Not a falcon floated through the air, Strayed a youth along the river's brim. Slowly strayed he on and dreamingly, Sighing looked unto the garden green, Heart all filled with sorrow mused he so: "All the little birds are now awake, All, embracing with their little wings, Greeting, all have sung their morning songs. But, alas! that sweetest doveling mine, She who was my youth's first dawning love, In her chamber slumbers fast and deep. Ah! not even her friend is in her dreams, Ah! no thought of me bedims her soul, While my heart is torn with wildest grief, That she comes to meet me here no more." Stepped the maiden from her chamber then; Wet, O! wet with tears her lovely face, All with sadness dimmed her eyes so clear, Feebly drooping hung her snowy arms. 'T was no arrow that had pierced her heart, 'T was no adder that had stung her so; Weeping, thus the lovely maid began: "Fare thee well, beloved, fare thee well, Dearest soul, thy father's dearest son! I have been betrothed since yesterday; Come, to-morrow, troops of wedding-guests; To the altar, I, perforce, must go! I shall be another's then; and yet Thine, thine only, thine alone till death." P.[18] But the warm and tender hearts of the Slavic women, nevertheless, find means to satisfy that natural want of the female breast, to pour out on certain objects the whole blessing of love. _Family_ connections are among no other race regarded as so holy, the ties of relationship are nowhere so cherished, as among the Slavi. Maternal tenderness is the subject of very many songs; and is set by comparisons in the most shining light. In the Russian ballad above adduced,[19] we have seen how slightly the poet thinks of the love of the wife; her tears are dried up by the sun, like the morning dew; while the mother's tears gush out incessantly like the waters of the mountain stream. In a Servian ballad, a youth wounds his hand. The Vila, a malicious mountain-nymph, offers to cure him. But she exacts a high price,--from his mother, her right hand; from his sister, her hair; and from his wife, her necklace of pearls. The mother willingly gives her right hand, and the sister her hair, but the wife refuses the necklace. The love of a mother is often described by the image of swallows, clinging to their own warm nest; or of tender doves, bereft of their young ones. The rights of a mother are respected with true filial piety, even by the barbarian hero Marko, who never fails to pay his aged mother filial respect.