Lo! a fir-tree towers o'er Sarajevo,Spreads o'er half the face of Sarajevo—Rises up to heaven from Sarajevo:Brothers and half-sisters there were seated;And the brother cuts a silken garment,Which he holds, and questions thus his sister:"Brother's wife! thou sweet and lovely dovelet!Wherefore art thou looking at the fir-tree?Art thou rather dreaming of the poplar,Or art thinking of my absent brother?"To her brother thus the lady answer'd:"Golden-ring of mine! my husband's brother!Not about the fir-tree was I dreaming,Nor the noble stem of lofty poplar;Neither was I dreaming of my brother.I was thinking of my only mother,She with sugar and with honey reared me;She for me the red wine pour'd at even,And at midnight gave the sweet metheglin;In the morning milk, with spirit chasten'dSo to give me cheeks of rose and lily;And with gentle messages she waked me,That her child might grow both tall and slender."S. J. B.
Lo! a fir-tree towers o'er Sarajevo,Spreads o'er half the face of Sarajevo—Rises up to heaven from Sarajevo:Brothers and half-sisters there were seated;And the brother cuts a silken garment,Which he holds, and questions thus his sister:
"Brother's wife! thou sweet and lovely dovelet!Wherefore art thou looking at the fir-tree?Art thou rather dreaming of the poplar,Or art thinking of my absent brother?"
To her brother thus the lady answer'd:"Golden-ring of mine! my husband's brother!Not about the fir-tree was I dreaming,Nor the noble stem of lofty poplar;Neither was I dreaming of my brother.I was thinking of my only mother,She with sugar and with honey reared me;She for me the red wine pour'd at even,And at midnight gave the sweet metheglin;In the morning milk, with spirit chasten'dSo to give me cheeks of rose and lily;And with gentle messages she waked me,That her child might grow both tall and slender."S. J. B.
"My Misho! tell me, tell me, pray,Where wert thou wandering yesterday?""I did not ramble—did not roam;A wretched headache kept me home.""A thousand times I've said, I thinkNo widows love—no water drink!But thou, a thoughtless unbeliever,Wilt water drink, and get a fever;Wilt give to widows thine affection,And find remorse, or find rejection;Now take my counsel,—drink of wine,And be a virgin maiden thine!"S. J. B.
Gloomy night! how full thou art of darkness!Thou, my heart! art fuller yet of sorrow,Sorrow which I bear, but cannot utter!I have now no mother who will hear me,I have now no sister who will soothe me,—Yet I had a friend—but he is absent!Ere he comes, the night will be departed;Ere he wakes, the birds will sing their matins,Ere his kiss, the twilight hour will brighten:Go thy way, my friend; the day is dawning!S. J. B.
"Sweet maiden mine! thou blushing rose!Sweet, blushing roselet mine!For me, what thought of honey flowsFrom those sweet lips of thine?"'I dare not speak with thee, my dear,My mother has forbid me.'"Sweet maid! thy mother is not here."'She saw me once, and chid me.Sir, she is in the garden there,Plucking the evergreen:—O may her heart like mine decay,Like mine decay unseen,—Ere love's sweet power has pass'd away,As it had never been.'S. J. B.
"Sweet maiden mine! thou blushing rose!Sweet, blushing roselet mine!For me, what thought of honey flowsFrom those sweet lips of thine?"'I dare not speak with thee, my dear,My mother has forbid me.'
"Sweet maid! thy mother is not here."'She saw me once, and chid me.Sir, she is in the garden there,Plucking the evergreen:—O may her heart like mine decay,Like mine decay unseen,—Ere love's sweet power has pass'd away,As it had never been.'S. J. B.
Long and lovely are Milica's eyebrows,And they overhang her cheeks of roses—Cheeks of roses, and her snowy forehead,Three long years have I beheld the maiden,Could not look upon her eyes so lovely—On her eyes—nor on her snowy forehead.To our country dance I lured the maiden,Lured Milica,—lured her to our dances,Hoping to look on her eyes so lovely.While they danced upon the greensward, verdantIn the sunshine, sudden darkness gather'd,And the clouds broke out in fiery lightning,And the maidens all look'd up to heaven,—All the maidens—all, except Milica.She still look'd on the green grass, untrembling,While the maidens trembled as they whisper'd:"O Milica! thou our friend and playmate,Art thou overwise—or art thou silly?Thus to look upon the grass beneath us,And not look up to the heaven above us,To the clouds, round which the lightnings wind them?"And Milica gave this quiet answer:"I am neither overwise nor silly.Not theVila,nor the cloud-upgatherer;I am yet a maid—and look before me."S. J. B.
Long and lovely are Milica's eyebrows,And they overhang her cheeks of roses—Cheeks of roses, and her snowy forehead,Three long years have I beheld the maiden,Could not look upon her eyes so lovely—On her eyes—nor on her snowy forehead.To our country dance I lured the maiden,Lured Milica,—lured her to our dances,Hoping to look on her eyes so lovely.
While they danced upon the greensward, verdantIn the sunshine, sudden darkness gather'd,And the clouds broke out in fiery lightning,And the maidens all look'd up to heaven,—All the maidens—all, except Milica.She still look'd on the green grass, untrembling,While the maidens trembled as they whisper'd:
"O Milica! thou our friend and playmate,Art thou overwise—or art thou silly?Thus to look upon the grass beneath us,And not look up to the heaven above us,To the clouds, round which the lightnings wind them?"And Milica gave this quiet answer:"I am neither overwise nor silly.Not theVila,nor the cloud-upgatherer;I am yet a maid—and look before me."S. J. B.
He slept beneath a poplar tree:And three young maidens cross'd the way;I listen'd to the lovely three,And heard them to each other say:—"Now what is dearest, love! to thee?"The eldest said—'Young Ranko's ringWould be to me the dearest thing.'"No! not for me," the second cried;"I'd choose the girdle from his side."'Not I,' the youngest said—'In truth,I'll rather have the sleeping youth.The ring, O sister! will grow dim,The girdle will ere long be broken;But this is an eternal token,—His love for me and mine for him.'S. J. B.
Sweet fountain, that so freshly flows!And thou, my own carnation-rose,That shines like a shining gem!And shall I tear thee from thy stem?For whom? my mother? ah! for whom?My mother slumbers in the tomb.For whom? my sister? who has fled,To seek a foreign bridal bed.For whom? my brother? he is far,Far off, in dark and bloody war.For whom, for whom, but thee, my love?But thou art absent far above,Above these three green mountains,Beyond these three fresh fountains!S. J. B.
Nightingale sings sweetlyIn the verdant forest;In the verdant forest,On the slender branches.Thither came three sportsmen,Nightingale to shoot at.She implored the sportsmen,"Shoot me not, ye sportsmen!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 herTo the verdant forests.Soon her song is waken'd;"Woe! woe! betides us,Friend from friend divided,Bird from forest banish'd!"S. J. B.
Nightingale sings sweetlyIn the verdant forest;In the verdant forest,On the slender branches.
Thither came three sportsmen,Nightingale to shoot at.She implored the sportsmen,"Shoot me not, ye sportsmen!
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 herTo the verdant forests.
Soon her song is waken'd;"Woe! woe! betides us,Friend from friend divided,Bird from forest banish'd!"S. J. B.
Omar's court is near to Sarajevo;All around it is a woody mountain:In the midst there is a verdant meadow;There the maidens dance their joyous Kolo[20]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 spring time!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?"S. J. B.
Konda died—his mother's only offspring.O what grief was hers the youth to buryFar away from his own natural dwelling,So she bore him to a verdant garden,And 'neath 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."S. J. B.
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.And 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."S. J. B.
Three young travellers travell'd forth to travel:On their travels met a lovely maiden:Each will give the lovely maiden a present:One presents her with a fresh-pluck'd apple:One presents her withbosiljak[21]flowering:One a gold ring for the maiden's finger.He who gave the maiden thebosiljakSaid, "The maid is mine—I claim the maiden."He who gave the maid the fresh-pluck'd appleSaid, "The maid ismine—I claim the maiden."He who gave the gold ring to the maidenSaid, "We'll go and seek the Judge 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 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 herbosiljakflowering;And the third a gold ring for her finger:—Now decide to whom belongs the maiden."Thus the honourable judge decided:"We presentbosiljakfor 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."S. J. B.
Three young travellers travell'd forth to travel:On their travels met a lovely maiden:Each will give the lovely maiden a present:One presents her with a fresh-pluck'd apple:One presents her withbosiljak[21]flowering:One a gold ring for the maiden's finger.He who gave the maiden thebosiljakSaid, "The maid is mine—I claim the maiden."He who gave the maid the fresh-pluck'd appleSaid, "The maid ismine—I claim the maiden."He who gave the gold ring to the maidenSaid, "We'll go and seek the Judge 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 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 herbosiljakflowering;And the third a gold ring for her finger:—Now decide to whom belongs the maiden."
Thus the honourable judge decided:"We presentbosiljakfor 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."S. J. B.
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 lessThan the sultan's chosen sultaness."S. J. B.
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 lessThan the sultan's chosen sultaness."S. J. B.
Here there is a maiden,Young, and yet a virgin:Give her then a husband,Or give us the maiden,And we will betroth herTo Ivan the student.He's our parson's nephew—He has art to write[22]onPinions of the eagle.What shall be his subject?What—but bright-eyed maidensAnd the brows of heroes?S. J. B.
O thou lovely maiden!Lo! thy praise has mountedTo the monarch's cityMaiden! thou hast plantedThe six-branch'dkaloper[23]And bosilka early.But the youths unmarriedLong have been in waitingTo tear up thy balsam—Thy bosilka pillage.Know'st thou not they lingerJust to steal thy kisses?Maiden! Maiden! neverLet those youths betray thee!S. J. B.
O sleep! sweet sleep! in vain, in vainI 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 wildWhere rocks and dangers be.O sleep! sweet sleep! in vain, in vainI 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 gladeWhere wolves and perils be.O sleep! sweet sleep! in vain, in vainI 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 vainI bid thee visit me:The anxious thought disturbs my brain—Whose shall the maiden be?My mother says, "The tailor, thenThe 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 vainI bid thee visit me;The anxious thought disturbs my brain—Whose shall the maiden be?My mother says,—"The peasant, takeThe peasant, child! for thee."Yes! mother, yes! in him I seeBoth love and happiness for me;For though his labouring hands are black,The whitest bread eats he.S. J. B.
O sleep! sweet sleep! in vain, in vainI 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 wildWhere rocks and dangers be.
O sleep! sweet sleep! in vain, in vainI 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 gladeWhere wolves and perils be.
O sleep! sweet sleep! in vain, in vainI 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 vainI bid thee visit me:The anxious thought disturbs my brain—Whose shall the maiden be?My mother says, "The tailor, thenThe 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 vainI bid thee visit me;The anxious thought disturbs my brain—Whose shall the maiden be?My mother says,—"The peasant, takeThe peasant, child! for thee."Yes! mother, yes! in him I seeBoth love and happiness for me;For though his labouring hands are black,The whitest bread eats he.S. J. B.
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."S. J. B.
"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 tavernBear 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 ratherServe, 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 everywhere."S. J. B.
"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 tavernBear 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 ratherServe, 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 everywhere."S. J. B.
Lovely maiden gather'd roses,Sleep o'ertook 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'nShall destroy him then.'S. J. B.
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[24]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,[25]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 when'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.S. J. B.
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[24]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,[25]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 when'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.S. J. B.
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 on a strong-wing'd eagle thenFlew to her father's home again.S. J. B.
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 on a strong-wing'd eagle thenFlew to her father's home again.S. J. B.
Who is mourning there in Glamodelec'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[26]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 her:"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 sorrowDid 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 hair-band caught the open window—From the window, ah she hung suspended—Hung a week suspended from the window—Then her hair gave away—and then the maidenOn 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 entom'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, descendedOn 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'dFrom her chain she took her knife, and plunged it—Plunged it deep within her troubled bosom—Fell, and died—O melancholy mother!S. J. B.
Who is mourning there in Glamodelec'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[26]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 her:"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 sorrowDid 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 hair-band caught the open window—From the window, ah she hung suspended—Hung a week suspended from the window—Then her hair gave away—and then the maidenOn 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 entom'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, descendedOn 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'dFrom her chain she took her knife, and plunged it—Plunged it deep within her troubled bosom—Fell, and died—O melancholy mother!S. J. B.
I loved her from her infancy,Lado![27]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 meLado! Lado!When the long nights of autumn flee,Lado! Lado!S. J. B.
The sky is cover'd with stars again:The plains are cover'd with flocks of sheep:But where is the shepherd? On the plainThe shepherd is lost in careless sleep:The youthful Radoje 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."S. J. B.
The sky is cover'd with stars again:The plains are cover'd with flocks of sheep:But where is the shepherd? On the plainThe shepherd is lost in careless sleep:The youthful Radoje 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."S. J. B.
The wind was with the roses playing:To Ranko's tent it blew their leaves:Milica, Ranko, there were staying,And Ranko writes—Milica weaves.His letter done, he drops his pen:Her finish'd web she throws aside:And lo! I heard the lover thenLow whisper to his promised bride:"Milica! tell me truly nowAnd 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 wholeOf brothers—many though they be:And that the vows we pledged togetherAre lighter than the lightest feather."S. J. B.
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.S. J. B.
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 blissOf a kiss—of a kiss:Beloved, ariseIn the hour of thy prime,Beloved, arise!S. J. B.
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 blissOf a kiss—of a kiss:Beloved, ariseIn the hour of thy prime,Beloved, arise!S. J. B.
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 ample dwelling—With them visit, too, thy Osman Aga."S. J. B.
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 ample dwelling—With them visit, too, thy Osman Aga."S. J. B.
Two solitary sisters, whoA 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 boughOf box-tree from the mountain's brow;Two jewels dark for eyes they gave;For eyebrows, from the ocean's waveThey took two leeches; and for teethFix'd pearls above, and pearls beneath;For food they gave him honey sweet,And said, "Now live, and speak, and eat."S. J. B.
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 pledgesVows: "O come to me:Lightly spring across the hedges:Come—but slightly.Come at eve—lest harm betide thee.If any home thou seek,In our quiet dwelling hide thee;Not a whisper speak."And 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 fellShelves 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 beardIn perplexity.And the youth must quench the fire,And the maiden must retire.S. J. B.
Lo! upon the mountain greenStands 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 oneFed upon her eyes alone;On the fourth, he sought the blissOf 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 treadOn thy feet, thy boots of red!Come at evening—come and stringPearls for me—and thou shalt flingO'er me my embroider'd shawl.We will go at morning's callTo the kolo—Friend! but thouMust not touch the maiden now—Know'st thou not that busy slanderFollows us wher'er we wander?Evil tongues are ever talking;Calumny abroad is walkingKnow'st thou that a simple kissAmple 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."S. J. B.
Lo! upon the mountain greenStands 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 oneFed upon her eyes alone;On the fourth, he sought the blissOf 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 treadOn thy feet, thy boots of red!Come at evening—come and stringPearls for me—and thou shalt flingO'er me my embroider'd shawl.We will go at morning's callTo the kolo—Friend! but thouMust not touch the maiden now—
Know'st thou not that busy slanderFollows us wher'er we wander?Evil tongues are ever talking;Calumny abroad is walkingKnow'st thou that a simple kissAmple 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."S. J. B.
"Where wert thou! Misho! yesterday?""O 'twas a happy day for me!A lovely maiden cross'd my wayA maiden smiling lovelilyAnd 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-treeBefore her house—its boughs I'll climb;Wail like a cuckoo mournfully,And swallow-like, at evening time,Pour forth my woe in throbbings deepAnd 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."S. J. B.
I wish the happy time were nigh,When youths are sold, that I might buy.But for an azure-eyed Mlinar,[28]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 meTo tell him "I am yours"—and smileIn fond affection all the while.S. J. B.
Rose! O smile upon the youth no longer;He in his impatience to be wedded,Chose a widow for his years unsuited,And wher'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'dThou didst wake me kissing my white forehead,'Up, my heart! the sun is high in heaven,And our aged mother is arisen.'"S. J. B.
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!S. J. B.
O! If I were a mountain streamlet,I know where I would flowI'd spring into the crystal Sava,Where the gay vessels go,That I might look upon my lover—For fain my heart would knowIf, when he holds the helm, he everLooks on my rose, and thinksOf her who gave it;—if the nosegayI made of sweetest pinksIs faded yet, and if he wear it.On Saturday I cullTo give him for a Sabbath presentAll that is beautiful.S. J. B.