GRIGOR PRLICEV
1830-1893

Extremely well-acquainted with Hellenistic culture, Prlicev was a poet inspired by epics to a great extent. As an admirer of Homer, he devoted himself to translating his favourite poet. He was given the title 'Second Homer' in 1860 for his poem The Sirdar while he was a student of medicine in Athens. Based on a folk poem, it deals with the exploits and heroic death of Kuzman Kapidan, a famous hero and protector of his people in their struggle with the marauding tribes.

THE SIRDAR

From Galichnik to Reka sighs
and shrieks of sorrow rise;
What dire disaster hounds
The men and women thus to waken
echo with their cries?
What new-found ill abounds?

Have the hailstorm's sharp stones shattered
the fields of standing wheat?
Have locusts stripped the fields?
Has the Sultan sent hard-hearted
taxmen early for receipt
of their most bitter yield?

No, the sharp stones have not shattered
the fields of standing wheat;
Nor locusts stripped the fields;
Nor the Sultan sent hard-hearted
taxmen early for receipt
of their most bitter yield.

Fallen is the mighty Kuzman
at the wild Geg's hands;
The sturdy Sirdar's slain.
Now brigands bold will hold our mountains,
ravaging our lands,
And none shall bar their way.

Peasants, Demeter's attendants,
spread the dreadful word,
the word of dire despair;
And wailing loud and moaning low in horror
when they heard,
the women tore their hair.

It rose and swelled and, growing great,
flew fast among the folk,
like Boreas, swift of wing,
In every village, every home
the fearful whispers spoke
that word of woeful ring.

Amongst the widows and the poor
salt tears in tribute flood,
Among the maidens too;
Like men who have been struck by lightning
all the peasants stood
who heard the mournful news.

II

Near Galichnik there stands a sacred hill,
all sown about
with willow trees, and there
A streamlet rustles, slipping swift
and snake-like, pouring out
its waters, crystal clear.

The bright light of the sun
scarce ever manages to broach
the shady branches here,
And here the cuckoo cries, the herald
of the Spring's approach,
whose call is sad to hear.

Leaning against a willow tree
a pensive man sits here,
weary from travelling.
He listens to the singing of the birds
which fills the air,
the clamour of the Spring.

The man is loth to leave, for
living Nature whispering still
says, "Mortal, linger yet!"
The pale grey ash lies drying
in the dark depths of this hill,
the dwelling of the dead.

It is not seen from Galichnik.
The ancient masters' art
affords no view so fair.
Here sorrow's symbol rules,
here reigns the lowly violet,
which blooms 'midst beauty rare.

Beneath their outspread carpet
the blue violets have concealed
those cold, abandoned graves.
So richly do they spring
the sombre soil is not revealed
between their clustering waves.

The sweet scent wafted on the wind
beguiles the traveller;
His destination fades.
A weeping woman clad in black
is oft encountered here,
among these scented shades.

And higher, if the traveller lifts
his eyes up, he will see
a monument of praise:
A tablet bearing lines
carved out full clearly, and beneath
a death's head stands engraved.

A niche is carved beneath
a cross of marble in the face
that looks towards the west.
Within, a lamp whose pale flame
flickers constantly is placed.
Here Kuzman lies at rest.

Once in a year the maidens come
and sit beside this stone,
Fresh violets in their braids.
In honeyed harmonies for Kuzman
they compose their own
heroic songs of praise.

But hither every day at dusk,
bearing an olive branch
there comes a hooded shade.
She it is who tends the lamp
whose flame is never quenched.
Her tears bedew the grave.

She decks yon death's head,
wreathing it with tender violets young,
weeping her love the while.
And everybody knows her well,
this miserable one -
Maria, Tome's child.