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And with his branching antlers he
Forced shrub and tree,
Well pleased to bound
With eager footsteps o'er the ground.
A youth speeds o'er the mountain's top,
Nor in the valley does he stop;
But with his battle weapons thrown
Across his shoulders, hastens on,
And with those weapons sharp and strong,
Breaks through the foeman's throng.
Alas! that youth no mountain pass'd;[1]
A foe—a fierce and savage foe
His frown of darkness round him cast,
Smote that poor wanderer low
With battle-axe upon his breast:
A voice of mourning filled the groves—
- ↑ This is the universal style of the old slavonian poetry.
"It is the snow on the hills—No! it is no snow on the hills; It is the tent of Hassan."
"Look at the oak tree upon the plain—how green and strong—O no! it is no oak tree—it is a young and mighty warrior."
