Three paths from Wilna to plunder will lead ye;
Ride forth, my sons—each a path I aread ye—
Thus will your booty be varied and rare.
Olgard, go thou and despoil the proud Prussian;
Woiwod, Kiestut, be thy prey the Russian—
Vitald the lances of Poland may dare.
III.
From Novgorod Veliki[9] come back to me never
Without the rich dust of the Tartar's gold river;
Bring the sables of Yakutsk, so costly and fine,
And the silver of Argun they dig from the mine,
The gems of Siberia and far Koliván—
So saints speed the ride of the bold Lithuán!
IV.
In the cursed Prussian land there is wealth for the bold:
Ha, boy! never shrink from their ducats of gold;
Take their costly brocades, where the golden thread flashes,
The amber that lies where the Baltic wave dashes,
Be the prize but as rich as your forefathers won,
And the gods of old Litwa[10] will guard thee, my son.
V.
No gold, my young Vitald, will fall to thy share,
Where the plains of the Polac lie level and bare;
But their lances are bright, and their sabres are keen,
And their maidens the loveliest ever were seen:
So speed forth, my son, and good luck to the ride
That brings a fair Polenese home for thy bride.
VI.
Not the azure of ocean, or stars of the sky,
Can rival the colour or light of her eye;
Like the lily in hue, when its first leaves unfold,
Is the bosom on which fall her tresses of gold;
Fine and slender her form as the pines of the grove,
And her cheek and her lips glow with beauty and love.