Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, A MOTHER OF BOSNIA, by ZMAI IOVAN IOVANOVICH


Poetry Explorer

Classic and Contemporary Poetry

A MOTHER OF BOSNIA, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: Three sons she has of servian mold
Last Line: Is every heart a heart of stone?
Alternate Author Name(s): Brankovichera, Vidosava
Subject(s): Bosnia


I

THREE sons she has of Servian mold
As balsam for her widow's grief,
While in her Danka all behold
A treasure precious past belief.

Oh, lovely Danka! happy she,
More fortunate than all beside,
To be the pride of brothers three,
Themselves of Bosnia the pride!

In her they glory; she inspires
To freedom's never-ending fight,
And in their hearts burn patriot fires,
As stars upon the Turkish night.

And often at the mother's door
Tears mingle with the words that bless:
"O gods of battle! guard my four --
My falcons and my falconess."

II

HER radiant beauty nothing hides --
What wonder that the Turk has seen,
And as before her door he rides
The Raven-Aga calls her queen!

For three nights has he lain awake --
To call on Allah? Nay, till dawn
Calling on Danka, for whose sake
His heart is sore, his brow is wan.

He gathers warriors ere the sun;
They gallop quickly through the murk;
And Danka, at the signal-gun,
Cries, "Save me, brothers! -- 'tis the Turk!"

Now flash the rifles, speeds the fight,
Till, shamed, the Raven-Aga flies.
Alas for Danka! in her sight
One lion-hearted brother dies.
. . .
Again the infidel appears,
And at his heels ride forty guns;
But at the voice of Danka's fears
Red many a Turkish stirrup runs.

But, oh, at vespers, when once more
The baffled Raven back has fled,
Across the sill of Danka's door
There lies another brother, dead.
. . .
The Turkish devil once again
Summons each savage wedding-guest,
And half a hundred to be slain
Go forth at midnight toward the west.

Once more the stealthy Moslems ride,
Once more the Servians gather fast,
As Danka summons to her side
Her brother -- and her last.

The fight grows fiercer, till the dead
Fill the dim street from wall to wall.
Call on thy mother, Battle-wed --
Thou hast no brother left to call!

The Raven seizes her and croaks:
"At last thou art my bride, proud maid!"
"Not thine -- my yataghan's!" Two strokes --
Her warm heart weds the loyal blade.

III

DARK is the night as on the slopes
Of that deserted battle-ground
The mother, crazed with sorrow, gropes
Until her sons' three swords are found.

And as she roams through Servian lands
(Her mirth more piteous than tears)
She bears a blade in her thin hands
To right the wrongs of many years.

And offering Danka's plighted knife
Or one of those three patriot swords,
She calls the coldest rock to strife, --
"Take, and repel the Turkish hordes!"

And as the rock no word replies,
She asks, "Are you not Servian too?
Why are you silent then?" she cries;
"Is there no living heart in you?"

She treads the dreary night alone;
There is no echo to her moan. . . .
Is every heart a heart of stone?





Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!


Other Poems of Interest...
Home: PoetryExplorer.net