I HEARD a sprightly swallow say To a gray cuckoo t’ other day,— “Thou art a happy bird indeed; Thou dost not in the chimney breed, Thou dost not hear the eternal jarring, Of sisters and step-sisters warring; Their woes and grievances rehearsing, Cursing themselves, and others cursing. A young step-sister once I saw, Foul language at the elder throw; “Perdition’s daughter! hence depart; Thou hast no fruit beneath thy heart.” And thus the elder one replied: “Curse thy perverseness and thy pride! Mijailo is a son of thine; Now thou shalt bring forth daughters nine, And madness shall their portion be. Thy son shall cross the parting sea; He never shall return to thee, But, bathed in blood and wounded, pine!”
And thus she cursed;—the curse was true; Her sister’s nine fair daughters grew; And madness seized them,—seized them all: Mijailo,—far away, and wounded, By solitude and woe surrounded, I heard him on his mother call: “O mother! mother! send me now A bandage of that snowy linen Which you so thoughtlessly were spinning, When curses wander’d to and fro. In your rage you wove it,—now remove it; Tear it for bandages, as you tore Love and affection all asunder. Where it was bleach’d thy son lies under; With it cover his hot wounds o’er. Rend it, mother! and send it, mother! May it thy suffering son restore!”
AGAINST white Buda’s walls, a vine Doth its white branches fondly twine: O, no! it was no vine-tree there; It was a fond, a faithful pair, Bound each to each in earliest vow— And, O! they must be severed now! And these their farewell words:—“We part— Break from my bosom—break—my heart! Go to a garden—go, and see, Some rose-branch blushing on the tree; And from that branch a rose-flower tear, Then place it on thy bosom bare; And as its leavelets fade and pine, So fades my sinking heart in thine.” And thus the other spoke: “My love! A few short paces backward move, And to the verdant forest go; There’s a fresh water-fount below; And in the fount a marble stone, Which a gold cup reposes on; And in the cup a ball of snow— Love! take that ball of snow to rest Upon thine heart within thy breast. And as it melts unnoticed there, So melts my heart in thine, my dear!”
How captivating is to me, Sweet flower! thine own young modesty! Though did I pluck thee from thy stem, There’s none would wear thy purple gem. I thought, perchance, that Ali Bey— But he is proud and lofty—nay! He would not prize thee—would not wear A flower so feeble though so fair: His turban for its decorations Had full blown roses and carnations.