The Portland daily press. [volume] (Portland, Me.) 1862-1921, 1879-09-19
POETRY.
The Fair Bosnian


II.
Beside the turbid stream she stood;
Beneath her simple scarlet hood
| saw her tender brow; her eyes
Filled with quaint and glad SURPRISE
The glory of her chestnut hair
And lips and throat supremacy falr.
| thought a goddess had come down,
To light the chill lanes of the town,
With presence luminous and fine.
She would have graced the noblest shrine
That ever pagan built, before
The gods fled to return no more.
Her limbs were weary, and she leaned
AT last against barge, and screened
Her face, and sought to hide her tears,
Urged terribly by hundred fears,
With thousand others she had fled
Through vale, DER mountain; ever dread
OF Mussulman upon her track
Possessed her, and she looked not back,
But made the good sign of the cross
Upon her breast; sped swiftly on;
Nor stopped until her strength was gone.
III.
read her story thus, for we
Saw many Bosnian refugee
In those wild days of Moslem war.
And yet this knowledge did not mar
The reverent awe felt at first,
When her celestial beauty burst
Upon me; nay could have knelt
And kissed her hand, her robe and felt
A very worship in the deed.
l stood transfixed; did not heed
The iibe of trooper-friends who came
10 ask the pretty Bosnian's name.
".
She new not what they said nor raised
Her head but once, and then she gaZed
So gently on me, that burned
With joy, and every comrade spurned
Away and took her hand in mine.
$50, sordid brawlers, flushed with wine"
l cried to them; then led her where
Kind hands would protfer friendly care,
She knew not to suspect: she gave
Her kisses to the matron grave
Who offered SHELTER then i'll sleep
She speedily forgot to weep.
| loved her as she slept l loved
Her when she woke and softly moved,
And murmered in her Slavic tongue
Plants from her breast in anguish wrung.
One thought usurped her loyal mind;
Her kindred she had left behind,
Or lost, in her mad flight from DEATH:
And now she prayed with every breath
That Heaven would send her back to them.
Like rose dropt from its parent stem
She withered and declined: and
Wept as heard her mournful cry.
DAYS passed: adown the mountain roads,
Came weary exiles with their loads
OF household gods and gear; the men
Built camps in forest or in glen;
The women nursed their babes, and prayed,
And starved. Such misery, arrayed
In such motley caravan,
Was never seen before by man!
Each day my pretty Bosnian sought
Her parents mid the rabble; naught
Could she discover; nor could hear
A word to make her hope or fear,
VII
And so she left us, and her way
Back through ravines where terrors lay
She took. My heart went with the sweet
And faithful maiden, who could meet
II dancers rather than desert
Her loved and loving ones. The hurt
OF her departure was SO great
That was as oppressed by Fate;
Untasted from my lips the can
Passed, and sat, mourning man
Among my fellow-troopers, while
The hours with rout they did beguile.
vii.
One day the bugles blew, and we
At last might set the sufferers free!
We sprang to saddle and we swore
To sheathe our sabres nevermore
zHTill Bosnian maids and mothers might
Sing holy songs without alright
EHTin Turkish tyranny were dead!-
"a Some noble words our leader said
"A And Francis Joseph had cheer
~ 1t would have made him proud to hear!
To Moslem tyrant's rocky den
The Hapsburg eagles led us then.
In many a fight our trumpets rang.
On precipice's brink the clang
Of weapons echoed: and we frayed
Our path through fire and ambuscade!
The Bashi-Bazouk from his lair
Looked down, with dull and frightened stare,
Upon our columns as they wound
Among the rocks, then on his round
Ofmassacre and rapine sped.
He hovere dat our army's head,
And left a line of blood and fire
In memory of his vengeance dire.
H.
We chance upon mountain side
To see village burning. "Ride!'
Our leader said, "as if the land
Opened behind ye! Smite with hand
Relentless every brigand! Lives
Are at the mercy of their knives!'
e Swift from the earth our horses sprung;
Free to the air our flags we flung;
z Flashed in the light our sabres long
AS down we dashed among the throng
OF murderous banditti, come
To dcsolate each Christian home
XI.
Lord God my heart felt agony!
In market-place what did l see
When strife was over? As breathe
AS locks made gray that day do wreathe
My temples-l saw-dead-divine-
Upon her naked breast the sign
OF holy cross gashed by blade
In mockery-my Bosnian maid!
We laid the saint upon bier,
And stood in awe,
And now and here
swear my heart died on that day!
What matter if my hair be gray?
Boston Journal.