend who shall bringA drought of sweet waters just fresh from the spring;And to him who shall bear me to rest in the shade,I will be—and for aye—an affectionate maid."
And she thought that her words were all wasted in air:But a shepherd—just watching his sheepfold, was there;And he flew, and with sedges he bound all the sheaves;And he made her an arbor of hazelwood leaves;And he ran to the spring, and he brought the sweet water;And he look'd on the face of Beauty's young daughter,And he said, "Lovely maiden, thy promise I claim;"But the cheeks of the maiden were cover'd with shame,And she said to the shepherd, while blushing—"Not so!Go back to thy sheepfold—thou wanderer, go!For if thou didst bind the loose sheaves, thou hast leftThy sheep in the stubble, to wander bereft;And if from the fountain the water thou beared'st,Its freshness and coolness thou equally shared'st;And if thou hast reared up an arbor of shade,For thyself as for me it refreshment has made."S. J. B.
Through the long night a falcon cried,"Awake, awake thee! youth! anonThy maiden will become a bride:She puts her marriage garments on.Awake! awake thee, youth! and sendA marriage blessing to thy friend.""What! shall I be a marriage guest?And shall I bid the maid be blest?Hear then my marriage blessing hear!No son her barren womb shall bear:May every bit of bread she breaksBring with it wretchedness and woe,—For every drop her thirst that slakesMay tears of bitter anguish flow!"S. J. B.
Through the long night a falcon cried,"Awake, awake thee! youth! anonThy maiden will become a bride:She puts her marriage garments on.Awake! awake thee, youth! and sendA marriage blessing to thy friend."
"What! shall I be a marriage guest?And shall I bid the maid be blest?Hear then my marriage blessing hear!No son her barren womb shall bear:May every bit of bread she breaksBring with it wretchedness and woe,—For every drop her thirst that slakesMay tears of bitter anguish flow!"S. J. B.
Two lovers kiss each other in the meadows;They think that no one sees the fond betrayal,But the green meadows see them, and are faithless;To the white flocks incontinent they say all;And the white flocks proclaim it to the shepherd,The shepherd to a high-road traveller brings itHe to a sailor on the restless ocean tells it,The sailor to his spice-ship thoughtless sings it;The spice-ship whispers it upon the waters,The waters rush to tell the maiden's mother.And thus impassioned spoke the lovely maiden—"Meadows! of spring-days never see another!Flocks! may the cruel ravenous wolves destroy ye.Thee, shepherd! may the cruel Moslem slaughter.Wanderer! may oft thy slippery footsteps stumble.Thee, sailor! may the ocean billows smother.Ship! may a fire unquenchable consume thee;And sink into the earth, thou treacherous water!"S. J. B.
Two lovers kiss each other in the meadows;They think that no one sees the fond betrayal,But the green meadows see them, and are faithless;To the white flocks incontinent they say all;And the white flocks proclaim it to the shepherd,The shepherd to a high-road traveller brings itHe to a sailor on the restless ocean tells it,The sailor to his spice-ship thoughtless sings it;The spice-ship whispers it upon the waters,The waters rush to tell the maiden's mother.
And thus impassioned spoke the lovely maiden—"Meadows! of spring-days never see another!Flocks! may the cruel ravenous wolves destroy ye.Thee, shepherd! may the cruel Moslem slaughter.Wanderer! may oft thy slippery footsteps stumble.Thee, sailor! may the ocean billows smother.Ship! may a fire unquenchable consume thee;And sink into the earth, thou treacherous water!"S. J. B.
O that I were a little stream,That I might flow to him—to him!How should I dance with joy, when knowingTo whom my sparkling wave was flowing!Beneath his window would I glide,And linger there till morning-tide;When first he rouses him to dressIn comely garb his manliness,—Then should he weak, or thirsty be,O he might stoop to drink of me!Or baring there his bosom, laveThat bosom in my rippling waveO what a bliss, if I could bearThe cooling power of quiet there!S. J. B.
O nightingale! thy warblings cease,And let my master sleep in peace:'Twas I who lull'd him to repose,And I will wake from his rest;I'll seek the sweetest flower that grows,And bear it to his presence blest;And gently touch his cheeks, and say,"Awake, my master! for 'tis day."
O nightingale! sweet bird—they say,That peace abides with thee;But thou hast brought from day to dayA triple woe to me.The first, first woe my spirit knew,My first, first woe was this,My mother never train'd me toA lover's early blissMy second woe, my second woe,Was that my trusty steed,Whene'er I mounted, seem'd to showNor eagerness nor speed.My third, third woe—of all the worst,Is that the maid I woo,The maid I lov'd the best—the first,Is angry with me, too.Then dig an early grave for me,Yon whiten'd fields among;In breadth two lances let it be,And just four lances long.And o'er my head let roses grow,There plant the red-rose tree;And at my feet a fount shall flow,O scoop that fount for me!So when a youthful swain appears,The roses he shall wreathe;And when an old man bent with years,He'll drink the stream beneath.S. J. B.
The sheep, beneath old Buda's wall,Their wonted quiet rest enjoy;But ah! rude stony fragments fall,And many a silk-wool'd sheep destroy;Two youthful shepherds perish there,The golden George, and Mark the fair.For Mark, O many a friend grew sad,And father, mother wept for him:George—father, friend, nor mother had,For him no tender eye grew dim:Save one—a maiden far away,She wept—and thus I heard her say:My golden George—and shall a song,A song of grief be sung for thee—'Twould go from lip to lip—ere longBy careless lips profaned to be;Unhallow'd thoughts might soon defameThe purity of woman's name.Or shall I take thy picture fair,And fix that picture in my sleeve?Ah! time will soon the vestment tear,And not a shade, nor fragment leave:I'll give not him I love so wellTo what is so corruptible.I'll write thy name within a book;That book will pass from hand to hand,And many an eager eye will look,But ah! how few will understand!And who their holiest thoughts can shroudFrom the cold insults of the crowd?[19]S. J. B.
The sheep, beneath old Buda's wall,Their wonted quiet rest enjoy;But ah! rude stony fragments fall,And many a silk-wool'd sheep destroy;Two youthful shepherds perish there,The golden George, and Mark the fair.
For Mark, O many a friend grew sad,And father, mother wept for him:George—father, friend, nor mother had,For him no tender eye grew dim:Save one—a maiden far away,She wept—and thus I heard her say:
My golden George—and shall a song,A song of grief be sung for thee—'Twould go from lip to lip—ere longBy careless lips profaned to be;Unhallow'd thoughts might soon defameThe purity of woman's name.
Or shall I take thy picture fair,And fix that picture in my sleeve?Ah! time will soon the vestment tear,And not a shade, nor fragment leave:I'll give not him I love so wellTo what is so corruptible.
I'll write thy name within a book;That book will pass from hand to hand,And many an eager eye will look,But ah! how few will understand!And who their holiest thoughts can shroudFrom the cold insults of the crowd?[19]S. J. B.