Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine — Volume 56, No. 345, July, 1844

"O that in it I might rest
But an hour!"

Lack-a-day! Up came the lass,
Heeded not the violet;
Trod it down into the grass;
Though it died, 'twas happy yet.
"Trodden down although I lie,
Yet my death is very sweet—
For I cannot choose but die
At her feet!"

THE DOLEFUL LAY OF THE NOBLE WIFE OF ASAN AGA

What is yon so white beside the greenwood?
Is it snow, or flight of cygnets resting?
Were it snow, ere now it had been melted;
Were it swans, ere now the flock had left us.
Neither snow nor swans are resting yonder,
'Tis the glittering tents of Asan Aga.
Faint he lies from wounds in stormy battle;
There his mother and his sisters seek him,
But his wife hangs back for shame, and comes not.

When the anguish of his hurts was over,
To his faithful wife he sent this message—
"Longer 'neath my roof thou shalt not tarry,
Neither in my court nor in my household."

When the lady heard this cruel sentence,
'Reft of sense she stood, and rack'd with anguish:
In the court she heard the horses stamping,
And in fear that it was Asan coming,
Fled towards the tower, to leap and perish.

Then in terror ran her little daughters,
Calling after her, and weeping sorely,
"These are not the steeds of Father Asan;
'Tis thy brother Pintorovich coming!"

And the wife of Asan turn'd to meet him;
Sobbing, threw her arms around her brother.
"See the wrongs, O brother, of thy sister!
These five babes I bore, and must I leave them?"

Silently the brother from his girdle
Draws the ready deed of separation,
Wrapp'd within a crimson silken cover.
She is free to seek her mother's dwelling—
Free to join in wedlock with another.

When the woful lady saw the writing,
Kiss'd she both her boys upon the forehead,
Kiss'd on both the cheeks her sobbing daughters;
But she cannot tear herself for pity
From the infant smiling in the cradle!

Rudely did her brother tear her from it,
Deftly lifted her upon a courser,
And in haste, towards his father's dwelling,
Spurr'd he onward with the woful lady.

Short the space; seven days, but barely seven—
Little space I ween—by many nobles
Was the lady—still in weeds of mourning—
Was the lady courted in espousal.

Far the noblest was Imoski's cadi;
And the dame in tears besought her brother—
"I adjure thee, by the life thou bearest,
Give me not a second time in marriage,
That my heart may not be rent asunder
If again I see my darling children!"

Little reck'd the brother of her bidding,
Fix'd to wed her to Imoski's cadi.
But the gentle lady still entreats him—
"Send at least a letter, O my brother!
To Imoski's cadi, thus imploring—
I, the youthful widow, greet thee fairly,
And entreat thee, by this selfsame token,
When thou comest hither with thy bridesmen,
Bring a heavy veil, that I may shroud me
As we pass along by Asan's dwelling,
So I may not see my darling orphans."

Scarcely had the cadi read the letter,
When he call'd together all his bridesmen,
Boune himself to bring the lady homewards,
And he brought the veil as she entreated.

Jocundly they reach'd the princely mansion,
Jocundly they bore her thence in triumph;
But when they drew near to Asan's dwelling,
Then the children recognized their mother,
And they cried, "Come back unto thy chamber—
Share the meal this evening with thy children;"
And she turn'd her to the lordly bridegroom—
"Pray thee, let the bridesmen and their horses
Halt a little by the once-loved dwelling,