So as they approach’d their mother’s dwelling,
Near the house a tall white church was standing,
Young Jovan he whisper’d to his sister—
“Stop, I pray thee, my beloved sister!
Let me enter the white church an instant.
When my middle brother here was married,
Lo! I lost a golden ring, my sister!
Let me go an instant—I shall find it.”
Jovan went—into his grave he glided—
And Jelitza stood—she stood impatient—
Wondering—wondering—but in vain she waited.
Then she left the spot to seek her brother.
Many and many a grave was in the church-yard
Newly made—Jovan was nowhere—Sighing,
On she hasten’d—hastened to the city,
Saw her mother’s dwelling, and press’d forward
Eager to that old white dwelling.
Listen
To that cuckoo’s cry within the dwelling!
Lo! it was not the gray cuckoo’s crying—
’Twas her aged, her gray-headed mother.
To the door Jelitza press’d—outstretching
Her white neck, she call’d—“Make ope, my mother!
Hasten to make ope the door, my mother!”
But her mother to her cries made answer:
“Plague of God! avaunt! my sons have perish’d—
All—all nine have perish’d—Wilt thou also
Take their aged mother!” Then Jelitza
Shriek’d, “O open—open, dearest mother!
I am not God’s plague—I am thy daughter,
Thine own daughter—thy Jelitza, mother!”
Then the mother push’d the door wide open,
And she scream’d aloud, and groan’d, and flung her
Old arms round her daughter—All was silent—
Stiff and dead they fell to earth together.
HASSAN AGA’S WIFE’S LAMENT.
What’s so white upon yon verdant forest?
Is it snow, or is it swans assembled?
Were it snow, it surely had been melted;
Were it swans, long since they had departed.
Lo! it is not swans, it is not snow there:
’Tis the tent of Aga, Hassan Aga;
He is lying there severely wounded,
And his mother seeks him, and his sister;
But for very shame his wife is absent.
When the misery of his wounds was soften’d,
Hassan thus his faithful wife commanded:
“In my house thou shalt abide no longer—
Thou shalt dwell no more among my kindred.”
When his wife had heard this gloomy language,
Stiff she stood, and full of bitter sorrow.
When the horses, stamping, shook the portal,
Fled the faithful wife of Hassan Aga—
Fain would throw her from the castle window.
Anxious two beloved daughters follow’d,
Crying after her in tearful anguish—
“These are not our father Hassan’s coursers;
’Tis our uncle Pintorōvich coming.”
Then approached the wife of Hassan Aga—
Threw her arms, in misery, round her brother—
“See the sorrow, brother, of thy sister:
He would tear me from my helpless children.”
He was silent—but from out his pocket,
Safely wrapp’d in silk of deepest scarlet,
Letters of divorce he drew, and bid her
Seek again her mother’s ancient dwelling—
Free to win and free to wed another.
When she saw the letter of divorcement,
Kisses on her young boy’s forehead, kisses
On her girls’ red cheeks she press’d—the nursling—
For there was a nursling in the cradle—
Could she tear her, wretched, from her infant?
But her brother seized her hand, and led her—
Led her swiftly to the agile courser;
And he hastened with the sorrowing woman
To the ancient dwelling of her fathers.