I. THE SULTAN Murad o’er Kossovo comes | |
| With banners and drums. | |
| |
| There, all in characters fair, | |
| He wrote a letter; and there | |
| Bade his estaffettes despatch | 5 |
| To bear it to Krouchevatch, | |
| To the white-walled town of the Tzar, | |
| To the hands of Prince Lazar. | |
| “Listen, Lazarus, chief of the Serbs, to me! | |
| That which never hath been, that which never shall be, | 10 |
| Is that two lords one land should sway, | |
| And the same rayas two tributes pay. | |
| Send to me, therefore, the tributes and keys; | |
| The golden keys of each white town; | |
| And send me a seven years’ tribute with these. | 15 |
| But if this thou wilt not do, | |
| Then come thou down over Kossovo: | |
| On the field of Kossovo come thou down, | |
| That we may divide the land with our swords. | |
| These are my words.” | 20 |
| |
| When Lazarus this letter had read, | |
| Bitter, bitter were the tears he shed. | |
| |
II. A gray bird, a falcon, comes flying apace | |
| From Jerusalem, from the Holy Place; | |
| And he bears a light swallow abroad. | 25 |
| It is not a gray bird, a falcon, God wot! | |
| But the Saint Elias; and it is not | |
| A light swallow he bears from afar, | |
| But a letter from the Mother of God | |
| To the Tzar who in Kossovo stays. | 30 |
| And the letter is dropt on the knees of the Tzar; | |
| And these are the words that it says:— | |
| |
| “Lazarus, Prince of a race that I love, | |
| Which empire choosest thou,— | |
| That of the heaven above, | 35 |
| Or that of the earth below? | |
| If thou choose thee an earthly realm, | |
| Saddle horse, belt, spur, and away! | |
| Warriors, bind ye both sabre and helm, | |
| And rush on the Turks, and they | 40 |
| With their army whole shall perish. | |
| But, if rather a heavenly crown thou cherish, | |
| At Kossovo build ye a temple fair. | |
| There no foundations of marble lay, | |
| But only silk of the scarlet dye. | 45 |
| Range ye the army in battle array, | |
| And let each and all full solemnly | |
| Partake of the blesséd sacrament there. | |
| For then of a certainty know | |
| Ye shall utterly perish, both thou, | 50 |
| And thine army all; and the Turk shall be | |
| Lord of the land that is under thee.” | |
| |
| When the Tzar he read these words, | |
| His thoughts were as long and as sharp as swords. | |
| “God of my fathers, what shall I choose? | 55 |
| If a heavenly empire, then must I lose | |
| All that is dearest to me upon earth; | |
| But if that the heavenly here I refuse, | |
| What then is the earthly worth? | |
| It is but a day, | 60 |
| It passeth away, | |
| And the glory of earth full soon is o’er, | |
| And the glory of God is more and more. | |
| |
| “What is this world’s renown?” | |
| (His heart was heavy, his soul was stirred.) | 65 |
| “Shall an earthly empire be preferred | |
| To an everlasting crown? | |
| At Kossovo build me a temple fair: | |
| Lay no foundations of marble down, | |
| But only silk of the scarlet dye.” | 70 |
| Then he sent for the Servian Patriarch: | |
| With him twelve bishops to Kossovo went. | |
| It was at the lifting of the dark: | |
| They ranged the army in battle array, | |
| And the army all full solemnly | 75 |
| Received the blessed sacrament, | |
| And hardly was this done, when lo! | |
| The Turks came rushing on Kossovo. | |
| |
III. “Ivan Kossantchitch, my pobratime, | |
| What of the Turk? How deem ye of him? | 80 |
| Is he strong, is he many, is he near? | |
| Our battle, say! may we show him? | |
| May we hope to overthrow him? | |
| What news of him bringest thou here?” | |
| |
| And Ivan Kossantchitch replied: | 85 |
| “Milosch Obìlitch, my brother dear, | |
| I have lookt on the Turk in his pride. | |
| He is strong, he is many, he is near, | |
| His tents are on every side. | |
| Were we all of us hewn into morsels, and salted, | 90 |
| Hardly, I think, should we salt him his meat. | |
| Two whole days have I journeyed, nor halted, | |
| Toward the Turk, near the Turk, round him, and never | |
| Could I number his numbers, or measure his end. | |
| From Eràble to Sazlia, brother, my feet | 95 |
| Have wandered; from Sazlia round by the river, | |
| Where the river comes round to the bridge with a bend; | |
| And over the bridge to the town of Zvétchan; | |
| From Zvétchan to Tchéchan, and further, and ever | |
| Further, and over the mountains, wherever | 100 |
| Foot may fall, or eye may scan, | |
| I saw naught but the Mussulman. | |
| |
| “Eastward and westward, and southward and nor’ward, | |
| Scaling the hillside, and scathing the gorse, | |
| Horseman to horseman, and horse against horse; | 105 |
| Lances like forests when forests are black; | |
| Standards like clouds flying backward and forward, | |
| White tents like snowdrifts piled up at the back. | |
| The rain may, in torrents, fall down out of heaven, | |
| But never the earth will it reach: | 110 |
| Nothing but horsemen, nothing but horses, | |
| Thick as the sands which the wild river-courses | |
| Leave, after tempest, in heaps on the beach. | |
| Murad, for pasture, hath given | |
| To his horsemen the plain of Mazguite. | 115 |
| Lances a-ripple all over the land, | |
| Tost like the bearded and billowy wheat | |
| By the winds of the mountain driven | |
| Under the mountain slab. | |
| Murad looks down in command | 120 |
| Over Sitnitza and Lab.” | |
| |
| “Answer me, Ivan, answer ye me, | |
| Where may the tent of Murad be? | |
| His milk-white tent, may one see it afar | |
| O’er the plain, from the mountain, or out of the wood? | 125 |
| For I have sworn to the Prince Lazar | |
| A solemn vow upon Holy Rood, | |
| To bring him the head of the Turkish Tzar, | |
| And set my feet in his infidel blood.” | |
| |
| “Art mad, my pobratime, art mad? | 130 |
| Where may the tent be, the tent of Murad? | |
| In the midst of a million eyes and ears: | |
| In the midst of a million swords and spears, | |
| In the heart of the camp of the Turk. | |
| Fatal thy vow is, and wild is the work; | 135 |
| For hadst thou the wings of a falcon, to fly | |
| Fleeter than lightning, along the deep sky, | |
| The wings of the falcon, though fleet be they, | |
| Would never bear thee thy body away.” * * * * *
VI. Now, when the dawn from her red bower | |
| Upclomb the chilly skies, and, all | 140 |
| Athwart the freshening city tower, | |
| The silent light began to fall | |
| About the breezy yellow flower | |
| That shook on the shadowy city wall, | |
| Militza, through the glimmering streets, | 145 |
| Goes forth against the Eastern gate. | |
| There, all i’ the morning light, she meets | |
| The army on to the distant down, | |
| Winding out of the dusky town, | |
| To mantle the field in martial state, | 150 |
| And trample the dew-drop out of the grass. | |
| O brothers, a goodly sight it was! | |
| With curtle-axe, in complete steel, | |
| So many a warrior, lusty and leal, | |
| So many a spearman, stout and true, | 155 |
| Marching to battle in order due. | |
| And foremost among that stately throng, | |
| With, over his helmet’s golden boss, | |
| Floating plumes of the purple rich, | |
| The gallant Bocko Yougovitch | 160 |
| Bearing the standard of the Cross. | |
| All blazing gold his corselet beamed, | |
| Imperial purple fold on fold, | |
| The mighty Christian ensign streamed | |
| Over his red-roan courser bold; | 165 |
| And high upon the standard top | |
| Against the merry morning gleamed | |
| An apple wrought of purest gold; | |
| Thereon the great gold cross, from which, | |
| All glittering downward, drop by drop, | 170 |
| Great golden acorns, lightly hung, | |
| Over his shining shoulder flung | |
| Flashes of light o’er Yougovitch. * * * * *
VII. All when the misty morn was low, | |
| And the rain was raining heavily, | |
| Two ravens came from Kossovo, | 175 |
| Flying along a lurid sky: | |
| One after one, they perched upon | |
| The palace of the great Lazar, | |
| And sat upon the turret wall. | |
| One ’gan croak, and one ’gan call, | 180 |
| “Is this the palace of the Tzar? | |
| And is there never a soul inside?” | |
| |
| Was never a soul within the hall, | |
| To answer to the ravens’ call, | |
| Save Militza. She espied | 185 |
| The two black birds on the turret wall, | |
| That all in the wind and rain did croak, | |
| And thus the ravens she bespoke: | |
| “In God’s great name, black ravens, say, | |
| Whence came ye on the wind to-day? | 190 |
| Is it from the plain of Kossovo? | |
| Hath the bloody battle broke? | |
| Saw ye the two armies there? | |
| Have they met? And, friend or foe, | |
| Which hath vanquisht? How do they fare?” | 195 |
| |
| And the two black fowls replied: | |
| “In God’s great name, Militza, dame, | |
| From Kossovo at dawn we came. | |
| A bloody battle we espied: | |
| We saw the two great armies there, | 200 |
| They have met, and ill they fare. | |
| Fallen, fallen, fallen are | |
| The Turkish and the Christian Tzar. | |
| Of the Turks is nothing left; | |
| Of the Serbs a remnant rests, | 205 |
| Hackt and hewn, carven and cleft, | |
| Broken shields, and bloody breasts.” | |
| And lo! while yet the ravens spoke, | |
| Up came the servant, Miloutine: | |
| And he held his right hand, cleft | 210 |
| By a ghastly sabre stroke, | |
| Bruised and bloody, in his left; | |
| Gasht with gashes seventeen | |
| Yawned his body where he stood, | |
| And his horse was dripping blood. * * * * * | 215 |
| Then when the servant, Miloutine, | |
| Three draughts had drained of rosy wine, | |
| Although his eyes were waxing dim, | |
| A little strength came back to him. | |
| He stood up on his feet, and, pale | 220 |
| And ghastly, thus began the tale: | |
| |
| “They will never return again, | |
| Never return! ye shall see them no more; | |
| Nor ever meet them within the door, | |
| Nor hold their hands. Their hands are cold, | 225 |
| Their bodies bleach in bloody mould. | |
| They are slain! all of them slain! | |
| And the maidens shall mourn, and the mothers deplore, | |
| Heaps of dead heroes on battle-plain. | |
| Where they fell there they remain, | 230 |
| Corpses stiff in their gore. | |
| But their glory shall never grow old. | |
| Fallen, fallen, in mighty war, | |
| Fallen, fighting about the Tzar, | |
| Fallen, where fell our lord Lazar! | 235 |
| Nevermore be there voice of cheer! | |
| Nevermore be there song or dance! | |
| Muffled be moon and star! | |
| For broken now is the lance, | |
| Shivered both shield and spear, | 240 |
| And shattered the scimitar. | |
| And cleft is the golden crown, | |
| And the sun of Servia is down, | |
| O’erthrown, o’erthrown, o’erthrown, | |
| The roof and top of our renown, | 245 |
| Dead is the great Lazar! | |
| |
| “Have ye seen when the howling storm-wind takes | |
| The topmost pine on a hoary rock, | |
| Tugs at it, and tears and shakes and breaks, | |
| And tumbles it into the ocean? | 250 |
| So when this bloody day began, | |
| In the roaring battle’s opening shock, | |
| Down went the gray-haired Youg Bogdan. | |
| And, following him, the noblest man | |
| That ever wore the silver crown | 255 |
| Of age, grown gray in old renown. | |
| One after one, and side by side, | |
| Fighting, thy nine brothers died: | |
| Each by other, brother brother | |
| Following, till death took them all. | 260 |
| But of these nine the last to fall | |
| Was Bocko. Him, myself, I saw, | |
| Three awful hours,—a sight of awe, | |
| Here and there and everywhere | |
| And all at once, made manifest, | 265 |
| Like a wild meteor in a troubled air, | |
| Whose motion never may be guest. | |
| For over all the lurid rack | |
| Of smoking battle blazed and burned, | |
| And streamed and flasht, | 270 |
| Like flame before the wind upturned | |
| With great imperial ensign splasht | |
| With blood of Turks: where’er he dasht | |
| Amongst their bruised battalions, I | |
| Saw them before him reel and fly: | 275 |
| As when a falcon from on high | |
| Pounce on a settle-down of doves, | |
| That murmurs make in myrrhy groves, | |
| Comes flying all across the sky, | |
| And scatters them with instant fright; | 280 |
| So flew the Turks to left and right, | |
| Broken before him. Milosch fell, | |
| Pursued by myriads down the dell, | |
| Upon Sitnitza’s rushy brink, | |
| Whose chilly waves will roll, I think, | 285 |
| So long as time itself doth roll, | |
| Red with remorse that they roll o’er him. | |
| Christ have mercy on his soul, | |
| And blesséd be the womb that bore him. | |
| Not alone he fell. Before him | 290 |
| Twelve thousand Turkish soldiers fell, | |
| Slaughtered in the savage dell. | |
| His right hand was wet and red | |
| With the blood that he had shed, | |
| And in that red right hand he had | 295 |
| (Shorn from the shoulder sharp) the head | |
| Of the Turkish Tzar, Murad.” * * * * * | |
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