Classic Poem

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.