If we attempt to characterize Slavic popular poetry as a whole, we have chiefly to consider those shorter songs, which are common to all Slavic tribes, and which alone can be compared to the ballads of other nations.  For, among the Slavi, only the Servians, including the Dalmatians, Montenegrins, and Croats, who speak the same language,—­and indeed among all other modern nations they alone,—­possess long popular epics, of a heroic character.  What of this species of poetry still survives among the other Slavic nations, or indeed in any other country of Europe, is only the echo of former times.  The endlessly protracted “Storie” of the Italians are, indeed, often longer than the Servian heroic tales; but in no other respect do they afford a point of comparison with them.

The Slavic popular songs have nothing, or very little, of the bold dramatic character which animates the Scotch, German, and Scandinavian ballads.  Even dialogues occur seldom, except in some narrative form; as for instance: 

  To her brother thus the lady answered;

or,

  And the bonny maiden asked her mother.

A division into epic and lyric ballads would also be difficult.  A considerable portion, especially of the Russian and Servian songs, begin with a few narrative verses; although the chief part of the song is purely lyric.  These introductory verses are frequently allegorical; and if we do not always find a connection between them and the tale or song which follows, it is because one singer borrows these introductions from another, and adds an extemporaneous effusion of his own.  These little allegories, however, frequently give a complete picture of the subject.  They are, also, not always confined to the introduction, but spun out through the whole poem.  The following Russian elegy on the death of a murdered youth, may illustrate our remarks.  We translate as literally as possible.  The Russian original, like the translation, has no rhymes,[5]

ELEGY.

  O thou field! thou clean and level field! 
  O thou plain, so far and wide around! 
  Level field, dressed up with every thing,
  Every thing; with sky-blue flowerets small,
  Fresh green grass, and bushes thick with leaves;
  But defaced by one thing, but by one!

  For in thy very middle stands a broom,
  On the broom a young gray eagle sits,
  And he butchers wild a raven black,
  Sucks the raven’s heart-blood glowing hot,
  Drenches with it, too, the moistened earth. 
  Ah, black raven, youth so good and brave! 
  Thy destroyer is the eagle gray.

  Not a swallow ’t is, that hovering clings,
  Hovering clings to her warm little nest;
  To the murdered son the mother clings. 
  And her tears fall like the rushing stream,
  And his sister’s like the flowing rill;
  Like the dew the tears fall of his love: 
  When the sun shines, it dries up the dew.