All Saturday we held carouse, and far through Sunday night, And on the Monday morn we found our wine expended quite. To seek for more without delay the captain made me go; I ne'er had seen nor known the way, nor had a guide to show. And so through solitary roads and secret paths I sped, Which to a little ivied church long time deserted led. This church was full of tombs, and all by gallant men possest; One sepulchre stood all alone, apart from all the rest. I did not see it, and I trod above the dead man's bones, And as from out the nether world came up a sound of groans. What ails thee, sepulchre? why thus so deeply groan and sigh? Doth the earth press, or the black stone weigh on thee heavily? "Neither the earth doth press me down, nor black stone do me scath, But I with bitter grief am wrung, and full of shame and wrath, That thou dost trample on my head, and I am scorned in death. Perhaps I was not also young, nor brave and stout in fight, Nor wont as thou, beneath the moon, to wander through the night." Egil Skallagrimson, after his son was drowned, resolved to let himself die of hunger. Thorgerd, his daughter, came to him and prayed hard of him that he would sing. Touched by her affection, he made an effort, gathered up his ideas, dressed them in images, expressed them in song; and as he sang, his regrets softened, and in the end his soul became so calm that he was satisfied to live. In this beautiful saga lies the secret of folk-elegies. The people find comfort in singing. A Czech maiden asks of the dark woods how they can be as green in winter as in summer; as for her, she cannot help vexing her heart. "But who would not weep in my place? Where is my father, my beloved father? The sandy plain is his winding-sheet. Where is my mother, my good mother? The grass grows over her. I have no brother and no sister, and they have taken away my friend." Of a certainty when she had sung, her vexed heart was lighter. "Seul a un synonym: mort." Yes, but he who sings is scarcely alone, even though there be only the waving pine woods to answer with a sigh. The most passionate laments of the Sclavonic race are for father and mother. If a Little Russian loses both his parents his despair is such that it often drives him forth a wanderer on the face of the earth. One so bereft cries out, "Dear mother, why didst thou suffer me to see the day? Why didst thou bring me into the world without obtaining for me by thy prayers a portion of its blessings? My father and my mother are dead, and with them my country. Why was I left a wretched orphan? Oh, could I find a being miserable as myself that we might sympathize one with the other!" The birth-ties of kindred are reckoned the only strong ones. Some Russian lines, translated by Mr Ralston, indicate the degrees of mourning: