VII.
By three paths from Wilna, the young men are roaming,
Day after day Budris looks for their coming—
But day after day he watcheth in vain.
No steed from the high-road, no lance from the forest,
He watcheth and waiteth in anguish the sorest—
"Alas! for my brave sons, I fear they are slain!"
VIII.
The snow in the valley falls heavy and fast—
Through the forest a horseman comes dashing at last,
With his mantle wrapped closely to guard from the cold:
"Ha, Olgard! hast brought me the ducats of gold?
Let's see—is it amber thou'st won for thy ride?"
"Oh, father—no, father—a young Polish bride!"
IX.
The snow on the valley falls heavier still,
A horseman is seen rushing down from the hill;
Wrapped close in his mantle some rich treasure lies—
"How now, my brave son—hast thou brought me a prize?
Is it silver of Argun thou'st won for thy ride?
Come show me!" "No, father—a young Polish bride!"
X.
Faster and thicker the snow-showers fall—
A horseman rides fiercely through snow-flakes and all;
Budris sees how his mantle is clasped to his breast—
"Ho, slaves! 'tis enough, bid our friends to the feast!
I'll ask no more questions, whatever betides,
We'll drain a full cup to the three Polish brides!"