OVER Sarajevo flies a falcon, Looking round for cooling shade to cool him. Then he finds a pine on Sarejevo; Under it a well of sparkling water; By the water, Hyacinth, the widow, And the Rose, the young, unmarried virgin. He look’d down—the falcon—and bethought him: “Shall I kiss grave Hyacinth, the widow; Or the Rose, the young, unmarried virgin?” Thinking thus—at last the bird determined— And he whisper’d to himself sedately, “Gold—though long employ’d, is far, far better Than the finest silver freshly melted.” So he kiss’d—kiss’d Hyacinth, the widow. Very wroth wax’d then young Rose, the virgin: “Sarejevo! let a ban be on thee! Cursed be thy strange and evil customs! For thy youths they love the bygone widows, And thy aged men the untried virgins.” NIGHTINGALES. ALL the night two nightingales were singing At the window of th’ affianced maiden; And th’ affianced maiden thus addressed them: “Tell me, ye two nightingales, O tell me! Are ye brothers? are ye brothers’ children?” Thus the nightingales made speedy answer: “Brothers are we not, nor brother’s children: We are friends—friends of the verdant forest. Once we had another friend—another— But that friend is lost to us for ever. We have heard that nuptial bliss awaits him; And we came the youthful bride to look on, And to offer her a golden spindle, With the flax of Egypt bound around it.” THE RING. THE streamlet ripples through the mead, beneath the maple tree; There came a maid that stream to draw—a lovely maid was she; From the white walls of old Belgrade that maid came smilingly. Young Mirko saw, and offer’d her a golden fruit, and said: “O take this apple, damsel fair! and be mine own sweet maid!” She took the apple—flung it back—and said, in angry tone, “Neither thine apple, Sir! nor thee—presumptuous boy, be gone!” The streamlet ripples through the mead, beneath the maple tree; There came a maid that stream to draw—a lovely maid was she; From the white walls of old Belgrade that maid came smilingly. Young Mirko saw, and proffer’d her a golden brooch, and said: “O take this brooch, thou damsel fair! and be mine own sweet maid!” She took the brooch, and flung it back, and said, in peevish tone, “I’ll neither have thee nor thy brooch—presumptuous boy, be gone!” The streamlet ripples through the mead, beneath the maple tree; There came a maid that stream to draw—the loveliest maid was she; From the white walls of old Belgrade that maid came smilingly. Young Mirko saw, and proffer’d her a golden ring, and said: “O take this ring, my damsel fair! and be mine own sweet maid!” She took the ring—she slipp’d it on—and said, in sprightliest tone, “I’ll have thee and thy golden ring, and be thy faithful one.” THE FRATRICIDE.