When Predrag had heard these words unwonted, Lo! he sprung up from the pine, inquiring, “Who art thou, and who thy fathers, hero?” Then the wounded youth thus feebly answer’d: “Ask’st thou who I am, and who my fathers? Wilt thou own me? wilt thou claim my kindred? I am young Nenad—a hapless hero! I had once one venerable mother, And one brother, too, Predrag—one brother: He my elder and my only brother, Whom to seek through all the world I wander Forth, to still my soul’s impassion’d longings; But to-day ’tis ended—and I perish!”
When Predrag thus heard his brother’s language, Misery-stricken pull’d he forth the arrow; Bent him o’er the young and wounded hero; Took him from his horse, and gently seated Nenad on the grass:—“And is it, brother! Is it thou, indeed?—Thine elder brother, Thy Predrag, am I:—but sure not mortal Are thy wounds:—O let me tear asunder— Let me tear thy shirt—and let me bind them! Let me bind thy wounds—O let me heal them!”
Then to him the wounded youth:—”Thank heaven! Thou, thou art Predrag—thou art my brother— And my eyes may dwell upon thy visage! God hath still’d my soul’s impassion’d longings: I shall die—I know the wounds are mortal: But to thee my blood shall be forgiven!”
So he cried,—and soon he sunk in slumber— And despair possess’d his brother’s spirit. “O Nenad! Nenad! my light—my sunshine! Early and serene was thy uprising; Early, too, and clouded thy downsitting, O thou sweetest flow’ret of my garden! Early was thy opening, beauteous flow’ret; Earlier, earlier far, alas! thy fading!”
Then he took a dagger from his girdle: Deep he plunged the dagger in his bosom, And sank down in death beside his brother.
YESTERDAY was married Duka Leka: Comes to-day a mandate from the emperor: “Duka! on—on, Leka! to the army.” Duka’s steed caparisons he quickly;— His love holds him by the bridle, weeping:— “Woe is me!—woe’s me! thou voivode { 25} Leka! Goest thou with thy noble steed to battle, Leav’st alone thy young bride inexperienced?” ‘With thy mother, and with mine I leave thee.’ “Woe is me! woe’s me! thou voivode Leka!— Thee away—and what avail two mothers?”
Duka Leka arms him for the battle: His young bride stands by his courser, weeping:— “Woe is me! woe’s me! thou voivode Leka! Goest thou with thy noble steed to battle? And with whom dost leave thy bride untutor’d?” ‘With thy father, and with mine I leave thee.’ “Woe, my Duka! woe! thou voivode Leka!— Thee away—and what avail two fathers?”