The Curse

I HEARD a sprightly swallow say To a gray cuckoo t’ other day,— “Thou art a happy bird indeed; Thou dost not in the chimney breed, Thou dost not hear the eternal jarring, Of sisters and step-sisters warring; Their woes and grievances rehearsing, Cursing themselves, and others cursing. A young step-sister once I saw, Foul language at the elder throw; “Perdition’s daughter! hence depart; Thou hast no fruit beneath thy heart.” And thus the elder one replied: “Curse thy perverseness and thy pride! Mijailo is a son of thine; Now thou shalt bring forth daughters nine, And madness shall their portion be. Thy son shall cross the parting sea; He never shall return to thee, But, bathed in blood and wounded, pine!”

And thus she cursed;—the curse was true; Her sister’s nine fair daughters grew; And madness seized them,—seized them all: Mijailo,—far away, and wounded, By solitude and woe surrounded, I heard him on his mother call: “O mother! mother! send me now A bandage of that snowy linen Which you so thoughtlessly were spinning, When curses wander’d to and fro. In your rage you wove it,—now remove it; Tear it for bandages, as you tore Love and affection all asunder. Where it was bleach’d thy son lies under; With it cover his hot wounds o’er. Rend it, mother! and send it, mother! May it thy suffering son restore!”