Latterly, the labours of several individuals have adorned their native literature, and no one more so than Karadjich Vuk, who has set hinself to collect the traditional poetry of the Servian minstrels.

The collection of popular songs, Narodne srpske pjesme, from which most of those which occupy this volume are taken, was made by Vuk, and committed to paper either from early recollection, or from the repetition of Servian mistrels. These, he informs us, and his statement is corroborated by every intelligent traveller, form a very small portion of the treasure of song which exists unrecorded among the peasantry. How so much of beautiful anonymous poetry should have been created in so perfect a form, is a subject well worthy of inquiry. Among a people who look to music and song as a source of enjoyment, the habit of improvisation grows up imperceptibly, and engages all the fertilities of imagination in its exercise. The thought which first finds vent in a poetical form, if worth preservation, is polished and perfected as it passes from lip to lip, till it receives the stamp of popular approval, and becomes as it were a national possession. There is no text-book, no authentic record, to which it can be referred, whose authority should interfere with its improvement. The poetry of a people is a common inheritance, which one generation transfers sanctioned and amended to another. Political adversity, too, strengthens the attachment of a nation to the records of its ancient prosperous days. The harps may be hung on the willows for a while, during the storm and the struggle, but when the tumult is over, they will be strung again to repeat the old songs, and recal the time gone by.

The historical ballads, which are in lines composed of five trochees, are always sung with the accompaniment of the Gusle. At the end of every verse, the singer drops his voice, and mutters a short cadence. The emphatic passages are chanted in a louder tone. "I cannot describe," says Wessely, "the pathos with which these songs are sometimes sung. I have witnessed crowds surrounding a blind old singer, and every cheek was wet with tears-it was not the music, it was the words which affected them." As this simple instrument, the gusle, is never used but to accompany the poetry of the Servians, and as it is difficult to find a Servian who does not play upon it, the universality of their popular ballads may be well imagined.

Mr. Bowring's translations are chiefly in the measure of the originals. Rhyme is seldom used by the Servians, and it is not adopted by the translator in many instances. Mr. Bowring's felicity in the difficult art of translating poetry is well known to all lovers of it. Together with a knowledge of the different dialects of Europe almost marvellous, he possesses a ready tact in seizing the tone and character of his subject. His poetical sympathies are so warm and prompt, that it would be impossible to place him in the midst of any class of ideas or feelings where he would not almost instantaneously adapt himself to the hue and colour of the imaginative circumstances about him. His command over the stubborn materials of his own language is very considerable, which more especially qualifies him for the task he has voluntarily chosen of throwing his translations into the measures of the original. Of the fidelity of his Servian versions we are wholly unable to judge; internal evidence would lead us to suppose that it was close.

The contents of this volume are divided by the author into two parts-historical, traditional, and religious ballads; and lyrics, songs, and occasional poems. They may more shortly be classed as 1. metrical romances; and 2. songs. The subjects of the first are various; sometimes the story narrates an historical fact-sometimes. a fabulous or superstitious invention-and sometimes an incident of society, or an example of love, revenge, or violence. The Songs are the most curious and the most beautiful of the two divisions. The delicacy, elegance, and fancy of many of them are not to be excelled by the lyrical poetry of any country. And they are, moreover, remarkable for their affectionate and amiable turn of thought. The course of true love in Servia seems on the whole to run smooth; there APRIL, 1827.

2 P

are, it is true, partings and piques, and little starts of jealousy, but in general the songs celebrate the feminine charms, or the manly beauties of the beloved; the pure delights of intimacy, and the blesssings of affection. The love is not only the love of lovers, usually the sole subject of song, but the loves of brothers, and sisters, and mothers; in short, nothing can be more remarkable than the purity of these compositions, their amiable simplicity, and their agreeable fancies. It is time however to show what each class is by example.

The first piece which occurs is the "Abduction of the Beautiful Iconia." The manners displayed in this poem betoken a truly Homeric age. Theodore of Stalach is drinking wine in his castle. His aged mother is attending upon him, and as she fills him a goblet, asks him this very pertinent question

"Son of mine! thou Theodore of Stalach!
Tell me,

wherefore hast thou not espous'd thee?
Thou art in thy youthful days of beauty;
In thy dwelling now thine aged mother

Fain would see thy children play around her."

He answers, that the girls he had chosen his mother never approved, and that those she had selected for him were false. The subject, however, was in his mind, and the question wonderfully apropos, as may be learnt from what follows.

"But, as yesterday, at hour of sunset,

I was wandering near Resava's river,
Lo! I glanced on thirty lovely maidens,
On its banks their yarn and linen bleaching:
'Midst them was the beauteous Iconia,
Fairest daughter of the Prince Milutin,
He the princely sovereign of Resava.
She, indeed, would be a bride to cherish;
She, indeed, were worthy of thy friendship:
But that maiden is betroth'd already;
She is promised unto George Irene-
To Irene, for Sredoi, his kinsman.

But I'll win that maiden-1 will win her,

Or will perish in the deed, my mother!"

The prudent mother of course persuades her son from so rash an attempt. He is not to be said" Nay."

But the hero car'd not for his mother:
Loud he called to Dobrivi, his servant-
"Dobrivi! come hither, trusty servant!

Bring my brown steed forth, and make him ready-
Make him ready with the silver saddle;

Rein him with the gold-embroidered bridle."

When his steed was prepared, he galloped to the spot where he had seen the thirty maidens before, and where he now found them again. He attempts a ruse d'amour, and succeeds in attracting her attention. The kindness of the simple girl is well contrasted with the wiliness of the warrior.

Then the hero feign'd a sudden sickness;

Ask'd for help; and sped he courteous greeting--
"God above be with thee, lovely maiden !"
And the loveliest to his words made answer,

"And with thee be bliss, thou stranger-warrior!".

"Lovely maiden! for the love of heaven,

Wilt thou give one cup of cooling water?

For a fiery fever glows within me ;
From my steed I dare not rise, fair maiden!
For my steed, he hath a trick of evil-
Twice he will not let his rider mount him."
Warm and earnest was the maiden's pity,
And, with gentle voice, she thus address'd him:
"Nay! not so-not so, thou unknown warrior!
Harsh and heavy is Resava's water;

Harsh and heavy e'en for healthful warriors ;
How much worse for fever-sickening tired ones!
Wait, and I a cup of wine will bring thee."

The maiden "swiftly tripped" into her dwelling, and returned with the wine cup. The warrior seized his opportunity, drew her on to his horse, and strapped her to his saddle behind him, like a sheep, and sprung off with his innocent burthen.

Out he stretch'd his hand; but not the wine cup,

But the maiden's hand, he seized, and flung her,
Flung her on his chesnut steed behind him;
Thrice he girt her with his leathern girdle,

And the fourth time with his sword-belt bound her;
And he bore her to his own white dwelling.

The rape of Helen was a regular Gretna-green affair, compared with the cunning and violence of the "abduction of the fair Iconia."

The next ballad is a story of jealousy-a wife cannot bear to witness the love of her husband for his sister. In order to alienate him from her, she kills his favourite courser, and charges her sister-in-law with it. The brother gives credit to his sister's denial. kills his falcon, and puts the blame on his sister. credit to his sister's denial. At last she kills her knife which her husband had given to his sister.

Again she But he again gives own child with the

When the youthful bride of Paul discover'd
This, she slunk at evening,-evening's meal-time,
Stole the golden knife, and with it murder'd,
Murder'd her poor infant in the cradle!

And when morning's dawning brought the morning,
She aroused her husband by her screaming

Shrieking woe; she tore her cheeks, exclaiming :
"Evil is the love thou bear'st thy sister,

And thy gifts to her are worse than wasted;
She has stabb'd our infant in the cradle!

Will thine incredulity now doubt me?
Lo! the knife is in thy sister's girdle."

Up sprang Paul, like one possess'd of madness;
To the upper floor he hasten'd wildly;
There his sister on her mats was sleeping,
And the golden kuife beneath her pillow.
Swift he seized the golden knife,—and drew it-
Drew it, panting, from its silver scabbard

;

It was damp with blood-'twas red and gory!
When the noble Paul saw this, he seized her,-

Seized her by her own white hand, and cursed her :

"Let the curse of God be on thee, sister!

Thou didst murder, too, my favourite courser;

Thou didst murder, too, my noble falcon ?

But thou should'st have spar'd the helpless baby."

Higher yet his sister swore, and louder-
"Twas not I, upon my life, my brother;
On my life, and on thy life, I swear it!
But if thou wilt disregard my swearing,

Take me to the open fields-the desert;
Bind thy sister to the tails of horses;
Let four horses tear my limbs asunder."
But the brother trusted not his sister :
Furiously he seized her white hand-bore her
To the distant fields-the open desert ;-

To the tails of four fierce steeds he bound her,
And he drove them forth across the desert;
But, where'er a drop of blood fell from her,
There a flower sprung up,-a fragrant flow'ret;
Where her body fell when dead and mangled,
There a church arose from out the desert.

Poetical justice, however, awaits the jealous Jelitza-she falls into a grievous sickness

'Midst her bones the matted dog-grass sprouted,

And amidst it rested angry serpents

Which, though hidden, drank her eyelights brightness.

She at length requests, as a relief, the punishment which had been inflicted her unfortunate sister-in-law.

upon

Wheresoe'er a drop of blood fell from her,

There sprank up the rankest thorns and nettles.
Where her body fell, when dead, the waters
Rush'd and form'd a lake both still and stagnant.
O'er the lake there swam a smali black courser :
By his side a golden cradle floated:
On the cradle sat a young grey falcon :
In the cradle, slumbering, lay an infart:
On its throat the white hand of its mother:
And that hand a golden knife was holding.

The "Brothers," is a little romance, also of the tragical kind, but of a more amiable cast. Predrag and Nenad were the sons of a happy mother, who

Nurtur'd them through years of dearth and sorrow,

Ever toiling at her restless spindle.

As soon as Predrag could ride, and brandish his weapon, he left his home, and joined the robbers in the mountains. The younger Nenad knew nothing of his brother's fate, but, it appears, followed his example, as soon as he could run, and ride, and strike.

Three long years he dwelt among the bandits;

He was full of wisdom and discretion,

And in every fray him fortune favoured.

At length a huge longing to see his mother seized Nenad, now become captain of his band-he proposes a division of booty, at which he refuses his share, and gallops to his "aged mother." At mealtime he takes the liberty of putting rather a singular question to the ancient dame :

Cordial was the greeting, great the gladness;
Hospitality made cheerful welcome :
And, while seated at the feast together,
Nenad whispered to his aged mother:
"Mother mine! thou venerable woman!
If it be no shame before the people,
If it be no sin in God's high presence,
I will ask one question, O my mother!
Tell me why thou gav'st me not a brother?
Tell me why I had no little sister?

When we each received our treasure-portion,

As soon as Nenad heard this, he prepared a dress of green, to make himself look like a tree, and immediately sets off to find his brother, in the forest of Garevitza. He encounters the banditti, and routs a troop of thirty of them. Predrag, their captain, comes to their assistance, and shoots his unfortunate brother through the heart with an arrow. As he is shot

Like a falcon springs Nenad, loud screaming.
Loudly scream'd he to his starting courser :
"Woe! woe! woe! thou hero of the forest!
Brother! brother! woe! the Lord will smite thee!
Thy right hand shall be struck dead with palsy;
That right hand which sped the arrow forward!
Thy right eye shall leap forth from thy forehead!
That right eye which saw my heart blood sprinkled!
Let the impassioned longings for a brother
Trouble thee as they a brother troubled!
O'er the weary world, a lone one, wandering,
Now has stumbled on his own perdition!"

When Predrag had heard these words unwonted,
Lo! he sprung up from the pine, inquiring,
"Who art thou, and who thy fathers, hero?"
Then the wounded youth thus feebly answer'd:
"Ask'st thou who I am, and who my fathers?
Wilt thou own me? wilt thou claim my kindred?
I am young Nenad a hapless hero!

I had once one venerable mother,

And one brother, too, Predrag-one brother:
He my elder and my only brother,

Whom to seek through all the world I wander
Forth, to still my soul's impassion'd longings;
But to-day 'tis ended-and I perish!"

When Predrag thus heard his brother's language,
Misery-stricken pull'd he forth the arrow;
Bent him o'er the young and wounded hero;
Took him from his horse, and gently seated
Nenad on the grass :-" And is it, brother!
Is it thou, indeed ?-Thine elder brother,
Thy Predrag, am I :—but sure not mortal
Are thy wounds:-O let me tear asunder-
Let me tear thy shirt-and let me bind them!
Let me bind thy wounds-O let me heal them!"

It is in vain-Neuad dies; and Predrag plunges a dagger in his own bosom,

And sank down in death beside his brother.

A translation of the ballad of Ajkuna's marriage, has already been given in the Quarterly Review. It is an interesting story of an clopement, admirably well told; and in its circumstances closely resembles