"O thou steed, than lightning faster,
Tell me where's thy youthful master!
Him in fight thou hast forsaken,
Or has cast him down, I reckon."
"Nor in fight I've him forsaken,
Nor have cast him down, I reckon,
The lone field with blood bedewing,
There the damsel Death he's wooing."
THE THREE SONS OF BUDRYS.
A Lithuanian Ballad.
From the Polish of Mickiewicz.
With his three mighty sons, tall as Ledwin's were once,
To the court-yard old Budrys advances;
"Your best steeds forth lead ye, to saddle them speed ye,
And sharpen your swords and your lances.
For in Wilna I've vow'd, that three trumpeters loud
I'd despatch unto lands of like number,
To make Russ Olgierd vapour, and Pole Skirgiel caper,
And to rouse German Kiestut from slumber.
Hie away safe and sound, serve your dear native ground;
May the High Gods Litewskian defend ye!
Though at home I must tarry, my counsel forth carry:
Ye are three, and three ways ye must wend ye.
Unto Olgierd's Russ plain one of ye must amain,
To where Ilmen and Novogrod tower;
There are sables for plunder, veils work'd to a wonder,
And of coin have the merchants a power.
Let another essay to prince Kiestut his way,
To whose crosletted doys {32} bitter gruel!
There is amber like gravel, cloth worthy to travel,
And priests deck'd in diamond and jewel.
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