Objects of still higher admiration the Servians afford us in their heroic poems.  Indeed, what epic popular poetry is, how it is produced and propagated, what powers of invention it naturally exhibits,—­powers which no art can command,—­we may learn from this multitude of simple legends and complicated fables.  The Servians stand in this respect quite isolated; there is no modern nation, that can be compared to them in epic productiveness; and a new light seems to be thrown over the grand compositions of the ancients.  Thus, without presumption, we may pronounce the publication of these poems one of the most remarkable literary events of modern times.

The general character of the Servian tales is the objective and the plastic.  The poet, in most cases, is in a remarkable degree above his subject.  He paints his pictures not in glowing colours, but in distinct, prominent features; no explanation is necessary to interpret what the reader thinks he sees with his own eyes.  If we compare the Servian epics with those, which other Slavic nations formerly possessed, we find them greatly superior.  In the Russian Igor, the whole narrative is exceedingly indistinct; you may read the whole of it five times, without being able clearly to follow out the composition.  Not a single character stands out in relief.  The mode of representation has more of the lyric than of the epic.  The ancient Bohemian poems have more distinctness and freshness.  No obscurity disturbs us.  But the passions of the poet break forth so often, as to give the whole narration something of the subjective character; while the Servian, even when representing his countrymen in combat with their mortal enemies and oppressors, displays about the same partiality for the former, as Homer for his Greeks.

The introductions, not only to the tales themselves, but even to new situations, are frequently allegorical.  A distinct image is placed before the eyes at once.  A tale, describing a famous sanguinary deed of revenge, commences thus: 

  What’s that cry of anguish from Banyani?[47]
  Is ’t the Vila? is ’t the hateful serpent? 
  Were ’t the Vila, she were on the summit;
  Were ’t the serpent, it were ’neath the mountain;
  Not the Vila is it, nor a serpent;

  Shrieked in anguish thus Perovitch Balritch
  In the hands of Osman, son of Tchorov. [45]

Ravens are the messengers of unhappy news.  The battle of Mishar begins with the following verses: 

  Flying came a pair of coal-black ravens
  Far away from the broad field of Mishar,
  Far from Shabatz, from the high white fortress;
  Bloody were their beaks unto the eyelids,
  Bloody were their talons to the ankles;
  And they flew along the fertile Matshva,
  Waded quickly through the billowy Drina,
  Journey’d onward through the honoured Bosnia,
  Lighting down upon the hateful border,
  ’Midst within the accursed town of Vakup,
  On the dwelling of the captain Kulin;
  Lighting down and croaking as they lighted.