A Lithuanian Ballad.
From the Polish of Mickiewicz.
With his three mighty sons, tall as Ledwin’s were once,
To the court-yard old Budrys advances;
“Your best steeds forth lead ye, to saddle them speed ye,
And sharpen your swords and your lances.
For in Wilna I’ve vow’d, that three trumpeters loud
I’d despatch unto lands of like number,
To make Russ Olgierd vapour, and Pole Skirgiel caper,
And to rouse German Kiestut from slumber.
Hie away safe and sound, serve your dear native ground;
May the High Gods Litewskian defend ye!
Though at home I must tarry, my counsel forth carry:
Ye are three, and three ways ye must wend ye.
Unto Olgierd’s Russ plain one of ye must amain,
To where Ilmen and Novogrod tower;
There are sables for plunder, veils work’d to a wonder,
And of coin have the merchants a power.
Let another essay to prince Kiestut his way,
To whose crosletted doys [{32}] bitter gruel!
There is amber like gravel, cloth worthy to travel,
And priests deck’d in diamond and jewel.
Unto Pole Skirgiel’s part let the third hero start,
There the dwellings but poorly are furnish’d;
So choose ye there rather, and bring to your father,
Keen sabres and bucklers high-burnish’d.
But bring home, above all, Laskian [{33}] girls to our hall,
More sprightly than fawns in fine weather;
The hues of the morning their cheeks are adorning,
Their eyes are like stars of the ether.
Half a century ago, when my young blood did glow,
A wife from their region I bore me;
Death tore us asunder, yet ne’er I look yonder,
But memory straight brings her before me.”
Now advis’d them he hath, so he blesseth their path,
And away they high-spirited rattle;
Grim winter comes chiding—of them there’s no tiding;
Says Budrys: they’ve fallen in battle.