Tears rush'd down the visage of the hero:
"O thou faithless world!—thou lovely flow'ret!
Thou wert lovely—a short pilgrim's journey—
Short—though I have seen three centuries over—
And 'tis time that I should end my journey!"
Then he drew his sharp and shining sabre,
Drew it forth—and loosed the sabre-girdle;
And he hasten'd to his faithful Sharaz:
With one stroke he cleft his head asunder,
That he never should by Turk be mounted,
Never be disgraced in Turkish service,
Water draw, or drag a Moslem's Jugum.
Soon as he had cleaved his head asunder,
Graced a grave he for his faithful Sharaz,
Nobler grave than that which held his brother.
Then he broke in four his trusty sabre,
That it might not be a Moslem's portion,
That it might not be a Moslem's triumph,
That it might not be a wreck of Marko,
Which the curse of Christendom should follow.
Soon as he in four had broke his sabre,
Next he broke his trusty lance in seven;
Threw the fragments to the fir-trees' branches.
Then he took his club, so terror-striking,
In his strong right hand, and swiftly flung it,
Flung it from the mountain of Urvina,
Far into the azure, gloomy ocean.
To his club thus spake the hero Marko:
"When my club returneth from the ocean,
Shall a hero come to equal Marko."
When he thus had scatter'd all his weapons,
From his breast he drew a golden tablet;
From his pocket drew unwritten paper,
And the princely Marko thus inscribed it:
"He who visits the Urvina mountain,
He who seeks the fountain 'neath the fir-trees,
And there finds the hero Marko's body,
Let him know that Marko is departed.
When he died, he had three well-fill'd purses:
How well fill'd? Well fill'd with golden ducats.
One shall be his portion, and my blessing,
Who shall dig a grave for Marko's body:
Let the second be the church's portion;
Let the third be given to blind and maim'd ones,
That the blind through earth in peace may wander,
And with hymns laud Marko's deeds of glory."
And when Marko had inscribed the letter,
Lo! he stuck it on the fir-tree's branches,
That it might be seen by passing travellers.
In the front he threw his golden tablets,
Doff'd his vest of green, and spread it calmly
On the grass, beneath a sheltering fir-tree;
Cross'd him, and lay down upon his garment;
O'er his eyes he drew his samur-kalpak,
Laid him down,—yes! laid him down for ever.
By the fountain lay the clay-cold Marko
Day and night; a long, long week he lay there.
Many travellers pass'd, and saw the hero,—
Saw him lying by the public path-way;
And while passing said, "The hero slumbers!"
Then they kept a more than common distance,
Fearing that they might disturb the hero.
III. SERBIA: SEAWARD
