Tears rush’d swiftly from the eye of Vaso, Marko’s fate fill’d all his thoughts with sorrow. From the girdle then he took the purses, Which he hid beneath his own white girdle: Round and round inquired Iguman Vaso Where he should entomb the hero Marko; {105} Round and round he look’d in fond inquiry. On his horse he flung the hero’s body, Brought it safely to the ocean’s borders, Thence he shipped it for the Holy Mountain; Near the white church, Vilindari, landed, To that white church he convey’d the body; And, as wont, upon the hero’s body Funeral hymns were sung; and he was buried In the white church aisle, the very centre,— There the old man placed the hero’s body. But no monument he raised above him, Lest when foes should mark the hero’s grave-stone, Theirs should be the joy, and theirs the triumph. {106} LYRICS, SONGS, AND OCCASIONAL POEMS. THE CURSE. 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!” FAREWELL. {112}