Servian Popular Poetry

by Unknown

Marko took the purse of gold in silence,
Walk’d away in silence from the palace;
’T was no love of Marko—no intention
That the hero’s lips should pledge the sultan:
’T was that he should quit the monarch’s presence,
For his fearful wrath had been awaken’d.

DEATH OF KRALEVICH MARKO.

At the dawn of day the noble Marko
Rode in sunlight on the Sabbath morning;
By the sea, along the Urvinian mountain,
Towards the mountain-top as he ascended;
Suddenly his trusty Sharaz stumbled;
Sharaz stumbled, and began to weep there.
Sad it fell upon the heart of Marko,
And he thus address’d his favourite Sharaz—
“Ah! my faithful friend, my trusty Sharaz,
We have dwelt a hundred years and sixty,
Dwelt together as beloved companions,
And till now have never, never stumbled.
Thou hast stumbled now, my trusty Sharaz,
Thou hast stumbled, and thine eyes are weeping.
God alone can tell what fate awaits me;—
One of us is surely doom’d to perish,
And my life or thine is now in peril.”

While the prince apostrophized his Sharaz,
Lo! the Vila from Urvina’s mountain
Call’d aloud unto the princely Marko:
“Brother, listen—listen, princely Marko!
Know’st thou why thy faithful Sharaz stumbled?
Know that he was mourning for his master;
Know that ye ere long must be divided.”
Marko answer’d thus the mountain Vila:
“Thou white Vila, let a curse be on thee! [98]
Now shall I be parted from my Sharaz,
Who through many a land and town hath borne me,
From the sun’s uprising to his setting.
Better steed ne’er trod the earth than Sharaz,
As than Marko never better hero.
While my head stays firmly on my shoulders,
Never will I from my steed be sever’d.”

The white Vila answer’d princely Marko:
“Brother, listen!—listen, princely Marko!
Force will never tear thy Sharaz from thee;
Vainly ’gainst thee would the arm of hero
Be uplifted—not the shining sabre,
Not the battle-club—nor lance of warrior.
Earth no hero holds who can alarm thee;—
But the brave must die—and thou art mortal;
God will smite thee—God, the old blood-shedder. [99]
But if thou would’st doubt the mountain Vila,
Hasten to the summit of the mountain,
Look to right and look to left around thee:
Thou wilt see two tall and slender fir-trees,
Fir-trees towering o’er the mountain forests;
They with verdant leaves are cover’d over;
And between the fir-trees is a fountain.
Look! and afterwards rein back thy Sharaz,
Then alight, and bind him to the fir-tree:
Bend thee down,—and look into the fountain;
Look—as if the fountain were a mirror;
Look, and thou shalt see when death awaits thee.”

Marko did, as counsell’d by the Vila.
When he came upon the mountain summit,
To the right and left he look’d around him;
Then he saw two tall and slender fir-trees,
Fir-trees towering high above the forest,
Covered all with verdant leaves and branches.
Then he rein’d his faithful Sharaz backwards,
Then dismounted—tied him to the fir-tree;
Bent him down, and looked into the fountain,
Saw his face upon the water mirror’d,
Saw his death-day written on the water.

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. [101]
Soon as he had cleaved his head asunder,
Graved 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 fount 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, [103]
Laid him down,—yes! laid him down for ever.