Of ancient deeds, recalled in native speech.
Who understands not, let him go from hence.
I love betimes to hear the gloomy groans
Of those Litvanian songs, not understood,
Even as I love the noise of warring waves,
Or the soft murmur of the rain in spring;—
Sweetly they charm to sleep. Sing, ancient bard!"
Song of the Wajdelote.[1]
When over Litwa cometh plague and death,
The bard's prophetic eye beholds, afraid.
If to the Wajdelote's word be given faith,
On desert plains and churchyards, sayeth fame,
Stands visibly the pestilential maid,[2]
In white, upon her brow a wreath of flame,—
Her brow the trees of Bialowiez[3] outbraves,—
And in her hand a blood-stained cloth she waves.
The castle guards in terror veil their eyes,
The peasants' dogs, deep burrowing in the ground.
Scent death approaching, howl with fearful cries.
The maid's ill-boding step, o'er all is found;
O'er hamlets, castles, and rich towns she goes.
