WHEN Lazār’s head, from his body sever’d,
Lay upon the battle-field Kossova,
’Twas not found by any of the Servians:
But a Turkish boy—a young Turk found it.
’Twas a Turk,—a Turk in slavery nurtured;
But he was the child of Servian mother;
And thus spake the Turkish boy who found it:
“Hear, ye Moslems! hear, my Turkish brethren!
This was once the head of high-rank’d Servian; {39}
And, by God! it were a shame and scandal
If profaned by eagles or by ravens,
If ’twere trod upon by man or courser.”
So he took the head of th’ holy emp’ror,
Wrapt it carefully within his mantle,
Bore it to a neighbouring water-fountain,
And he threw it in the crystal water.
There long time it lay, all unmolested:
Happy time! it lay for forty summers.
On Kossova lay the headless body;
But the eagles touch’d it not, nor ravens,
Nor the foot of man, nor hoof of courser;
Therefore let the God of peace be worshipp’d!
Lo! a caravan of youthful travellers,
From the city white, the lovely Skoplja, {40a}
Leading on; both Grecians and Bulgarians
Travellers they, bound to Vidīn and Nissa: {40b}
And they make their halting on Kossova,
On Kossova take their meal as wonted;
And, when thirsty, ere the meal was over,
Lo! they light the splinters of the fir-tree;
Made a torch to light them as they wander,
Seeking all around a water fountain.
Lo! a strange and wond’rous fate awaits them!
Swift they speed them to the crystal water.
Then exclaim’d one of the youthful travellers—
“Lo! the moon is on the waters shining!”
And another traveller thus retorted—
“Brother! it is not the moon that shineth.”
But the third is silent—no word utters—
Turns him to the east—the sun’s uprising—
Then he speaks, and prays to God the righteous;
Prays to God and to the holy Nicholas—
“Help me, God! and thou, O father Nicholas!”
And he sought again the fountain-water;
Drew the holy head from out the water—
Holy head of holy Servian monarch;
Threw it on the verdant turf, and pouring
Water, swiftly fill’d the travelling vessel.
They had quench’d their thirst, and all were seated—
Seated round the head, and look’d about them.
On the verdant turf it lies no longer;
O’er the field the head is slowly moving—
Holy head seeks out the holy body;
Joins it, where that body lay untainted.
When the dawning of the morn had broken,
To the aged priests the youths reported—
To the aged priests, the wond’rous story.
Lo! a crowd of priests are hastening thither—
Crowds of ancient priests—above three hundred,
And twelve high and dignified archbishops,
And four patriarchs, the most exalted:
Him of Pechki, {42a} and the Tzarigrader {42b}
Of Jerusalem, and Vassiljēnski.
All were habited in priestly vestments;
Camilanks their holy heads enshrouded;
In their hands they held old sacred writings—
And they pour’d their fervent prayers to heaven,
And performed their holiest solemn vigils
Through three days, and through three nights of darkness;
Nor for rest they stopp’d, nor for refreshment,
Nor for sleep, nor any interruption:
And they ask’d the holy dead, unceasing,
Where his grave should be—his corpse be buried;
In Opōvo, or in Krushedōli,
Or in Jāssak, or in Beshenōvi,
Or Racōvatz, or in Shisatōvatz,
Or in Jivski, or in Kurejdini, {43}
Or in distant Macedonia rather.
But Lazar will choose no foreign cloister;
He will lie among his own loved kindred,
In his own, his beauteous Ravanītza, {44}
On the mountain forest, broad Kushaja,
In the convent he himself erected;
In his days of life and youthful glory,
He erected for his soul’s salvation;
With his bread and with his gold he raised it;
Not with tears nor wealth from poor men wrested.