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GENIUS OF POLISH HISTORY. 
 
 Wygnańcy, co tak długo błądzicie po świecie, 
 Kiedyż znużonym stopom spoczynek znajdziecie? 
 Dziki gołąb ma gniazdo, robak ziemi bryłg, 
 Każdy człowiek ojczyznę, a Polak mogiłę. 
 Translation on Niemcewicz'b page. (*) 
 
POETS AND POETRY 
 
 OF 
 
 POLAND. 
 
 A COLLECTION OF POLISH TEESE. 
 
 INCLUDING A SHORT ACCOUNT OF THE HISTORY OF POLISH 
 
 POETRY, WITH SIXTY BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OF 
 
 POLAND'S POETS AND SPECIMENS OF THEIR 
 
 COMPOSITION, TRANSLATED INTO 
 
 THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE. 
 
 EDITED BY 
 
 PAUL SOBOLESKL 
 
 CHICAGO: 
 KNIGHT & LEONARD, PRINTERS. 
 
 18 81. 
 
V 1 - 
 
 ■&pp° 
 
 Copyright, 1881, 
 By PAUL SOBOLESKI. 
 
ILLUSTRATIONS. 
 
 1. Genius of Polish History. 
 
 2. Polish and American Coat-of-Arms. 
 
 3. Three Greatest Polish Poets. 
 
 4. Kochanowski. 
 
 5. Drużbacka. 
 
 6. Karpiński' s Monument. 
 
 7. Krasicki. 
 
 8. Niemcewicz. 
 
 9. Mickiewicz. 
 
 10. SłowACKi's Monument. 
 
 11. Zaleski; 
 
 12. Deotyma. 
 
 13. Goszczyński. 
 
 14. Pol. 
 
 15. Kondratowicz. 
 
 16. Kraszewski. 
 
POLISH ACCENTED LETTERS. 
 
 Besides the common alphabet, the Poles have the 
 following accented letters — and as they may occa- 
 sionally occur in this work, it is deemed proper to 
 explain their sounds and pronunciation as far as it was 
 possible so to clo. 
 c| (nasal), has the sound of the French on as in son, 
 
 pardon, etc. 
 C, is pronounced tsie. 
 
 C (nasal), has the sound like the French un, as in 
 
 chacun, or like in as in main. 
 ±J 1, very nearly as the English I, as in log, long, etc. 
 
 EL, is pronounced like the English n in need, or in 
 
 French, gagne. 
 O, is pronounced like the English oo. 
 S, like the English s, followed by e, as in sea, seize. 
 Ź, like the English z, in Zealand. 
 
 Ż, is pronounced like French g or j, as in genou, 
 jambe, jardin. 
 
 j, is always pronounced like y. 
 i, like ee. 
 w, like English v. 
 u, like oo 
 
 cz, like the English ch, as in child, chip, etc. 
 sz, like sh, as in shall, shield, etc. 
 rz, very like the French j, as in jardin. 
 szcz, like stch. 
 
 ch, very nearly like h, or like the German ch, as in 
 machen. brechen, etc. 
 
PRONUNCIATION OF POETS' NAMES. 
 
 BALIŃSKI, - 
 BERWIŃSKI, - 
 BRODZIŃSKI, - 
 BOGUSŁAWSKI, 
 DRUŻBACKA, - 
 DMUCHOWSKI, 
 DEOTYMA, 
 FELIŃSKI, - 
 GAWIŃSKI, 
 GARCZYŃSKI, 
 GASZYŃSKI, 
 GÓRECKI, 
 
 gosławski, - 
 goszczyński, 
 hołowiński, - 
 jachowicz, - 
 jakubowski, - 
 jasko wski, - 
 karpiński, 
 klonowicz; 
 
 TRONOUNCE 
 
 Bah-lin-skee. 
 Ber-vin-skee. 
 Bro-dzin-skee. 
 
 - Bo-GOO-SLAV-SKEE. 
 
 Droosh-batz-kah. 
 
 - Dmoo-hov-skee. 
 Deo-te-ma. 
 Feh-lin-skee. 
 Gah-vin-skee. 
 
 - Gar-tschyn-skee, 
 Gah-shin-skee. 
 
 - Go-retz-kee. 
 gos-lav-skee. 
 
 - gosh-tchin-skee. 
 holo-vin-skee. 
 
 - Yah-ho-vitch. 
 Ya-koo-bov-skee. 
 
 - Yas-kov-skee. 
 Kar-pin-skee. 
 Klo-no-yitch 
 
PRONUNCIATION OF POETS NAMES. 
 
 KOCHANOWSKI, 
 
 KNIAZŃIN, - 
 
 KONARSKI, 
 
 KONDRATOWICZ, 
 
 KORSAK (RAY), 
 
 KORSAK (JUL), 
 
 KORZENIOWSKI, 
 
 KRASICKI, - 
 
 KRASIŃSKI, 
 
 KRASZEWSKI, 
 
 KRO PIŃSKI, 
 
 LENARTOWICZ, 
 
 MALCZEWSKI, - 
 
 MIASKOWSKI, 
 
 MINASOWICZ, - 
 
 MICKIEWICZ, 
 
 MORAWSKI, 
 
 NARUSZEWICZ, 
 
 NIEMCEWICZ, - 
 
 ODYNIEC, 
 
 OLIZAROWSKI, - 
 
 OSIŃSKI, 
 
 POL, - 
 
 REY, 
 
 SARBIEWSKI, - 
 
 PRONOUNCE 
 Ko-HA-NOV-SKEE. 
 
 - KlN-AZ-NIN. 
 Ko-NAR-SKEE. 
 
 - KoN-DRAH-TOVITCH. 
 KOR-SAK. 
 
 - Kor- sak. 
 kor-zhen-ov-skee. 
 
 - Krah-sitz-kee. 
 Krah-sin-skee. 
 
 - Krah-shev-skee. 
 Kro-pin-skee. 
 
 - Leh-nar-to-vitch. 
 Mal-tchev-skee. 
 
 - MlAS-KOV-SKEE. 
 
 Me-nah-so-vitcu. 
 
 - MlTZ-KEH-VITCH. 
 Mo-RAV-SKEE. 
 
 - Na-rush-eh-vitch. 
 
 NlEM-TZE-VITCH 
 
 - O-DEE-NETZ. 
 
 O- LEE- ZAH-ROV-SKEE. 
 
 - O-SEEN-SKEE. 
 POHL. 
 
 - Rey. 
 Sar-biev-skee. 
 
PRONUNCIATION OF POETS NAMES. 
 
 SIENKIEWICZ, 
 
 SŁOWACKI, 
 
 SZYMONOWICZ, 
 
 TREMBECKI, 
 
 UJEJSKI, 
 
 WASILEWSKI, - 
 
 WENGIERSKI, 
 
 WITWICKI, 
 
 WORONICZ, - 
 
 WYBICKI, - 
 
 ZALESKI, 
 
 ZAN, - 
 
 ZIMOROWICZ, 
 
 ZMIECHOWSKA, 
 
 ZMORSKI, 
 
 PRONOUNCE 
 
 - Sein-keh-vitch. 
 Slo-vatz-kee. 
 
 - She-mo-no-vitch. 
 Trem-betz-kee. 
 
 - ooy-ey-skee. 
 Yah-see-lehv-skee. 
 
 - Yen-gher-skee. 
 
 YlT-VITZ-KEE. 
 
 - Yó-RO-NITCH. 
 
 Ye-bitz-kee. 
 
 - Zah-les-kee. 
 Zahn. 
 
 - Ze-mo-ro-vitch. 
 Zmee-hov-skah. 
 
 - Zmor-skee. 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 It has been said that the most interesting phenome- 
 non in the history of a people is the rise and progress 
 of its literature. As in an individual man, so it is 
 likewise in a nation, life manifests itself in a twofold 
 manner: in action and in word. A wise man of an- 
 tiquity once said to an individual unknown to him: 
 " Speak, that I may know you." Thus we can address 
 ourselves to every civilized people — "show us your 
 literature, that we may judge of the actual state of your 
 civilization, your character and your general qualifi- 
 cations." 
 
 11 
 
12 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND. 
 
 It is not enough that a nation has a literature of 
 its own, and that she sets it in sight of the progression 
 of humanity. It is not enough that she has actors 
 appearing on the scene of learning and knowledge; 
 a nation which has a desire to live and to advance with 
 proper dignity to her destiny must also have specta- 
 tors, hearers and learners in the grand school of social 
 vitality. In these lies her hope that she will not fall, 
 and that she will develop. 
 
 People are but collective units arising from individ- 
 ual or single beings united by force of nationality, 
 laws, inherent powers and actions. They grow and 
 nourish in accordance with their natural elements and 
 its development — and this development is the flower 
 and the most beautiful crown of its existence. 
 
 As every nation is but a part of the grand division 
 of the human society which it influences by its own 
 characteristics, so is the literature of each nationality 
 a part of the general enlightenment — which, circulating 
 around according to its strength and spirit, tends in 
 the same direction, and contributes toward making the 
 whole human kind more enlightened and more happy. 
 
 The literature of such people is a record of their 
 spiritual existence, and hence it becomes their duty — 
 a duty which they owe to themselves and the country 
 of their birth — to disseminate it, though it be in an 
 humble way, among the nations of the earth. Placed 
 in an apotheotic light on the heights of time, encom- 
 passing the past and the future, it points out the 
 direction, the mind and the feelings of the people from 
 whose hearts it sprung — at the same time erecting im- 
 perishable monuments for them which neither passing 
 misfortunes nor the relentless hand of time can ever 
 obliterate. 
 
INTRODUCTION. 13 
 
 Years ago there existed a great nation — great in 
 achievements — noble in her bearing toward her neigh- 
 bors — a warlike and chivalrous people, who once 
 commanded the respect and admiration of the world. 
 That nation was Poland. Since she began to play an 
 important role in the history of nations she could 
 count over 1,500 literary names, many of which were 
 at the time , and are now, illustrious in the annals not 
 only of Poland, but of the world. Prostrate, parti- 
 tioned, suffering, and blotted out as it were from 
 existence, she awaits the fulfillment of her destiny. 
 Fate sometimes strikes nations as it does individuals, 
 but hope in her case, though it may seem futile to 
 other nationalities, never forsakes the sorrowing hearts 
 of her children. Scattered though they are through- 
 out the confines of the habitable globe, they have 
 never ceased to wait, to hope, and to trust, that she 
 will once more be resuscitated, resurrected, regen- 
 erated, and once more counted among the nations of 
 the earth! And we think that we are not mistaken 
 when we say that there are many noble hearts in all 
 nationalities who would respond to this heartfelt long- 
 ing with an Amen! 
 
 It is not the intent of the compiler and editor of 
 this work to go into a diffuse history of Polish litera- 
 ture; his resources being rather limited, he must do 
 as best he can. The purpose of this volume is only to 
 take a cursory glance, and to present to the American 
 public the names of some of the most distinguished 
 Polish poets, with short biographical sketches and 
 some specimens of their productions translated into the 
 English language — some of which may not be equal to 
 the originals in the easy flow of language and the 
 beauty of expression. The Polish tongue may seem to 
 
14 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND. 
 
 other nationalities as somewhat harsh and discordant, 
 but in reality it is one of the most flowery, expressive, 
 and harmonious languages extant. No language can 
 excel it in heroic verse, nor claim preeminence over it 
 in the expression of sentiment. 
 
 Although the editor has written and translated a 
 goodly part of The Poets and Poetry of Poland, he 
 availed himself of some translations of Dr. John 
 Bowring, a distinguished English litterateur, and of 
 Dr. Thomas D. English, an American gentleman of 
 eminent poetical talent. He also cheerfully acknowl- 
 edges assistance and advice of friends well experienced 
 in literary matters. 
 
 In presenting this work to the public the editor 
 can truthfully state that he has been patiently waiting 
 for thirty years for some of his learned and able coun- 
 trymen to come to the front with a work on "the 
 Poets and Poetry of Poland," but up to this period no 
 one has yet appeared, so this important task has fallen 
 to his lot. He cheerfully accepts the situation, and 
 in offering this to the American People and to his 
 countrymen, he regrets that the collection is not more 
 complete and not more satisfactory to himself — for he 
 can proclaim to the world, without any egotistical feel- 
 ing of nationality, but in all the sincerity of his heart, 
 that Polish literature is a deep mine of precious treas- 
 ure, although outside of its own people it has been 
 known but little heretofore. There may have been 
 impediments to cause this delay, but as the world 
 advances in knowledge and general enlightenment these 
 hidden treasures will be unearthed and brought to 
 light. 
 
 This volume only points out the place where it 
 lies inert, and fortunate will be the hand that will in 
 
INTRODUCTION. 15 
 
 the future unearth these untold poetical treasures that 
 have for so many years lain hidden from the sight of 
 one of most enlightened people, the Anglo-Americans; 
 but the way having once been opened, there will be 
 found in the future stronger and abler hands, who can 
 add to this work a great deal of valuable matter which 
 would be interesting, not only to the American people 
 and the Poles, but to the world. 
 
 PAUL SOBOLESKI. 
 
THREE GREATEST POLISH POETS. 
 
POETRY OF POLAND. 
 
 The rise and progress of Polish Poetry and general liter- 
 ature may be divided in five distinct epochs, to- wit : 
 
 First Epoch — Called Piast- Jagellon Epoch, from the year 
 1000 to 1500. 
 
 Second Epoch — That of King Sigismund, and extending 
 from 1500 to 1620. 
 
 Third Epoch — The Jesuit Epoch, from 1620 to 1750. 
 
 Fourth Epoch — Known as the Classic Epoch (or Kon- 
 arski^ Epoch), from 1750 to 1822. 
 
 Fifth Epoch — The Romantic Epoch, commencing with 
 the appearance of Adam Mickiewicz and extending up to the 
 present time. 
 
 FIEST EPOCH. 
 
 Piast-Jagellon. Which may be considered as the Morning 
 Star of Polish Literature. It dates from the intro- 
 duction of Christianity to the time when printing came 
 into general use — 1000-1500. 
 
 Before the tenth century the history of Polish Poetry 
 is rather dim and uncertain. It is only since the intro- 
 duction of Christianity into Poland, during the reign of 
 Mieczyslas I, that the Polish literature assumed a per- 
 ceptible shape. With the advance of civilization the 
 idols created in bygone days, before which the people 
 bowed, were one by one demolished, and the prejudices 
 
 17 
 
18 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND. 
 
 of the past so thoroughly subverted that in a short 
 time scarcely a vestige of them was left. We have, 
 indeed, old reminiscences of songs, fables, and tradi- 
 tions, but we find them all pervaded in exaggeration 
 and superstition. 
 
 In this interesting period we had poems, secular 
 songs, and other kinds of rhythmical compositions, be- 
 cause circumstances surrounding our people — such as 
 wars, victories, and defeats ; weddings, funerals, and 
 national ceremonies — naturally called into existence the 
 feeling of poetical inspiration ; hence bards appeared 
 who were the creators of these compositions. We had 
 also religious poetry, because from time immemorial 
 our people sung in churches in the Polish language; 
 but the relics of the original sacred poetry are very 
 scarce, since in the progression and refinement of the 
 Polish language these compositions were, so to speak, 
 made over, and hence many of them lost the stamp of' 
 their originality. 
 
 In the fifteenth century Polish Poetry made but little 
 progress ; indeed, we may say it stood as it was in the 
 age of Piast — in its infancy. Scholastic philosophy and 
 the Latin tongue stifled, as it were, the native vein of 
 the Polish songs, — scarcely the traces of a few were pre- 
 served. Toward the end of the fifteenth century, when 
 our people became more numerous and stronger, our 
 poets also began to assume more distinct and promi- 
 nent places. We no longer rest on conjectures and in- 
 ferences, but upon monumental evidences. Sacred 
 poetry was founded upon several renditions of the 
 Psalms, as also upon sacred songs translated from the 
 Bohemian, and the secular rested upon a wider range 
 and continual improvement on the Piast period. Hence 
 the rhythmical compositions of that period not being 
 
POETRY OF POLAND. 19 
 
 characterized by any especial shading of poetry, we will 
 only classify the remaining traces and monuments. 
 
 'l. Relics of sacred poetry. 2. Of secular rhyth- 
 mical creations. In fact we could mention some dra- 
 matic souvenirs of those ages, but as they are of no 
 great significance, we leave that part to the pen of a 
 special inquirer. 
 
 RELICS OF SACRED POETRY. 
 
 After the introduction of Christianity, the Polish 
 Poetry, being under the influence of the civilization of 
 "Western Europe, began to flourish very early in sacred 
 or church songs ; although these songs were chiefly 
 translations from the Bohemian tongue, or, we should 
 rather remark, they were sort of made over. 
 
 Of the earliest poetic compositions nothing has yet 
 been found. Whether they had been wholly lost, or 
 were defaced by continual use in handling and tran- 
 scribing, is uncertain ; but as no religion has ever done 
 without songs and chants, we may naturally presume 
 that such had existed. Songs and chants of that kind 
 form the nucleus of every nation's poetry and music, and 
 it was in such rhythmical composition that the Polish 
 language .began to put forth its shoots, to refine and 
 improve. Pious simplicity especially characterizes these 
 compositions; intrinsically they have no poetical worth, 
 being as it were only prose un skillfully versified. 
 
 From the most important of these compositions 
 which came down to our times, and which deserve 
 notice, is : 
 
 1. "Boga Rodzica" (the Mother of God), origi- 
 nally composed by St. Adelbert. This celebrated chant 
 was composed in the Bohemian language, and was sung 
 by the Poles before the commencement of every battle, 
 
20 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND. 
 
 and is to this day sung during the divine services in the 
 Cathedral of Gniezno. The author of this celebrated 
 chant was born in 950 in Bohemia, and was the Bishop 
 of Prague. Being persecuted by the Bohemians, he 
 removed at first to Hungary, and then to Poland. 
 That was during the reign of Mieczyslas I, where he 
 was instrumental in spreading the newly introduced 
 doctrines of Christianity. In the year 995, with the 
 advice of Boleslas the Great, King of Poland, he went 
 to Prussia to instruct the pagans of that country in 
 Christianity, and suffered the death of a martyr at 
 Fishhausen. Bole.-las the Great bought his body from 
 the Prussians and had it buried with great ceremony at 
 Gniezno. Otto III, the Emperor of Germany, visited 
 his grave. 
 
 2. Fiftieth Psalm from thirteenth century. 
 
 3. Sorrows of the Mother of God under the Cross 
 of the Redeemer. 
 
 4. Psalter of Margaret, the Princess of the Mora- 
 vians, from fourteenth century ; but it is not certain 
 whether the production belongs to Margaret, the wife 
 of Louis, King of Hungary, or to Maria, the King's 
 eldest daughter. From certain passages there are 
 traces giving us to understand that it was the first trial — 
 the first translation of the psalter. 
 
 5. The Psalter of Queen Hedwige, from fifteenth 
 century — the two first psalms. 
 
 6. Be Praised the Queen (Salve Regina), from the 
 year 1406. 
 
 Of the names of the authors of religious songs of 
 those days the following are known to us : 
 
 John Witowski, the companion of Ladislaus Łokietek, 
 who composed a song on the sufferings of our Lord, 
 which was sung in Poland during Lent. 
 
POETRY OF POLAND. 21 
 
 John Opaliński, the bishop of Posen, a great lover 
 of music and good cheer. He wrote a song about the 
 Ascension ; the Immaculate Virgin Mary ; a song 
 about St. Adelbert ; live songs about St. Peter, and 
 six about St. Paul. These songs were sung by the 
 religious brotherhood of Posen. 
 
 John Preworszczyk, from fifteenth century, who 
 collected a small volume of ''Anthems " (1435). This 
 collection contains originals and translations from the 
 Latin, and the title is also Latin. 
 
 Andrew from SIupia, a Benedictine monk, wrote 
 songs of the Queen of Heaven ; also hymns to Jesus 
 Christ and others. These compositions are superior to 
 any previously written. 
 
 At that period the Poles had not come to full civili- 
 zation, and yielded to the influences of Western 
 Europe. Their poetry began at once to assume a 
 higher grade, and became more assimilated with music, 
 full of sweet harmony. Between 965-1040, however, 
 they still sang the old songs. The boors guarding the 
 bordering Castles during the reign of Boleslas the 
 Romantic, about King Popiel, were commonly sung by 
 young girls, and were not given up until the death of 
 Boleslas the Great. There were also many dumas , 
 about the Tartars, who, in the thirteenth century, about 
 every twenty years made incursions into Poland ; but 
 after a while these songs fell into disuse: 
 
 There were also many ritual songs. The fragments 
 of these compositions attest their antiquity. Many of 
 these were made over into Christian songs, leaving, 
 however, the traces of some primitive words originally 
 used, which plainly identify them as the relics of old 
 times. 
 
 The wedding songs were preserved the best of any 
 
22 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND. 
 
 during almost eight centuries. These songs seem to 
 possess an idyllic tendency, and have come down even 
 to the present time in their primitiveness. From these 
 remnants the following deserve mention : 
 
 1. Congratulatory song to King Casimir I, begin- 
 ning with the words " Welcome, welcome, our dear 
 host." 
 
 2. Plaintive songs of Boleslas the Great, which 
 Martin Gallus translated into Latin. 
 
 3. Song in honor of Boleslas, surnamed " The 
 Crooked-Mouthed." 
 
 4. Song describing the assassination of Ludgarda 
 by her husband Przemyslas. 
 
 5. Song about Albert, the Justice of the City of 
 Cracow. 
 
 6. Song about Yitold. 
 
 7. Song concerning the calamity of Bukowina. 
 The most distinguished authors of those times are : 
 Andrew GaIka, the Professor in the Academy of 
 
 Cracow, and Canon of St. Thomas' Church, lived in 
 fifteenth century. Lie composed a song about Wick- 
 liffe, who encouraged Huss's religious views among the 
 Poles. 
 
 Adam Świnka, the Cathedral Canon of Cracow, and 
 Secretary of Jagello, lived in fifteenth century. He 
 wrote beautiful elegiac verses in the Latin tongue ; 
 epitaph on the death of Queen Hedwige ; composition 
 on the death of Zawisza*, surnamed "The Black." 
 Besides these he wrote a heroic poem — " De rebus 
 gestis ac dictus memorabilibus Casimiri Secundi Polo- 
 niae Regis inclitissimi." These songs were translated 
 into Polish by Louis Kondratowicz. 
 
 Conrad Celtes wrote "Carmen ad Yistulam," de- 
 * A celebrated Polish hero. 
 
POETĘ Y OF POLAND. 23 
 
 scribing the channel of the river Vistula ; "Salinaria 
 ad Janum Terinum," describing the salt mines of 
 Wieliczka. His influence fired the Polish youth to the 
 Koman Classic literature. 
 
 Celtes was born in Germany in 1459, and was 
 crowned with a wreath by the Emperor of Germany 
 for his Latin poetry. While visiting for scientific pur- 
 poses Rome, Venice, lllyria, and Panonia, he came to 
 Cracow to hear Albert, from Brudziewa, lecture on 
 Astronomy. He remained in Cracow two years, divid- 
 ing his time in the study of astronomy, reading the 
 classics, and writing poetry in Latin, breathing his 
 love to Hasilina, a Cracovian maiden, — as also enjoy- 
 ing the literary society of the young academicians. He 
 died in 1508. 
 
 SECOND EPOCH. 
 
 Called łi The Sigismuxd Epoch.'' 1 Golden Advent of Polish 
 Poetey— 1500-1620. 
 
 In the Second Epoch we see another, a wider, and 
 a more beautiful field opening before us. What was 
 only in the bud is in this epoch in full bloom. For- 
 merly it was only the light of the moon struggling to 
 penetrate through the darkness of ages. Now the 
 golden rays of the sun throw a new halo and form 
 enchantingly mingled colors of the rainbow. In those 
 days the historian was anxiously looking for the small- 
 est possible traces, but now in the abundance of pro- 
 ductions his task is only to select what is the best. 
 
 Weary of traveling amidst the woodless and track- 
 less prairies, we begin with pleasure, and hope to see 
 the accounts of true literature springing up. from the 
 
24 POETS AND POETEY OF POLAND. 
 
 inner life of a developing people and multiplying in 
 the production of poets, orators, and historians. It 
 was still more singular that the advance was made in 
 two different languages — the Polish and the Latin — 
 equally well cultivated. It seemed as if two litera- 
 tures began to bloom all at once in one and the same 
 people. Thus we begin the sixteenth century. 
 
 The characteristic signs of this age were great dis- 
 coveries and inventions. At no previous time was 
 there so much anxiety and lively desire to study and 
 ascertain the inherent qualities of Nature ; never be- 
 fore the spirit of inquiry and searching after was wider 
 than in this epoch of Columbus, Gama, Raphael, 
 Copernicus, Galileo, and Guttenberg ; the world be- 
 came broader and more expansive by bold conception 
 of one man ; received a new world from the hands of 
 another, and if in accordance with the system of the 
 Creator himself, it was built over anew as if by the en- 
 chanter's hand ; the times of chivalry disappeared ; 
 Art thrusts the barbaric weapon out of the hands of 
 the stronger ; knowledge subverts the idols of scholas- 
 tics ; and, finally, that the ideal should not be lost, 
 Ariosto, Camoens, Cervantes, and their compeers, ap- 
 pear upon the stage. Perhaps at no period so many 
 eminent men made their appearance at the helm: 
 Leo X, Charles Y, Francis I, Sigismund the Old, 
 Henry YIII, Soliman, Shah Ismael, and Shah Akbar. 
 Amidst the turbulence of those days, there was one 
 country beyond the confines of Western Europe occu- 
 pying the common sphere of knowledge shed by the 
 light of Christianity, which quietly progressed in the 
 general improvement, in the science of government, 
 literature, and general enlightenment. 
 
 In their active life the Poles nursed their own ideas, 
 
POETKY OF POLAND. 25 
 
 in shaping and by degrees unfolding their natural char- 
 acter, and thus the Polish nation, by uninterrupted pro- 
 gression, was nearing to her maturity. 
 
 At this epoch Polish Poetry and Polish Music kept 
 even pace with other branches of natural advancement. 
 Poets of great distinction appeared, their compositions 
 shedding a great luster over the national literature — 
 Nicholas Key, John Kochanowski, Klonowicz, Miaskow- 
 ski, and others. Besides these there were Polish poets 
 who wrote in the Latin tongue, as for instance : 
 
 Daxtyszek, who is the author of " De virtutis et 
 honore differentia Somnium"; "Carmen Extempora- 
 rum de victoria insigni Sigismundi Regis ''; " De nos- 
 trorum temporurn Calamitatibus " ; "Jonas propheta 
 de interitu civitatis Gedanensis "; " Epigramata varia," 
 etc. etc. 
 
 Paul Krosnianin also sung for posterity many 
 memorable things: "Jureditum Sigismundi I, Regis 
 Poloniae "; " De nuptiis Sigismundi Regis Poloniae et 
 Bonae Ducis Mediolani hliae," etc. etc. 
 
 Clemens Jaxicki. All of his poetry belongs to 
 lyric compositions. Their smoothness reminds the 
 scholar of Ovid, and on account of the outpouring of a 
 great feeling he can be justly compared to Catullus and 
 Tibullus. This epoch comes down to the year 1620. 
 
 THIRD EPOCH. 
 
 Called the Jesuit Period — 1620-1750. 
 
 A distracted state of the country in consequence of 
 internal quarrels and wars caused also the decadence in 
 Polish literature. It is with much regret and reluctance 
 that this fact is stated. The deviation from the right 
 way of a single age caused the retrogression of Poland ; 
 
26 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND. • 
 
 and while all countries surrounding us were advancing 
 in light, we were thrown into darkness and became, as 
 it were, the sport of a relentless fate. Sad, indeed, 
 is the lesson received from our forefathers, that retro- 
 gression from light is far more detrimental to the hap- 
 piness of a nation than the simplicity of ignorance. 
 
 After the death of Jagellons and Stephen Batory, 
 many misfortunes came over our people. Incursions 
 of enemies and internal dissensions caused many suf- 
 ferings to the Republic. As if to compensate for this 
 retrogression, immortal heroes appeared on the stage 
 of action. Żółkiewski, Czarnecki, Chodkiewicz, and 
 John Sobieski shed upon their country a true, heroic 
 luster, as they not only fought for their own country, 
 but for entire Christendom. 
 
 We should not very much transgress if we said that 
 in this period we show but few distinguished names in 
 poetry. Zimorowicz, Gawiński, Mortszyn, Kochowski, 
 Elizabeth Druzbacka, and Prince Jabłonowski belong to 
 this period, and we have every reason to be proud of 
 them. This period extends from Sigismund III to 
 Stanislaus Augustus. 
 
 FOURTH EPOCH. 
 
 Pseudo-Classic, or Konarski's Epoch, or Revival of Gen- 
 eral Knowledge and Literature in Poland. 
 
 The unpropitious times of Sigismunds under the 
 blasts of which the flowers of Polish Poesy began to 
 wither had passed away. The circumstances, how- 
 ever, and elements of this new period were very favor- 
 able toward reviving, regenerating, and improving the 
 almost neglected branches of literature. The languish- 
 ing powers of the Polish Muse were all of a sudden 
 
POETRY OF POLAND. 27 
 
 strengthened and exalted as if by the enchanter's 
 wand. Poets like Karpiński, Trembecki, Woronicz, 
 Kniaznin, Krasicki, Wengierski, Szymonowicz, Dmuch- 
 owski, and others appeared in the galaxy. Authors of 
 great distinction in other branches of literature began 
 to multiply with astonishing rapidity. The King him- 
 self, being a learned man, encouraged men of genius 
 with great magnanimity. 
 
 The beginning of this desirable revival was chiefly 
 owing to Konarski and his companions, who, being- 
 educated in France under the protection of Stanislaus 
 Leszczyński, on their return to their native land brought 
 fresh ideas with them regarding social science and liter- 
 ature, and hence it was that a French classic literature 
 was inducted into Poland similar to the French liter- 
 ature existing during the reign of Louis XI Y. Konar- 
 ski compelled the Jesuits to adopt these reforms, and 
 having obtained the powerful assistance of Joseph and 
 Andrew Załuski, — bishops of great learning and 
 influence — was able to thus effect the salvation of 
 their countrymen who through former wars and inter- 
 nal dissension had so unfortunately retrograded from 
 their former greatness. 
 
 During the last years of the reign of Augustus III 
 the Polish literature was enriched by works of great 
 worth on history, bibliography, theology, etc. Minas- 
 owicz wrote good poetry and translated into the Polish 
 language ancient classics. Nagurczewski translated 
 the works of Homer, Yirgil, and Cicero. Jabłonowski 
 rendered into Polish the fables of ^Esop and Telem- 
 achus. 
 
 As the nineteenth century was rapidly approaching, 
 learned men and poets found protection and assistance 
 in the houses of great magnates; and Puławy, the resi- 
 
28 POETS AND POETKY OF POLAND. 
 
 dence of princes Czartoryiski, became the dwelling- 
 place of the Polish muse. 
 
 In the year 1800 there sprung up at Warsaw u The 
 Society of the Friends of Learning." Its members 
 were men of great learning, and vigorous writers; many 
 of the poets enlisted under that auspicious banner. 
 The object of that society was to preserve from oblivion, 
 and enrich, the wealth of the Polish literature. This 
 National Society gave a great impetus to strenuous 
 endeavors by men of genius to write. Such men as 
 Woronicz, Niemcewicz, Albertrandy, Lelewel, Bandt- 
 kie, Sniadecki, Czacki, Linde, Ossoliński, and others 
 appeared upon the stage of literary fame. Each of 
 these celebrated men not only contributed much to the 
 general literature of their country, but exerted great 
 influence over the tenor and literary taste of those 
 days. Every one of them had a direct bearing on the 
 progression of literature, and for that reason there was 
 an uncommon advance in poetry, history, and natural 
 sciences. 
 
 Although the compositions of at least a part of this 
 period were somewhat affected by French idioms and 
 inflation, yet the strength of the national current pre- 
 vailed and preserved the native purity of language and 
 ideas unharmed. 
 
 FIFTH EPOCH. 
 
 Pseudo-Romantic ok Mickiewicz's Epoch — Extending from 
 the Year 1822 to the Present Day. 
 
 Amidst the many violent political shocks in Europe, 
 which only ended with the downfall of Napoleon the 
 Great and the Congress of Vienna in 1815, there also 
 
POETRY OF POLAND. 29 
 
 came changes in the intellectual world. Europe got 
 rid of mediaeval excrescences and conceits ! 
 
 Thinking men must admit that there are moments 
 in the lives of nations as well as of individuals when 
 the mind, rocked by the storms of adversity, longs for 
 quietness and rest. When we see that the happiness 
 which we had been seeking, the great aims for which 
 we have been striving with so much faith and devoted- 
 ness, have come to nothing, that all our troubles and 
 endeavors have been of no avail, then it is that we turn 
 our languishing eyes into the past when we thought we 
 were happy, though in reality we were only compara- 
 tively so, not knowing that it might and should be better. 
 We look as if into the mirror, into the luster of sweet 
 and pleasing remembrances of departed years, since 
 now they seem to be more beautiful and more poetic, 
 just because they will never return. Such time is pro- 
 pitious to the unfolding and developing into bloom of 
 historical poetry. Such an epoch in modern Europe 
 was the beginning of the nineteenth century. 
 
 The political and intellectual storms of the last hun- 
 dred years left after them banished hopes, a void, and a 
 faintness. From the smoldering ashes and moss-over- 
 grown ruins the mental powers, rent by doubts and a 
 wounded heart which the present could not satisfy, the 
 yearning voice spoke forth for the feeling and faith, for 
 the greatness and poetry of olden times. This was in 
 consequence of a reaction of the past. 
 
 As it always happens that when there is a new 
 change to take place in the kingdom of imagination 
 immediately there is born a new generation willing and 
 ready to second and support it, so it was at this 
 period. Classicism began to show every day more and 
 more plainly that its time was about over. In the 
 
30 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND. 
 
 minds of the highest cultivation it began to lose, gradu- 
 ally, its prestige, and although no one could see at the 
 time what should take its place, everyone felt that its 
 decadence was at hand, when lo ! a single bard ap- 
 peared on a newly erected stage, and pronounced the 
 word Homa/nticism. Literary men gave him a willing 
 ear. The apostles of a new poetic faith began to in- 
 crease and multiply and with much enthusiasm spread 
 the new doctrine of poetic inspiration, and thus the 
 new Phoenix was born. The originator of the Roman- 
 tic School was Adam Mickiewicz. It will ever be a 
 memorable time in the history not only of the Polish 
 but of European poetic literature. Witwicki, Gos- 
 czyński, Zaleski, Gosławski, and others, propelled by 
 the current of their genius, joined the new camp, and 
 having sanctioned the new doctrine, upheld it with the 
 force of their poetic powers. They struck the strings 
 which up to this period were not only untouched but 
 unknown. The self-created spirit broke the shackles 
 of former days — shackles that so strictly bound the free- 
 dom and spirit of poetic inspiration to certain laid down 
 poetic rules in composition. Then it was that the poetic 
 flow began to gush out from the eternal spring of love 
 and phantasy. The Polish nationality received this 
 new outgrowth with great approbation and delight, 
 which is still in popular favor, and we think will con- 
 tinue so for generations to come. 
 
 The creations of our poets of this period are almost 
 in every instance breathing with a peculiarly happy, 
 heartfelt, and lively serenity of the spirit. Although 
 sadness and tearfulness preponderate in their strains, 
 yet it can be plainly seen that they are pervaded with 
 a strong belief in the guardianship of Providence over 
 the affairs of this world, which in its nature is hopeful 
 
POETRY OF POLAND. 31 
 
 and noble, for it assures sooner or later the additional 
 triumph over the power of falsehood and evil, contend- 
 ing against them and temporarily restraining their in- 
 fluence over the world. 
 
 Unlike the literatures of other nationalities, breath- 
 ing doubts, grief, or repulsive flattery, or replete with 
 metaphysical mysticism, which loses itself in the un- 
 fathomable, our ideals had something in them of re- 
 ality, and in almost all poetic creations of. our bards 
 there is an undercurrent of religiously patriotic love of 
 country, deeper, and yet more purely understood, than 
 in any other literature. 
 
 As to the introduction of this pseudo-romantic style 
 of writing, its votaries could not precisely define what 
 they wished and where they were tending, because no 
 one precisely understood upon what system this Ro- 
 manticism was founded. 
 
 It must be remembered that heretofore the French 
 system stood preeminent in the Polish literature, but 
 now the time had come to cut loose from it, and Polish 
 litterateurs began to consider the poetic elements 
 governing the middle ages and also giving much 
 weight to the German style. Happily for the Poles 
 that the deliberations of these men served as a protec- 
 tion in the incubation of the style purely national. 
 
 After the ebullition of the first youthful enthusiasm 
 was over, our poets began to examine their strength, 
 but finding it as yet very undefined they turned their 
 attention to different but inexhaustible sources — the 
 treasures of popular poetry, which led to the love of 
 the supernatural and miraculous, and to the fresh tra- 
 ditions of the great past, which they wished to preserve 
 and to perpetuate by their songs. 
 
 But what was the aim of these poets ? It was to 
 
32 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND. 
 
 bring nearer to the sight the local phenomena of exist- 
 ence, to increase the light, to make the home history 
 more interesting, and to preserve in the mirror of 
 poetic art the hereditary thoughts and feelings, as also 
 the remembrances upon which is founded, and from 
 which emanates, the individuality of national existence. 
 All the above mentioned poets, albeit different in the 
 tendencies of their genius, meet at the same point, that 
 is, in the texture and concatenation of thought, the 
 national feeling. 
 
 During the existence of the Duchy of Warsaw, and 
 subsequently the Kingdom of Poland, and especially 
 until the year 1825, the whole of our literature flowed 
 as it were in one and the same channel ; but since the 
 advent of Brodziński different tendencies began to 
 spread over the country. Civilization had extended its 
 blessings all over the Polish nation, and at the same 
 time had awakened great poetic talent. 
 
 Small poetical circles were formed in the Kingdom 
 of Poland, in Lithuania and that part of Poland called 
 Little Russia, comprising Podolia, Yolhynia and 
 Ukraine, forming as it were so many different and 
 distinct pleiads, but shining in the same heavens and 
 constituting our whole literature. Padura, Zaleski, 
 Goszczyński, Olizarowski, Groza, and others, but they 
 were all outstripped by Brodziński' } s "Wiesław" and 
 Malczewskie "Marya." The first was well under- 
 stood, but the other seemed incomprehensible at first, 
 but now he is reckoned among the first poets of Poland. 
 
 But the grand center of poetic power was Adam 
 Mickiewicz, the creator of a new and splendid epoch 
 in Polish Poetry, the man who accomplished a twofold 
 task, that of gathering in his own personality the spirit 
 of the whole nation and raising up the Polish Poetry 
 
POETRY OF POLAND. 33 
 
 to the rank of the European muse. This he accom- 
 plished most successfully. 
 
 In Germany the Goethe epoch was passing way. 
 The era of English poetry was beginning to change by 
 the appearance of Lord Byron and Walter Scott. 
 In France there were Lamartine and Victor Hugo. 
 Between these poets and Mickiewicz there was that 
 kindred relationship which can only exist among men 
 of great genius at the same time and without any re- 
 gard to nationality. 
 
 The imitators of Mickiewicz did not exactly equal 
 his genius. Among the most prominent of these could 
 be counted Odyniec, Alexander, Chodźko, Witwicki, 
 Massalski and Julian Korsak. 
 
 With the year 1831 a new inspiration seemed to 
 have taken hold of the whole Polish nation, and the 
 Polish literature also took a new turn, that of a moral 
 and a warm patriotic tendency. From this time Polish 
 poetry assumes the highest possible significance, and 
 becomes the leading and reigning spirit of the whole 
 Polish nationality. 
 
 It was about this time that Krasiński and SIowacki 
 unfolded the great power of their poetic genius. Then 
 again we have something from what we may term 
 Siberian poetry, from Charles Baliński, and from the 
 literature of Caucasus of Gustate Zieliński, and from 
 one of the foremost, Maurice GosIawski, who, during 
 the prostration of the nation raised his voice to the 
 highest and sung the heroic songs, which from this 
 time began to characterize the literature of Poland. 
 
 Vincent Pol began also to sing of the past glory 
 and loveliness of the Polish land, and thus was formed 
 a new pleiad of a young generation of Polish poets, the 
 most distinguished of whom were Bielowski, Siemień- 
 
34 POETS AND POETEY OF POLAND. 
 
 ski, Wasilewski, Groza, Kondratowicz (Syrokomla), 
 Berwlnski, Zmorski, Gaszyński, Lenartowicz and 
 Hedwige Łuszczewska (Deotyma). 
 
 We come now to a period when the Polish muse 
 takes another decided turn. Krasiński, shuddering at 
 the premonitions of death's alarms, reveals to the 
 world in his " Psalms " the mystery of Resurrection, 
 and Ujejski, following in his wake, proclaims his 
 "Lamentations." The heroic poetry, too, inscribes 
 upon the pages of immortality the names of Iasinski, 
 Godebski, Korsak, Suchodolski and Romanowski. 
 
 If the poetry of to-day does not flow in any other 
 channel than heretofore, it certainly adds to it the 
 great play upon the feelings, and beautifies it by 
 variegated shadings of the picturesque ; keeping always 
 in the wake of national traditions, it also keeps pace 
 with the inward fitness of national spirit, thereby 
 awakening constant admiration and furnishing material 
 for the tuneful lyre of the Polish bards. 
 
 Polish Poetry during the reign of Sigismunds is 
 characterized by classic conciseness and pleasing sim- 
 plicity. During the time of Stanislaus Augustus, it is 
 marked by accuracy and branching out in the richness 
 of the language. In our times it is distinguished by 
 still greater purity, taste, and general improvement, 
 which may be considered as a remarkable augury of 
 eminent progression, especially so when we consider 
 that the writers, after having regained the original purity 
 of the vernacular tongue, will in future do away with 
 all foreign words which have a tendency to weaken 
 the expression and dignity of poetic compositions in 
 the Polish language. And the object will be fully ac- 
 complished if they will avoid imitating the manner of 
 foreign style of composition. 
 
POETRY OF POLAND. 35 
 
 As regards the present spirit of the Polish Poetry, 
 we see the love of country pervades everywhere. 
 Zealous admiration of noble deeds, tempered ecstasy, 
 free imagination untainted by fantastic conceits, mild 
 in tenderness, simplicity, morality of poetical philoso- 
 phy, and beautiful pictures of rural life and family in- 
 tercourse. 
 
 In this, as it were improvised, literature, the course 
 of which has been lively and rapid, are expressed the 
 feelings of a great people's national records, and the 
 spirit of Poland long ago, but these have not yet reached 
 their journey's end, — not to their final destination. It 
 still goes Onward and Upward. 
 
36 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND. 
 
 KEY. 
 
 Nicholas Rey may be considered as the father of 
 Polish poetry. Following in the train of the age he 
 lived in, which was theological Polemics, he partici- 
 pated in all its delusions and its errors. As a poet he 
 was only mediocre, lacking in what is termed the poet- 
 ical inspiration ; and yet although the reader cannot 
 recognize Rey as a genius, he will discover in his writings 
 sober and substantial thought, healthy and forcible 
 manner, and fresh expressions, somewhat colored but 
 invariably pithy. If his poetical compositions are 
 devoid of high imagery, they show, nevertheless, and 
 pointedly too, that he wished to demonstrate to the 
 book-learned teachers and professional poets the exist- 
 ence of a people's literature, and thereby awaken in 
 them the spirit of inquiry in regard to plebeian or popu- 
 lar poetry, — that important link — writing for the first 
 time the plebeian literature and the literature of the 
 learned. 
 
 Rey was indeed a true bard, and did much toward 
 the elevation of the Polish Muse. King Sigismund 
 Augustus held Rey in the highest esteem, and not only 
 patronized and enriched him, but conferred upon him 
 many marks of distinction. 
 
 Rey was born in 1505, and passed his youth in frolic 
 and pleasure. He went to school for about five years, 
 but it seems he did not learn there much of any thing — 
 not till the twentieth year of his life, when through 
 the influence of his uncle he obtained a place with a 
 very wealthy family of Tenczyński, who generally 
 spent their time in Italy, and associating with the mem- 
 bers of the Imperial family, knew how to prize learn- 
 
KEY. 37 
 
 ing and learned people, and understood how to assimi- 
 late the customs of their country with European civili- 
 zation. Rey being connected with a family of such 
 high standing, began to acquire facility in the writing 
 of Polish letters and learned a little Latin. He amused 
 himself with study and music and began to compose 
 verses, but he never could stay in one place ; chiefly 
 spending his time in hunting he cast his lot with 
 Hetman Sieniawski and traveled in different parts of 
 Poland, frequenting political assemblies, courts of jus- 
 tice and meetings of all sorts, being everywhere 
 received with much eclat as a man of good cheer and 
 ready wit, fond of good wine and a sumptuous table. 
 Not mixing in any quarrels or contentions of any kind, 
 he was welcome and received hospitality no matter 
 where he turned. Being liked by all except by strict 
 Roman Catholics, he passed his time at the courts of 
 both Sigismuncls, who bestowed upon him good pay and 
 munificent gifts. Although he was present at every 
 assembly and almost at every political and religious 
 meeting, he never would accept of any office. 
 
 Amidst all the allurements of social circles he did 
 not neglect his calling as a poet, and kept improving 
 as he grew older. He died in 1569. 
 
 VIRTUE. 
 
 Virtue is the earth's gem of gems, 
 Rich and poor the diadems. 
 Though all emeralds formed one star, 
 Virtue's light is brighter far ! 
 For earth's marts man has not made 
 Balance which this gem hath weighed, 
 All other blessings pass or fade — 
 Virtue till death is undismayed. 
 
38 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND. 
 
 VICE. 
 
 Vice is a serpent, lying through all weather, 
 Coiled up unseen beside life's wayside stone. 
 
 When knave and fool carousing come together, 
 With warning hiss it makes its venom known. 
 
 The following is Key's description of what Poland 
 was three hundred and forty years ago : 
 
 Cast your eyes around you and behold our glorious king- 
 dom ! Strong within itself, Poland needs no assistance from 
 other nations. It is one of the most powerful nations in 
 Europe, and in martial character is preeminent. . The Lord 
 of all has placed it here, and endowed her people with many 
 rare qualities. Is there a nation on earth equal to ours in 
 bravery and endurance? The intrepidity, the unyielding per- 
 severance and daring heroism of Polish soldiers surpasses 
 anything in the annals of history. 
 
 In knowledge and progress Poland stands equal if not 
 superior to other nations. In her most brilliant eras she has 
 produced many men eminent in science, among whom we can 
 count at this present time Copernicus, the discoverer of the 
 true system of the universe. Other nations may possess more 
 gold and silver, spices, silks, etc., but can they compete with 
 us in virtue and excellence, in valor and prowess ? What 
 nation can stand against the indomitable courage of our 
 valiant soldiers? Many nations now in our memory have 
 called upon us to assist them in time of war, and when they 
 saw our soldiers in their ranks they felt assured of victory. 
 A Polish soldier fights to win, and wherever he shows his 
 open face and brave heart the e*iemy is forced to yield. 
 
 A THOUGHT. 
 
 For the improvement of his mind it is necessary that a 
 man should read. 
 
 ANECDOTES. 
 
 Rey was very witty, and one day while he was fishing a 
 neighbor sent a boy to him with his compliments, and an 
 
KEY. 39 
 
 empty dish for some fish. Rey understood the drift and 
 remarked : " I will return compliments for compliments, but 
 for the fish I must have money, not compliments." 
 
 It so happened that the poet was outwitted by an ignorant 
 peasant. While traveling Rey came to a certain village, and 
 meeting a peasant the following dialogue took place : 
 
 Rey. Who holds possession of this village? 
 
 Peasant. The earth and fences. 
 
 Rey. Who is master here? 
 
 Peasant. He who has the most money. 
 
 Rey. Who is the elder of this place? 
 
 Peasant. The oldest person in the place is a man who is 
 one hundred years old, if that is what you mean. 
 
 Rey. I mean who occupies the highest place? 
 
 Peasant. Oh ! yonder linden tree by the church. 
 
 Rey. How far is it to noon? 
 
 Peasant. It has not passed here yet, so I couldn't tell you. 
 
 Rey. It seems to me, fellow, that you are rather impu- 
 dent, and deserve a slap in your mouth. 
 
 Peasant. I wouldn't like that, as I am no dog ; but if you 
 would slap something into my hand it would be all right. 
 
 Rey. " As I live," said the poet, " I have never met so pert 
 a peasant before." 
 
 Useless the yield of well worked fields 
 If but to waste the housewife yields. 
 
 The poet tells us that the above has a twofold meaning. 
 One is: no matter how many victories we gain over our ene- 
 mies in the field, they will be productive of no good if there 
 is discord and misrule at home. And another is : no matter 
 how hard a farmer works in the field if his wife is wasteful, 
 idle and improvident, the farming operations must come to 
 •ruin. Which is proven by another proverb: 
 
 A wasteful housewife can carry out with her apron more 
 than the farmer can haul in with a wagon. 
 
 The light of Holy Truth can never be extinguished. 
 
KOCHANOWSKI. 
 
 "Wszystko sie dziwnie plecie 
 
 Na tym tu biednym świecie. 
 
 A-ktoby chciał wszystkiego rozumem dochodzić, 
 
 I zginie, a nie będzie umiał w to ugcdzić. 
 
 Translation on the last page of Kochanowski (*). 
 
KOCHANOWSKI. 41 
 
 KOCHANOWSKI. 
 
 John Kochanowski, who attained great celebrity as 
 a poet, is the type and true representative of the Polish 
 muse of the sixteenth century, for in him were united 
 all the rhythmical elements of that epoch. From the 
 many of his lyrical creations could be mentioned " So- 
 bótka," or the song of St. John's Eve, " Threns (or 
 Laments) on Ursula's Death," "Reconciliation," "Epi- 
 taphs," "Inscriptions," "Psalms," "Translations from 
 the Songs of Anacreon," and "Chess." 
 
 Kochanowski having had no specimens of Polish 
 literature before him, had himself to break through the 
 first difficulties of rhythmical art. He had himself to 
 invent the form, language, and poetical style. In his 
 compositions as well as his life, two separate and 
 characteristic epochs are perceptible: one of frenzy, 
 frivolity, love matters and pleasure, the other presents 
 peace of the soul, resignation, and a serene, religious 
 feeling. 
 
 He was born in Siczyn, in 1530, in Great Poland. 
 Desiring more information he traveled in the south of 
 Europe, in order to get a better knowledge of classical 
 antiquity, and after his return was advanced to many 
 high offices of the state, but he resigned them all for 
 the sake of retirement and peace. 
 
 Kochanowski wrote also in Latin, and his poetry in 
 that language was considered superior to that of any of 
 his contemporaries. His poems are full of beauty, and 
 the melodious flow of his verse is truly delightful. 
 Although his writings are various, his reputation is prin- 
 cipally founded upon his " Laments " (Treny), in which 
 he mourns the loss of his little daughter Ursula, whom 
 
42 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND. 
 
 he represents as gifted, intelligent and lovely; his com- 
 positions overflow with expressions of passionate grief. 
 Other gems, like the song on " St. John's Eve," 
 " Nothing Sure in this World," etc., are admired to the 
 present day. He also wrote songs from Horace and 
 from Greek anthology, translated Virgil's "JEneid," 
 and Tasso's "Jerusalem Delivered." His poem on 
 John Tarnowski, the celebrated Polish hero, is an epic 
 which entitles him to the highest rank as an author of 
 heroic poetry. Kochanowski also printed a drama, 
 "The Greek Ambassadors," in hexameter measure. 
 His prose works are scarcely less numerous than his 
 poetical, and are equally distinguished for their grace 
 and purity of style. He died in 1584. 
 
 THE GREATNESS OF GOD. 
 
 O God! What wilt Thou for Thy gifts from us 
 For Thy unmeasured goodness bounteous ? 
 No church contains Thee, for Thou fillest space — 
 Ocean and Earth, and Heaven Thy dwelling place. 
 We cannot give Thee gold, for gold is Thine, 
 All earthly treasures bear Thy seal divine. 
 Praise we can give Thee from a grateful heart, 
 Thou who above us and beyond us art! 
 Thou art the master of the world — hast reared 
 The heavens with all its starry orbs ensphered. 
 And Earth's foundations, at Thy word straightway 
 Arose from nothingness in green array. 
 The sea, at Thy commands, despite its fret, 
 Remains within the bounds Thy hand has set. 
 The countless rivers at Thy mandate flow, 
 Thou bid'st the night and day to come and go. 
 For Thee the Spring with flowers her brow adorn, 
 For Thee the Summer binds her ears of corn- 
 
KOCHANOWSKI. 43 
 
 To Thee the Autumn yields both fruit and vine, 
 And winter wreathes red holly for Thy shrine. 
 The withered herbage 'neath Thy dew revives, 
 Beneath Thy rain the parched up grain-field thrives. 
 From out Thy hand all creatures take their food, 
 And through Thy bounty all things are renewed. 
 
 everlasting God! be praised therefor — 
 Grant us Thy grace and bounty evermore: 
 Shield us while here from every evil thing. 
 And fold us close beneath a Father's wing. 
 
 THREN I. 
 
 Come gather 'round my dwelling, tears and sighs, 
 
 Eloquent woes, and loud-voiced miseries ; 
 
 All tones of sorrow, anguish, and regret, 
 
 Hand- wringing grief, and pangs the cheeks that wet, — 
 
 Yes! gather 'round my dwelling all, and join 
 
 Your plaint, your passion, with these plaints of mine, 
 
 O'er that sweet child whom most unholy death 
 
 Hath smitten, and in one outrageous breath 
 
 Dispers'd all joy! — as when a dragon springs 
 
 On Philomela's nest, who sits and sings 
 
 Heedless, till roused by cries she flaps her wings, 
 
 Flutters around her home, and shrieking tries 
 
 To arrest the spoiler, — idle strife! She flies 
 
 On wearied wing ; in vain — the abandoned one 
 
 Becomes in turn a prey — I'll weep alone, 
 
 Weep bitterest tears. Vain too, 'tis vain I know, — 
 
 All is irreparably vain below; — 
 
 We only grasp delusions, life's a cheat 
 
 Of new deceit, but link'd to old deceit. 
 
 1 know not which is vainer, — if to bear 
 And struggle with our grief in mute despair, 
 Or give the anguish passionate vent, as here. 
 
44 POETS AND POETEY OF POLAND. 
 
 THREN VII. 
 
 Thou angel child! thy mournful dress before me 
 
 Throws bitter sorrow o'er me; 
 
 Thy little ornaments of joy and gladness 
 
 Awake a deeper sadness. 
 
 Never again to wear your splendors, — never; 
 
 All hope is fled forever! 
 
 A sleep, a hard and iron sleep, hath bound thee, 
 
 Dark night has gather'd round thee. 
 
 Thy golden belt is dim; thy flower-wreathed tresses 
 
 Scattered. Thy summer dresses 
 
 Which thy poor mother wrought; she had array' d thee 
 
 For love, and we have laid thee 
 
 In the tomb's bridal bed; and now thy dower 
 
 Is a funeral flower,— 
 
 A little shroud, — a grave. Sweet child! thy father 
 
 Some odorous hay shall gather, 
 
 To pillow thy cold head. Death's dormitory 
 
 Holds thee, and all thy glory. 
 
 THREN IX. 
 
 My gentle child! and art thou vanished? Thou 
 
 Hast left a dreary blank of sadness now; 
 
 Our house though full is desolate and lone 
 
 Since thy gay spirit and its smiles are gone ! 
 
 We heard thy*tongue's sweet prattle, and thy song 
 
 Echoed in every corner all day long. 
 
 Thy mother never grieved, and anxious care 
 
 Ne'er rack'd thy father's thoughts while thou wert there ; 
 
 Now hers — now mine — thy childish, fond caress — 
 
 The overflow of youth and tenderness. 
 
 But all is vacant now, — all dull and dead; 
 
 All peace, and hope, and laughing joy are fled; 
 
 Our home possess'd by ever present grief, 
 
 And the tired spirit vainly seeks relief. 
 
KOCHANOWSKI. 45 
 
 THREN X. 
 
 Whither, O whither fled ! in what bright sphere 
 
 Art thou, my Ursula, a wanderer? 
 
 Say, has thou wing'd above yon heavens thy flighty 
 
 A cherub midst the cherubim of light? 
 
 Dwell'st thou in Eden's garden? — or at rest 
 
 Reposing midst the islands of the blest? 
 
 Doth Charon waft thee o'er the gloomy lake, 
 
 And bid thee waters of oblivion take? 
 
 I know not; but I know my misery 
 
 Is all unknown, is all a blank to thee — 
 
 Thy gentle form, thy angel thoughts, where now? 
 
 A nightingale of paradise art thou ; 
 
 Thy moral taints all purified — if taint 
 
 Could stain the spirit of so fair a saint; 
 
 Thou art returned to that same hallow'd spot 
 
 Thou didst make holy when earth knew thee not. 
 
 But wheresoe'er thou be, compassionate 
 
 My misery. If this terrestrial state 
 
 Be closed upon thee — pity still — and be 
 
 A dream, a shadow, something yet to me! 
 
 THREN XIII. 
 
 Would thou hadst ne'er been born — or being born 
 Hadst left me not, sweet infant ! thus forlorn ; 
 I have paid lasting woe for fleeting bliss — 
 A dark farewell, a speechless pang like this; 
 Thou wert the brightest, fairest dream of sleep; 
 And as the miser cherishes his heap 
 Of gold, I held thee ; soon 'twas fled, and nought 
 Left but the dreary vacancies of thought, 
 That once was blessedness. And tlwii are fled. 
 Whose fairy vision floated in my head 
 And play'd around my heart. And thou art gone, 
 Gone with my joys; and I am left alone; 
 
46 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND. 
 
 Half of my soul took flight with thee, the rest 
 Clings to thy broken shadow in my breast. 
 
 Come raise her tombstone, sculptor. Let there be 
 
 This simple offer to her memory. 
 
 " Her father's love, — his Ursula lies here, 
 
 His love, alas! his tears, his misery. 
 Thine was a barbarous mandate, death ! The tear 
 
 I drop for her, she should have shed for me." 
 
 The following epitaph was written on his elder 
 daughter, who soon followed Ursula to the tomb: 
 
 Thou Anna! too, thy sister's track has trod, 
 And prematurely sought death's dark abode; 
 Grief soon shall call your father to his God, 
 To brighter worlds beyond life's dismal road. 
 
 FROM CANTO XIII. 
 
 Sweet sleep! sure man might learn to die from thee, 
 
 Who dost unravel all death's mystery; 
 
 Come, spread thy balmy influence o'er my soul, 
 
 And let it soar, beyond the world's control, 
 
 Up to the realms where morning has its birth, 
 
 Down to the abyss whence darkness wraps the earth, 
 
 Where time has piled its everlasting snows, 
 
 Where parch'd by sunbeams not a fountain flows; 
 
 Oh, let it count each bright and wandering star, 
 
 Or trace its mazy pilgrimage afar; 
 
 Sit in the center, while each circling sphere 
 
 Pours its aerial music on the ear ; 
 
 Drink of the o'erflowing cup of joy and peace, 
 
 While the tired body sleeps in weariness; 
 
 No dreams to hang upon its mortal breath ; 
 
 And so — undying — let it taste of death. 
 
KOCHANOWSKI 47 
 
 TALES OF ST. JOHN'S EVE; OR, SOBÓTKA FIRE.* 
 
 When the first sunbeams Cancer fill 
 And tuneful nightingale is still, 
 In Czarny las\ from older days 
 Sobotka's fire is wont to blaze. 
 
 The neighboring swain, the distant guest, 
 Around the sacred fire have prest; 
 The orchards with the joyous sound 
 Of three gay fiddlers laugh around. 
 
 On the green turf they take their seat, . 
 Where twice six maidens fair and neat, 
 Their ornaments and dress as one, 
 And girdled with the same bright zone, 
 
 And skill'd in dance, are all the throng; 
 And all are skill'd in gentle song; 
 To all the call of music rings, 
 And thus the foremost maiden sings: 
 
 First Maiden. 
 
 Sisters! the fire is blazing high, 
 And all proclaims festivity; 
 Now join your friendly hands to mine, 
 And let our mirthful voices join. 
 
 * In Poland, as in most Catholic countries, St. John's Day is a 
 time of great festivity, and in the evening the Poles are accustomed 
 in their meadows, and particularly by the side of rivers, to light 
 large fires, and to dance round them singing ancient songs. Koch- 
 anowski, to whom the Black Forest belonged as an hereditary pos- 
 session, used to gather the youths and maidens together in order to 
 celebrate the festival in the very manner in which he has described 
 it. Niemcewiz has published a drama called " Kochanowski," and 
 there introduced the old poet with the nymphs singing around him. 
 
 f Czarny las— the Black Forest, 
 
48 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND. 
 
 Sweet night! be fair and tranquil now, 
 No rain-storm rage, no tempest blow; — 
 Sweet night ! where we may watch and wake 
 Until the dawn of morning break, 
 
 We learnt it from our mothers — they 
 From theirs, — for centuries far away; 
 Upon St. John's joy-rousing night 
 Sobotka's festal fire to light. 
 
 Youths, reverence now, while ye behold 
 Mementoes of the days of old ; 
 Let gleeful hours breathe joy again, 
 And gladness revel now and then. 
 
 Their festal moments they enjoy'd, 
 Yet wisely all their time employ'd; 
 Each bore its fruits and gratitude, 
 Pour'd forth its praise to heaven all-good. 
 
 But now both late and hard we toil, 
 Our festivals are but turmoil: 
 Our gains are neither much nor sure, 
 And though not pious we are poor. 
 
 Come sister! then, this holy night 
 Is with old time's resplendence bright; 
 Blaze! blaze anew, Sobotka's fire! 
 Till lull'd by song the night retire. 
 
 Second Maiden. 
 
 This is my fault; I'll guilty plead. 
 I love to dance, — I love indeed. 
 Come, tell me, neighbors, does the love ' 
 Of dancing all your spirits move? 
 
 I see your smiles, — your smiles betray 
 Your sympathy in what I say; 
 
KOCHANOWSKI. 49 
 
 Come, join the round; why sit ye still? 
 And dance and leap with hearty will. 
 
 I spring, I leap, I cannot be 
 A statue; and 'tis sweet to rne 
 To hear the beating tambourine; 
 No mortal could keep still, I ween. 
 
 Oh, thou art mighty, graceful one, 
 That wakest music's thrilling tone; 
 The village listens to thy lay, 
 It calls, we hear, and swift obey. 
 
 Here, midst the crowd, each maid may start, 
 Who is the empress of thy heart: — 
 Say, is she here? Oh, why inquire? 
 She is not here, — thy heart's desire. 
 
 No! join our song; thy twinkling feet 
 Some other twinkling one's may meet; 
 And here, amidst our joyous band, 
 Some maid may yet invite thy hand. 
 
 To man, to man alone, has heaven 
 The privilege of laughter given ; 
 And this, and this alone, has he 
 In proof of noble ancestry. 
 
 Oh, it were foolish, — it were vain, 
 So high a privilege to disdain; 
 And let the wretch go whine and weep 
 Who mirth's gay revel dares not keep. 
 
 Laugh on ! laugh on ! and though at nought, 
 Still laughter is a pleasant thought: 
 Laugh at my folly, or my sense ; 
 Laugh on! laugh on! on some pretense. 
 3 
 
50 POETS AND POETEY OF POLAND. 
 
 I am not sad ; I can't be sad. 
 
 Be, maidens all, like me, — be glad; 
 
 For sorrow wrinkles o'er the brow 
 
 Ere time tells when, or thought knows how. 
 
 But health and youth delight to stay- 
 Where youth is glad and age is gay; 
 Where years may hasten as they will, 
 And eld is in its boyhood still. 
 
 Come follow, circle — all around, 
 Let the light song of joy rebound; 
 And maiden sing! be ready, — thine 
 The task to waken notes like mine. 
 
 Fourth Maiden. 
 
 The fairest flow'rets of the mead 
 I wreathe in garlands for thy head : 
 For thee, for none but thee, who art 
 The very empress of my heart. 
 
 Oh, place upon thy graceful brow 
 The blooming wreath I offer now ; 
 So let me in thy bosom rest 
 As thou dost well within my breast. 
 
 There's not a moment but doth bring 
 Thy memory upon its wing; 
 Sleep cannot drive thy thoughts from me, 
 For when I sleep I dream of thee. 
 
 And may I hope thou dost not deem 
 Me worthless of thy heart's esteem; 
 That thou wilt hear my passion's tone 
 And recompense it with thine own? 
 
KOCHANOWSKI. 51 
 
 But oh, my tongue cannot conceal 
 The thoughts, the fears, the doubts I feel, 
 That other longing eyes may stray 
 O'er charms so beautiful, so gay. 
 
 O maiden! if those charms are mine, 
 Veil, veil, from all those charms of thine; 
 For it were madness should they move 
 Other impassioned youths to love. 
 
 All other ills I'll calmly share, — 
 
 Injury and insult I can bear; 
 
 But not to see another dwell 
 
 In thine eyes' sunshine, — that were hell. 
 
 Twelfth Maiden. 
 
 Sweet village! peace and joy's retreat! 
 
 Oh, who shall tune thy praise of song? 
 Oh, who shall wake a music meet 
 
 Thy smiles, thy pleasures to prolong! 
 
 Bliss dwells within thy solitude, 
 
 Which selfish avarice never stains;* 
 Where thought and habit make us good, 
 
 And sweet contentment gilds our gains. 
 
 Let others seek a dazzling court, 
 
 Where treachery poisons eye and ear; 
 
 Or to the troubled sea resort, 
 
 With death and danger ever near. 
 
 Let others sell their tongues for hire, 
 With falsehood and with trick delude; 
 
 Or fame or victory's wreath acquire 
 By deeds of darkness and of blood. 
 
 * Usury was considered a most degrading vice among the old 
 Slavonians. 
 
52 POETS AND POETEY OF POLAND. 
 
 The ploughman tills the fertile field, 
 
 His children bless his daily care ; 
 While the rich fruits his labors yield, 
 
 His well-contented household share. 
 
 For him the bee its honey stocks, 
 
 For him its gifts the orchard holds; 
 For him are shorn the fleecy flocks ; 
 
 For him the lambkins fill the folds. 
 
 He gathers from the generous meads 
 
 Their offering to his annual store, 
 And winter with her snow-storms leads 
 
 Repose and pleasure to his door. 
 
 Around the fire they tell their tales, 
 
 The songs are sung with smiles and glee; 
 
 The lively dance * again prevails, 
 The cenar and the goniony, f 
 
 At twilight's hour the swains repair 
 
 To where the crafty foxes hie ; 
 The hare, the thoughtless fowls they snare, 
 
 And aye! return with full supply. 
 
 Or in the stream the baited hook, 
 
 The light and treacherous net they fling ; 
 
 While near the gently echoing brook 
 The warblers of the forest sing. 
 
 The cattle seek the watery mead, 
 
 The shepherd sits in solitude, 
 While to his gay and rustic reed 
 
 Dance all the nymphs that grace the wood. 
 
 * Bowing dance. The old Polonaise, something like a minuet. 
 
 f Amusements of the Poles. The Cenar perhaps may be trans- 
 lated Blind Harry, which is now called in Poland Ślepa Babka, and 
 in Lithuania Zmurki. Goniony may be rendered Hide and Seek. 
 The whole of this poem is popular throughout Poland. 
 
KOCHANOWSKI. 53 
 
 At home the housewife's busy hands 
 
 The evening's frugal meal provide: 
 'Tis all the produce of her lands; 
 
 No wish is breathed for aught beside. 
 
 She counts the herds; she knows the sheep 
 When from the pasture meads they come; 
 
 Her busy eyes can never sleep; 
 
 Abroad they watch, — direct at home. 
 
 The little children reverent bow 
 
 And ask an aged grandsire's love, 
 Who tenderly instructs them how 
 
 In peace and virtue's path to move. 
 
 So rolls the day, — but many a sun 
 
 Would sink his chariot in the sea, 
 Were I to end the tale begun 
 
 Of rural joy and revely. 
 
 EXCERPTS. 
 
 However poor and scanty be your fare, 
 Forsake not smiling hope for deep despair. 
 That sets to-day the last sun do not fear, 
 A brighter day to-morrow may appear. 
 
 The nightingale sings on the tree, although 
 • Her heart is aching, — full of tender woe; 
 'Tis often thus with man, O Lord! he cheers 
 His sinking heart with hope and sings through tears. 
 
 (*) All things in this poor world of ours, 'tis true, 
 Are tangled mysteries without a clue ; 
 And he, however wise, who attempts to solve them will 
 Encounter darker, deeper, stranger mysteries still. 
 
 * Translation of the four lines under the portrait of Kochanowski. 
 
54 POETS AND POETEY OF POLAND. 
 
 KLONOWICZ. 
 
 " Fabian Sebastian Klonowicz (Acernus) was per- 
 haps the greatest Polish satirist of the sixteenth cen- 
 tury. He united Kochanowski's feeling with Key's 
 satiric spirit, but was superior to both in the arrange- 
 ment of subject-matter. The most noted of his literary 
 productions are " Memoirs of Polish Kings and Princes 
 in Epigrams," " Judas's Bags; or, The Acquisition of 
 Wealth Dishonestly," u Sepulchral Complaints on the 
 Death of John Kochanowski," "Flis; or, The Floating 
 of Vessels Down the Eiver Vistula," " The Conflagra- 
 tion, and the Exhortation To Quench the Same; or, 
 the Prophecy as to the Downfall of the Turkish 
 Power." 
 
 A disinterested lover of truth, Klonowicz boldly at- 
 tacked misdeeds without regard to persons or their 
 social connections. Persecution did not affect his 
 moral powers nor stifle his inclination to satirize, on the 
 contrary, it only incited him the more and strength- 
 ened his spirit of criticism. Strong in didactic poetry, 
 he possessed no great talent for the lyrics. In his 
 didactics he exhibits superiority of reason over imagi- 
 nation and feeling; with him thought was superior to 
 the manner of expression. 
 
 In his " Flis," that is, watermen floating boats down 
 the Vistula, we perceive altogether a different phase of 
 this poet's writing. The subject being out of the com- 
 mon track of his former experiences, his mind becomes 
 more easy and lively, and his poetical figures more pict- 
 uresque. He describes his impressions and his feelings 
 caused by witnessing this novel sight, and unlike his 
 former compositions there is not a shadow of satire in 
 
KLONOWICZ. 55 
 
 the whole poem. It is supposed that there is not a 
 poem in the Polish language, written during the reign 
 of Sigismunds, which preserves the national features 
 and the coloring stronger than the " Flis." 
 
 " The Bags of Judases " is a peculiar satire, paint- 
 ing with an artistic brush different sorts of people, 
 who by usurious and dishonest practices, their power, 
 artfulness, flattery and stratagems, and by assumed 
 magnanimity deceive and cheat the weaker part of 
 humanity. 
 
 Zealous and ardent in the defense of what was good 
 and noble, he boldly attacked misrule and abuse of 
 power of the officials, bribery and avaricious cupidity 
 of the high dignitaries; in fact he pursued with his sat- 
 ires all who were defrauding the republic. 
 
 His "Complaints" are only imitations of Kocha- 
 nowski's Threns on the death of his daughter Ursula, 
 with this difference, Kochanowski's complaints flowed 
 from an aching heart overflowing with grief that only 
 a father can feel, but Klonowicz wrote them straight 
 along, preserving the apparent coolness; for that rea- 
 son his complaints do not touch the feeling nor call forth 
 even a sigh — because sighs did not produce them, nor 
 were they bedewed with tears. 
 
 Klonowicz was born in 1551, in Great Poland, in a 
 village called Sulmierzyce, in the palatinate of Kalish, 
 and received his education in the Academy of Cracow, 
 where he was made doctor of philosophy. He traveled 
 in Hungary and Bohemia, Dantzig and Lemberg, where 
 he spent four years. In 1580 he went to the city of 
 Lublin, where he was a counsellor and judge of Jewish 
 affairs, and finally became the mayor. He also held 
 an office at Isary, the property of Benedictine monks, 
 wherein sprung a great friendship between the 
 
56 POETS AND POETKY OF POLAND. 
 
 abbot and afterward a bishop of Kijew, Wereszczyń- 
 ski, and it is to this intimacy that we are indebted for 
 the production of his "Flis." Having written against 
 the Jesuits he was bitterly persecuted by them and 
 somewhat apostatized from the faith. Then again he 
 incurred the displeasure of the inferior nobility, his 
 former companions, and the Jews. As if to complete 
 his misfortunes he was constantly harassed by his 
 wasteful and wayward wife, who poisoned his life and 
 brought him to abject poverty. He died in an hospital 
 in 1608. 
 
 His works were published in Cracow, Leipsic, and 
 Chełmno. The latest editions are those of Turowski, 
 1858, and Weritzlewski, 1861. 
 
 MERITS OF POLAND. 
 
 Poland is rich in green and fertile lands 
 That in God's bosom, as it were, seem thrown, 
 What cares the Pole for ocean or its strands? 
 Content, he ploughs his own. 
 
 Here Ceres, harvest goddess, wandered by 
 After she left her own Sicilian plain, 
 Here fields of rye abound, and bastion high 
 Loom up the stacks of grain. 
 
 In Poland, high, commodious barns arise, 
 With harvest bounty amply filled and stored, 
 Here, for the jolly peasant will suffice 
 Of rye, a goodly hoard ! 
 
 Let who will praise the fertile Asian fields, 
 The yellow maize of Egypt and the Nile, 
 Upon our shore the oat abundance yields, 
 For many a mile and mile. 
 
KLONOWICZ. 57 
 
 Game is abundant, cattle horned abound, 
 Fat oxen, horses, sheep with lengthy coat, 
 And heifers graze within the meadows 'round, 
 Beside the frisky goat ! 
 
 From out his herds the farmer gets his teams, 
 Makes clothing for himself, and servants, too, 
 And of fresh meat, and milk-meat as it seems, 
 There is no end thereto. 
 
 Then, who could count the flocks of cackling geese, 
 The greedy ducks the swan whose whiteness charms, 
 The chickens, too, whose brood each day increase, 
 And travel 'round the farms. 
 
 Of dishes rich a great variety 
 We get, and dainty food the dovecot gives, 
 How pleasant 'tis the bacon flitch to see 
 Suspended 'neath the eaves! 
 
 Then, too, the things we gather in the wood, 
 God's bounty to the open-handed Pole, 
 He who desires to use these gifts of good 
 Are welcome to the dole. 
 
 Through field and wood flit herds of graceful deer, 
 On trees the birds sing out their countless lives, 
 And the industrious bee his honey'd cheer 
 Bears homeward to the hives. 
 
 As to the fish, a million of them speed 
 Through pond and lake and river seaward bound, 
 Nor lack the Poles for anything they need, 
 With much abundance crowned. 
 
 Hence, I know not why you should grasp for more 
 My brother Pole, with such productive soil, — 
 Why should you seek to gather to your store 
 Of foreign lands the spoil? 
 
58 POETS AND POETEY OF POLAND. 
 
 MIASKOWSKI. 
 
 Kaspar Miaskowski, a flowery poetical writer. 
 Although his style is somewhat hard and less correct 
 than that of some of his contemporaries, he excels 
 them in bold poetic flights. The most eminent of his 
 compositions are: "The Slavonian Hercules," "The 
 Pilgrim of Easter-Day," "Penitential Elegy," "Duma 
 on the Death of John Zamoyski," " Invitation to Sor- 
 row," etc. He sings of wars and warriors, and com- 
 plains of misrule of the country, impunity and pleas- 
 ures; but his religious songs are superior to his worldly 
 ones, yet he exhibits more ardor than simplicity and 
 gracefulness. His religious compositions are perme- 
 ated with a true and sincere spirit of piety. As to his 
 language, it is strong and pithy; but occasionally he 
 is misty and expresses himself in an unusual way. 
 
 Miaskowski was born in 1549 in Great Poland. He 
 lived in close friendship with Gębicki, bishop of 
 Kujawy, Opaliński, bishop of Posen, and Herburt, the 
 proprietor of Dobromil. He died in 1622. 
 
 His writings entitled ' ' Collection of Rhymes " were 
 published in Cracow in 1612, in Posen 1622, and the 
 latest in Posen 1855 and in 1861. 
 
 DIALOGUE BETWEEN DEATH AND A YOUNG 
 MAIDEN. 
 
 Young M. Death! why dost thou whet thy scythe anew? 
 Death. To cut the flower that blithely drinks the dew. 
 
 Young M. Why wilt thou cut it now so ruthlessly, 
 
 Nor wait awhile its perfect charm to see? 
 Death. Such early flowers most fragrant are and sweet, 
 
 To me most grateful for my chaplet meet. 
 
MIASKOWSKI. 
 
 59 
 
 Young M. Know'st thou the sickle reaps but ripened grain? 
 
 Death. After the storm green herbage on the plain 
 
 Is likewise leveled. 
 
 Young M. Not magnanimous 
 
 Is it to fell a tender blossom thus. 
 
 Death. It were transgression did I leave the one 
 
 That God has called for ; nay, it must be done. 
 
 Young M. The pangs of death youth can but ill endure. 
 
 Death. But the more innocent youth is, and pure, 
 
 Swift as the arrow flying to the mark 
 Will it be wafted up beyond the dark. 
 
 Young M. But I have scarce begun to pay the debt 
 Unto my parents for their kindness yet, 
 Because my years have been so very few ; 
 Let me remaining love and serve them too, 
 Nor leave them in their sorrow mourning me. 
 
 Death. *That is not much for them, — but as for thee, 
 
 Thou wilt the better reach them through thy love 
 When in God's presence thou shalt kneel above 
 With hands uplifted in unceasing prayer 
 Before the throne, and ask for them His care, 
 That they may close their eyes in peace at last, 
 Untroubled by the shadows I cast. 
 
 Young M. If so, O Death ! I put away my fear, 
 
 My hope grows stronger and my sight more clear. 
 
 Death. Then I will pause no more, — to Paradise 
 
 This stroke shall send thee ! thus the body dies, 
 But the pure soul with living faith astir 
 Is wafted heavenward, there to minister. 
 
 WHO IS A TRUE SAILOR? 
 
 He is not a sailor true who sails 
 Over tranquil waters with favoring gales; 
 But he who can skillfully storms outride 
 Is the conqueror true with courage tried. 
 
60 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND. 
 
 SZYMONOWICZ. 
 
 Simon Szymonowicz was the first Polish poet who 
 wrote pastorals in his native tongue. Not following 
 the poetic bend of Kochanowski he chose his own origi- 
 nal way, and wrote upward of twenty pastoral poems. 
 He did not imitate Yirgil, Spanish, or the poets of 
 southern France, but took as his specimen Theocritus, 
 and at the same time continuing to fall in his own way 
 he created an original manner of his own. Szymono- 
 wicz composed purely national pastorals, full of truth 
 and harmony. After Theocritus he may be considered 
 as one of the greatest writers of idyllics. Sometimes 
 he exceeds even Yirgil. He understood very well that 
 in order to create an original pastoral it was necessary 
 for him to approach the national songs. But he did 
 not exactly make them lyrical; on the contrary, he bent 
 them down more to the dramatic form. As to his ver- 
 sification it has a great resemblance to the versification 
 of to-day. He turns easily from line to line, but cares 
 not for the richness in rhyme. 
 
 Szymonowicz deserves all the praise for the sweet- 
 ness of language and great facility of expression. He 
 mixes in the conversation of Polish shepherds the songs 
 of Theocritus, and in a curious way painting the customs 
 of his age and country mixes the Greek mythology. 
 This fault will show itself less striking when we remem- 
 ber that many learned Poles in those days were well 
 acquainted with ancient literature, and it was for them 
 Szymonowicz mostly sung. 
 
 Szymonowicz was born in 1557, at Lemberg, and 
 was educated at the Academy of Cracow. He traveled 
 much, and visited Rome. King Stephen crowned him 
 
SZYMONOWICZ. 61 
 
 with a poetic wreath. He afterward became the secre- 
 tary of Chancellor Zamoyski, who conferred upon 
 him the estate of Czernce, near the city of Zamość, and 
 when dying he intrusted the education of his son 
 Thomas to him. Pope Clement VIII sent him in 1593 
 a wreath, and Sigismund III ennobled him, and made 
 him poet laureate. He died in 1629. 
 
 Szymonowicz published several religious dramas, of 
 which { ' Joseph the Chaste " obtained the most celebrity. 
 
 SIELANKA* I. (PASTORAL.) 
 
 PASTORAL ECLOGUE. 
 
 " Kozy, ucieszne kozy, ma trzodo jedyna! " 
 
 DAPHNIS. 
 
 Goats of my flock, my sole possessions come, 
 
 'Mid meadows, nut tree, brushwood make your home; 
 
 Eat the green leaves, the tender sprouts, and here 
 
 By the still waters I'll repose me near, 
 
 And lull to rest my grief by sleep, or song ; 
 
 My Phyllis has disturb'd the calming throng 
 
 Of gentle thoughts. cruel! whatsoe'er 
 
 Fate rules, the heart must feed on and must bear. 
 
 Thou hast forgotten all, my broken joy, 
 
 My soul's distraction, and the sharp annoy 
 
 Of a corroding chain; desire intense, 
 
 Faith-plighted, passionate love and confidence. 
 
 For thee my orchards bore their fruits: I bid 
 
 My folds supply the milk, and every kid 
 
 And every snowy lamb was thine. For thee 
 
 I track'd through the woods the honey-bearing bee. 
 
 And I was wholly thine. My ceaseless lays 
 
 Waked thousand shepherds' voices in thy praise. 
 
 * Derived from sieło (village). 
 
62 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND. 
 
 For thou wert erst unknown, or unesteem'd; 
 
 They called thee a mean maiden, and they deem'd 
 
 Thy bright eyes a black gypsy's ; but my lyre 
 
 Gave glory to thy stately footsteps, fire 
 
 To thy shrewd glances ; thou wert tall and straight 
 
 As the unchanging fir-tree, and thy gait 
 
 Became majestic; roses and snow-milk 
 
 Painted thy cheeks ; thy hair was softest silk, 
 
 Coral thy lips, and pearls thy teeth: applause 
 
 Everywhere greeted thee; — and I the cause — 
 
 I tuned thy charms to song: and my reward 
 
 Is thy contempt, and the enamored bard 
 
 Is left to misery. While the noontide ray 
 
 Gilds with its brightness all the charms of day, 
 
 While in the woodlands birds and flocks repose, 
 
 And from its toils the weary heifer goes, 
 
 While the green lizards 'round their dwellings green 
 
 Play joyous, I am left to mourn unseen 
 
 O'er shattered hopes and shipwreck'd thoughts. I try 
 
 To appease their busy tumult fruitlessly. 
 
 The lion hunts the wolf — the wolf pursues 
 
 The goat — the goat is pleased among the dews 
 
 Of the red heath: my sorrow clings to thee; — 
 
 All have their passions and pursuits ;— none free 
 
 From the indwelling worm of grief. I caught 
 
 A pair of lovely deer, to whom I taught 
 
 Obedience; from my goats they drank their food; 
 
 I weaned them from their savage solitude; 
 
 And many a maiden covets them ; — but thou 
 
 Think'st all my offerings poor and worthless now. 
 
 Hark! for the woods are full of music! See 
 
 O'er the gay fields the flocks sport joyously! 
 
 How blest we here might dwell ; how calmly go 
 
 To the cold boundary of life's toils below. 
 
 Wouldst thou but smile upon my humble cot, 
 
 And from thy gentle bosom chase me not. 
 
SZYMONOWICZ. 63 
 
 Here the soft mosses o'er the grottoes grow, 
 
 And shades and woods repose, and streamlets flow 
 
 O'er stony beds; the poplars tall, the wide 
 
 And ample lindens; elms and oaks, the pride 
 
 Of centuries. But without thy soothing voice 
 
 No streams harmonious roll, no woods rejoice, 
 
 No charms are charming. Wherefore should I be 
 
 So worthless, so indifferent, love, to thee? 
 
 I look'd into the glassy stream, I sought 
 
 Some hidden cause of thy ungenerous thought, 
 
 None could I find. My sheep are in the field, 
 
 They feed, they prosper; and my goat flocks yield 
 
 Annual increase. I have a rich supply 
 
 Of milk, and I am skill'd in poetry 
 
 And the sweet lyre, even like that swain of old, 
 
 Amphion, watching o'er his ravish'd fold 
 
 And waking song; while at his wild harp's sound 
 
 The woods and all their tenants danced around. 
 
 It matters not ; my song is vain and vain 
 
 AIL my bewailing: I must bear the pain 
 
 Unmurmuring, for my murmurs are to thee 
 
 A selfish triumph, and thy cruelty 
 
 Nothing can soften. Dost thou scorn me? Who 
 
 Possesses that false heart that once was true? 
 
 Laugh on, laugh on! A lion's whelp art thou, 
 
 And I a silly lamb. My ice-cold brow 
 
 The grave's dull earth shall soon be crumbled over, 
 
 And this shall be my epitaph of woe: — 
 
 " The cruel Phyllis has destroy'd her lover." 
 
64 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND. 
 
 SIELANKA XIV. 
 
 CZARY (WITCHCRAFT). 
 
 THE JEALOUS WIFE. 
 
 Three nights have pass'd since he left me here, 
 
 And something is amiss, I fear; 
 
 Yes, surely something is amiss; 
 
 And what he does, and where he is, 
 
 I can't divine ; and who can bear 
 
 The throb of doubt and woe like this! 
 
 Thestyli, bring for magic's rites 
 The awful tools — to-night, to-night 
 
 My heart shall summon witchcraft's sprites, 
 And revel in the wild delight. 
 
 Why did he marry, thus to leave me? 
 
 He well may grieve, who thus could grieve me. 
 
 I'll pour perdition on the maid 
 
 Who first his faithless passion sway'd: 
 
 She wounded me, it shall return, 
 
 Canker'd within her heart to burn. 
 
 Moon! I conjure thee — thou art pure; 
 
 Yet when thou know'st my wrongs, thy eyes, 
 Pitying the miseries I endure, 
 
 Will show the midnight's mysteries 
 To me the wretched ! I was chaste 
 
 And lovely; from my parent's home 
 He bore me, in his scorn to waste 
 
 Affection's blush and passion's bloom; 
 A wife unstained, a faithful mate, 
 He leaves me to be desolate. 
 
 Pledged faith! Avenge, avenge me now! 
 Thou God above ! look down below ! 
 He sees thee not, he knows thee not, 
 
SZYMONOWICZ. 65 
 
 Be shame and wretchedness his lot! 
 His heart is scared — his thoughts rebel- 
 Now scathe him with the fires of hell! 
 'Tis an unholy task, I know; 
 But grief is deaf — it must be so: 
 I know damnation's fiends await 
 Those who would tear the veils of fate. 
 It must be so, I cannot say, — 
 Come tardy Thestyli, obey! 
 
 Pour white millet on the pan, 
 
 Shake it o'er the glowing fire 
 Fan the blazing caldron, fan, — 
 
 Stronger the flame must burn, and higher. 
 
 Husband turn, to thy wife's desire: 
 Mighty magic, conduct him home; — 
 My grief is mad, — come, husband, come! 
 
 He burns my heart; — on his head I burn 
 The crumbled leaves of the blister tree; 
 
 And as the leaves to ashes turn, 
 So let his heart burn scorchingly. 
 
 Mighty magic! conduct him home; — 
 
 My grief is mad, — come, husband, come! 
 
 I melt the wax in the furnace heat: — 
 
 As the earth is softened by summer's rain. 
 
 So let him dissolve in a burning sweat, 
 And pass into dew for his cold disdain. 
 
 Mighty magic! conduct him home; — 
 
 My grief is mad, — come, husband, come ! 
 
 I turn the spindle: — I fain would turn 
 His faithless heart. No rest shall light 
 
 On his anxious soul ; and visions stern 
 Shall be his by day, and dreams by night. 
 5 
 
66 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND. 
 
 Mighty magic! conduct him home; — 
 My grief is mad, — come, husband, come! 
 
 My head-dress in three-fold knots I tie, 
 And my hair in tresses; so bind his soul; 
 
 Let them tangle ; until his heart shall fly 
 From unhallow'd passion's fierce control. 
 
 Mighty magic! conduct him home; — 
 
 My grief is mad, — come, husband, come! 
 
 Place in the vessel a midnight bat, 
 
 Let it burn, let it burn, and the magic spe 
 
 Shall bear him to torments worse than that, 
 Oh, would I could add the fire of hell ! 
 
 Mighty magic! conduct him home;— 
 
 My grief is mad, — come, husband, come ! 
 
 These poisonous weeds to a loathsome toad 
 Transforms an old woman. Away, away 
 
 Through the air on a fiery pole she rode : — 
 Burn — burn — he cannot resist their sway. 
 
 Mighty magic! conduct him home; — 
 
 My grief is mad, — come, husband, come: 
 
 I h.ave a 'kerchief, which erst in dance, 
 When I was a maid, he threw at me, 
 
 While wet with the dew of his countenance: — 
 As his sweat, the foam of his mouth shall be. 
 
 Mighty magic! conduct him home; — 
 
 My grief is mad, — come, husband, come! 
 
 Grits boil in this apron — boil! It boils! 
 
 No fire is there! the spell succeeds. 
 He comes! he comes! to reward my tons; 
 
 I hear the barking hounds through the reeds. 
 I hear him knock. The boilings cease, 
 
SZYMONOWICZ. 67 
 
 The howling dogs are now at peace. 
 Tis he! 'tis he! they knew him well, 
 They knew him by their eager smell. 
 So punish'd, he will, perhaps, improve, 
 But shall I welcome him with love, 
 Or wait till he has rested? He 
 Is panting hard — 'twas marvelously 
 Well done, — for force must act on will, 
 Where will rebels. Fire, brighten still ! 
 Oh, aid me, mighty craft! till grief 
 In dark revenge obtain relief. 
 
 Burn, tendons! tell me when they smoke: — 
 
 So may the accursed members shrivel 
 (As when my heart in anguish broke) 
 
 Of that seducing fiend of evil. 
 Kevenge, revenge, dark craft! till grief 
 In ample vengeance find relief. 
 
 Now strip these rags at my behest, 
 
 Her corpse through dirt let hangman draw. 
 
 Let fiery pincers tear her breast, 
 And to the hounds her body throw. 
 
 So aid me, mighty craft! till grief 
 
 In dark revenge obtain relief. 
 
 Thou owl! that hootest through the wood, 
 
 In vain thou shalt no longer hoot, — 
 Before, behind, in solitude, 
 
 And through the world screech ' Prostitute ! ' 
 So aid me, mighty craft! till grief 
 In full revenge obtain relief. 
 
 Spit thrice, and as the spittle falls, 
 
 Curse her ; and let her face be thick 
 With plague spots, — sores, and wounds and galls 
 
 Pollute her: let her foul hands pick 
 
68 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND. 
 
 • The living worms that o'er her creep; — 
 Then rot upon pollution's heap. 
 
 My ears with music ring. I start! 
 
 thou hast triumph'd, mighty art! 
 Vengeance upon her head descend! 
 
 Be welcome — welcome now my friend! 
 
 But he is come — is come at last. 
 
 He came half-booted — came in haste. 
 
 1 pity — but forgive. Indeed 
 
 The heart is glad he caused to bleed. 
 
 EPIGKAMS. 
 
 THE HARE. 
 
 The hounds pursue me in their cruel course ; — 
 I turn'd; I saw the huntsman from his horse 
 Fall death-struck to the ground. So perish all 
 Who plot, or see unmoved another's fall. 
 
 THE WOLF. 
 
 Ye drag me through the village, peasants ! G-ood ! 
 I have a thousand brothers in the wood: — 
 Yes ! yes ! insult the dead ! My life you rive, 
 But thousands to avenge me are alive. 
 
 THE OLD COCK. 
 
 In my young days full many a fight I won ; 
 But I am old, and all my glory's gone. 
 The young subdue me, and the vulture's throat 
 Is now my tomb. I can avenge it not. 
 
ZIMOROWICZ. 69 
 
 ZIMOKOWICZ. 
 
 Simeox Zimokowicz was born at Lemberg (Leopol) 
 in 160J:. Xone of his poetical compositions were 
 printed during his lifetime. Being touched by symp- 
 toms of incipient consumption he hurried in writing 
 up the " Roxolanki " — that is to say the Russian 
 maidens present at the wedding of his brother Bar- 
 tholomew. These interesting compositions, although 
 original, are partly imitations of Horace and Anacreon; 
 they show a strong pen and elicit much poetical beauty. 
 He also wrote many songs, but all his compositions are 
 permeated with youthfulness. His selection of sub- 
 jects and poetical colors shows a young man who feels 
 the worth and charms of life. He had a great admira- 
 tion for Szymonowicz and imitated him, but possessed 
 more poetical force. He also translated Moschus. 
 
 Zimorowicz died very young, — in his twenty-fifth 
 year — and was buried at Cracow, where the follow- 
 ing Latin inscription covers his remains : 
 
 Subter te, qui legis, 
 
 Simeox Zimorowicz Leopoliensis 
 
 Omnium Musarum et Gratiarum 
 
 Floridus Adolescens 
 
 Particulam Terrae Roxolanae 
 
 Cum calculo abjecit: 
 
 Ipse Indole, Litteris, Moribus 
 
 Annos XXV supergressus 
 
 Rediit unde venerat 
 
 Anno 1629, Die 21 Junii. 
 
 Cui 
 
 FR. MR. Lachrymas et longum Yale 
 
 Tu Supremum Have da et I. 
 
70 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND. 
 
 SONG. 
 "Widziałem cie z okieneczka." 
 
 I saw thee from ray casement high, 
 And watch'd thy speaking countenance; 
 
 With silent step thou glidest by, 
 And didst not cast a hurried glance 
 
 Upon my mean abode nor me. 
 
 Then misery smote me, — but for heaven 
 I should have fallen scathed and dead. 
 
 I blame thee not, — thou art forgiven; 
 I yet may hear thy gentle tread, 
 
 When evening shall o'ermantle thee. 
 
 The evening came, — then mantling night; 
 
 I waited till the full moon tower'd 
 High in the heaven. My longing sight 
 
 Perceived thee not; the damp mists lower'd^ 
 In vain I sought thee anxiously. 
 
 Didst thou upon some privileged leaf 
 My name record, and to the wind 
 
 Commit it, — bid it charm my grief, 
 Bear some sweet influence to my mind 
 
 And set me from despairing free? 
 
 Where are the strains of music now, 
 The song, the dance, that morn and eve 
 
 We heard around my house, — when low 
 And sweet thy voice was wont to heave 
 
 Soft sighs and gentle thoughts for me ? 
 
 'Tis past, 'tis past, and in my heart 
 
 Is sorrow, silence in my ear; 
 The vain world's wonted smiles depart; 
 
 Joy and the springtide of the year, 
 Fond youth ! are scatter'd speedily. 
 
ZIMOROWICZ. 71 
 
 Thou hast not said farewell! no sleep 
 Shall close my mourning eye, — the night 
 
 Is gloomy now. Go, minstrel, weep! 
 For I shall weep; and sorrow's blight 
 
 That scathes my heart shall visit thee. 
 
 SIELANKA. 
 
 Zephyr ! that gently o'er Ukraine art flying, 
 
 Go and salute my Maryna for me; 
 Whisper her tenderly, soothingly sighing 
 
 " Lo ! he has sent these soft accents to thee ! " 
 
 Why dost thou dwell, my maiden so lonely? 
 
 Why dost thou dwell in so gloomy a spot? 
 Think of the palace of Leopol* — only 
 
 Think, my fair maid! though thou visit it not. 
 
 There in thy tower is a window, where seated 
 Often thou sheddest a smile on thy swain, 
 
 There have my sighs oft an audience entreated; 
 Maiden, that window invites thee again. 
 
 Lady! the thought of thy absence has shaded 
 Even the flow'rets with sorrow and gloom; 
 
 All the bright roses and lilies are faded, 
 
 And my gay orchard is stripp'd of its bloom. 
 
 Come, my fair maid, with thy beautiful blushes, 
 Shine o'er our turrets, — oh, come for awhile ! 
 
 Smile on us, lady; oh, smile, though Red Russia's 
 Twice-castled towers may deserve not thy smile. 
 
 Lo! it expects thee, its lionsf await thee, 
 Watching like sentinels fix'd on the height: 
 
 * Leopol is the capital of Red Russia, Roxolania, now Austrian 
 Gallicia. 
 
 f Lions— The arms of Leopol. 
 
72 POETS AND POETEY OF POLAND. 
 
 Sleepless and eager to welcome and greet thee 
 When thy fair vision shall dawn on their sight. 
 
 Haste, maiden, haste ! scatter blessings around thee, 
 Laughter and wit are waiting thee here; 
 
 Courtesies, feastings and smiles, shall be found thee, 
 Wanderings and wassails to honor thee, dear ! 
 
 Here we have centered the graces and pleasures; 
 
 Come thou, bright lady ! inherit them now. 
 Here Nature pours out her charms and her treasures, 
 
 Nothing is wanted, oh, nothing but thou. 
 
 SIELANKA. 
 
 "Rozyna mi w taneczku pomarańcze dała." 
 
 Rosina, while dancing, an orange convey'd, 
 And promised the garland that circled her head; 
 I gave her my hand and with love and desire 
 The orange was turn'd to a ball of bright fire. 
 It burnt like a coal from the furnace, and made 
 Its way to my heart, while it fever'd my head. 
 
 Rosina, my flame ! that fair orange of gold 
 
 Has kindled a passion which may not be told. 
 
 I have learnt what love is ; not Venus the fair, 
 
 But the whelp of a lioness fierce in her lair; 
 
 She- tiger of Caucasus nurtured to scorn 
 
 The hearts that are broken, and souls that are torn. 
 
 SIELANKA. 
 
 "Roxolanki Ukochane 
 Przez usta wasze różane." 
 
 Maid of Roxolania fair! 
 By your lips of roses swear, 
 Why your lyre's sublimest tone 
 
ZIMOROWICZ. 73 
 
 Sings the graceful Thelegdon ? 
 
 'Tis that noblest passion's praise, 
 
 Merits, aye! the noblest lays. 
 
 Light of love whose kindling stream 
 
 Shines like morning's dewy beam; 
 
 Not so bright the dawn which shakes 
 
 Splendent ringlets when she wakes. 
 
 Not so rich her lips of red, 
 
 When their balmy breath they spread; 
 
 Not so glorious is her eye, 
 
 Burning in its richest dye ; 
 
 Not so modest when her face 
 
 Shadows all its blushing grace. 
 
 Yet if heaven's thick-scattered light 
 
 Seeks to be more pure, more bright, 
 
 'Tis from her their rays they'll take; 
 
 Goddess of the frozen lake, 
 
 Genii of the wintry snow, 
 
 Warm ye in her beauty's glow. 
 
 Not the immeasurable sea, 
 
 Not the tides' profundity, 
 
 Not the ceaseless years that sweep, 
 
 Not the murmurs of the deep, 
 
 Shall outlive that maiden pure,— 
 
 Shall beyond her fame endure. 
 
 Joyous hours again renew, 
 
 Songs of praise and rapture, too. 
 
 Maid of Eoxolania, praise, 
 
 Praise the fair one in your lays. 
 
74 POETS AND POETKY OF POLAND. 
 
 GAWIŃSKI. 
 
 John Gawiński, one of the foremost of Polish 
 bards, who for ease and harmonious flow of language 
 can be put by the side of Szymonowicz and Zimoro- 
 wicz. Of his poetical compositions which deserve 
 especial notice we can mention " The Mournful 
 Threns," " Pastorals," and " Epitaphs "; as also " The 
 Epigrams" on different subjects, "The New Pasto- 
 rals," 44 The Polish Yenus," " Fortune or Luck," and 
 " Idyls of Mopsus." 
 
 In the poetry of Gawiński the reader can discover 
 true pictures of life wrought with great skill and 
 marked by pleasing simplicity and excellence of lan- 
 guage. 
 
 Gawiński was born in Cracow at the commence- 
 ment of the seventeenth century. After finishing his 
 education at Cracow,in order to still further improve him- 
 self he lived at the court of young Ferdinand Charles, 
 although during the stormy reign of John Casimir he 
 studied law. He was compelled to grasp the sword, 
 and fought against the Cossacks in Ukraine. The time 
 of his death is uncertain. 
 
 PASTORAL (SIELANKA). 
 
 In the fair fields of Rzeczniów a glade 
 
 Was circled by a forest's budding shade ; 
 
 There Amaryllis lay, her flocks she kept, 
 
 While in the spreading shrubs in peace they slept. 
 
 There mid the branches of ancient tree 
 
 Damet and Myrtil sat and skillfully 
 
 Waked the reed's music, told the pleasing dream 
 
 Of love and courtship's joys; — and this their theme : 
 
GAWIŃSKI. 75 
 
 Damet. 
 
 Gay o'er the meadows wends the songful bee, 
 From flower to flower swift glancing sportively, 
 Robbing their hidden sweets; yet if decay 
 Wither the flower, she turns and speeds away. 
 I am a bee, but seek the sweets whose taste 
 Is fresh and fragrant, spring-begotten chaste: — 
 Sweet Amaryllis! my fair rose thou art; 
 But know, no wither'd rose can charm the heart. 
 
 Myetil. 
 
 A snow-white turtle on a fountain's side 
 Bends o'er the mirror stream with joy and pride; 
 He pecks his plumes, and in the water clear 
 Washes his silvery feathers; fluttering there 
 He sees another dove, and nods and coos, 
 And flaps his wings. Poor turtledove ! amuse 
 Thyself with the delusion, the deceit! 
 Thyself thou dost bewray, thyself dost cheat. 
 Love has its flatteries, — has its treacheries, too, 
 And we're pursued when fancying we pursue. 
 
 Damet. 
 
 Silently swim the ducks upon the lake, 
 
 Silently, in the absence of the drake. 
 
 He comes! he comes! the welcoming strains begin; 
 
 Round him they crowd, and what a joyous din! 
 
 Man is the temple's prop, the temple's base, 
 
 On which is raised the pile of woman's grace. 
 
 Without him Nature is a shatter'd whole, 
 
 A lifeless life, a clod without a soul. 
 
 Myrtil. 
 
 From the deep waters Venus has its birth, 
 And reigns the queen of ocean and of earth. 
 
76 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND. 
 
 Charm'd by her influence even the fishes stray 
 
 Wandering enamor'd round her witching way, 
 
 Each fed by love and mastered by desire, 
 
 Even in the wave glows passion's busy fire. 
 
 How should I struggle 'gainst the flame when thou 
 
 Art the bright Venus that inspires me now! 
 
 Damet. 
 
 The night bird sings upon the hazel tree, 
 The wind sweeps by, the leaves dance murmuringly. 
 She speaks, — the nightingale his strains gives't o'er. 
 The leaves are still, the rude wind speaks no more. 
 
 Myrtil. 
 
 Fair is the rose when laughing in its bud, 
 Fair o'er the plain towers the tall cedar wood. 
 She comes! the cedars and the rose are dull; 
 Even Lebanon bows, though proud and beautiful. 
 
 Damet. 
 
 The moon obeys the sun, and every star .... 
 Pays homage to the moon; the twilight far 
 Leads in and out the shifting days ; and so 
 I dwell with thee, my fair! where'er thou go. 
 
 Myrtil. 
 
 On the proud world the sun delighted beams, 
 Piercing the blue depth of the rolling streams. 
 So would I bathe me in thy azure eyes, 
 And drown me in thy heart's deep mysteries. 
 
GAWIŃSKI. 77 
 
 'Twas thus the shepherds sung. The sky above 
 Looked smiling on their strains of eloquent love; 
 And Amaryllis, from the blooming thorn 
 Tore a white sprig their temples to adorn: 
 And from that hour t' enjoy their simple airs 
 She often came, and mixed her flocks with theirs. 
 
 BONES ON THE BATTLE-FIELD. 
 
 Traveler, our bones are bleaching on the ground, 
 And yet unburied. Pity not our doom. 
 Ours is a grave of glory, shrouded round 
 In virtue, and the vault of heaven our tomb. 
 
 SOLDIER SLAIN. 
 
 I fought, my land, for thee! for thee I fell; 
 
 On, not beneath, the turf I rest my head. 
 Witness, my country, that I loved thee well; 
 
 Living, I served thee, and I guard thee dead. 
 
 THE PLOUGHMAN AND THE LARK. 
 
 Sweet lark ! the twilight of the dewy morn 
 Calls me to plough, and to thy music thee. 
 
 Blessings be with us ! on thy notes be borne 
 Success: — I toil. I sow for thee and me. 
 
ELIZABETH DRUŻBACKA. 
 
 78 
 
DRUŻBACKA. 79 
 
 DRUŻBACKA. 
 
 Elizabeth Drużbacka sprung from a very respecta- 
 ble family of Kowalski, and occupies an important 
 rank in Polish literature; in fact, she must be con- 
 sidered as the first Polish poetess. Possessing a true 
 poetic feeling of the heart, she placed herself at once 
 in the first poetic rank of those days. She was able to 
 get rid of the literary contamination of that age, and 
 wrote in pure Polish. 
 
 Among her poems deserving especial notice are, 
 "The Christian History of the Princess Elefantina," 
 " The Life of David," "The Praise of Forests," " The 
 Penance of Mary Magdalen," "The Four Seasons," 
 etc. etc. Madam Drużbacka possessed an inborn 
 talent for poetry, but the defective taste of the age 
 taints some of her compositions; still, there is much 
 wit and beauty in her poetic productions. She was not 
 a learned woman, and spoke but her own native tongue, 
 but born with a natural inclination for writing poetry, 
 she exhibits great vigor of conception of thought, live- 
 liness of imagination, and originality in her creations. 
 The buoyant fancy and strong feeling united with piety 
 devoid of fanaticism were the chief traits of Druż- 
 backa. 
 
 She was born in 1687, and passed her younger days 
 with Madam Sieniawska, Castelane of Cracow, where 
 she married and became acquainted with the highest 
 circles of Polish society. Her husband being one of 
 the king's officials she lived in Great Poland. After 
 the death of her husband she entered the convent of 
 Lady Bernardines, at Tarnów, but was not initiated in- 
 to the order. She died in 1754. 
 6 
 
80 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND. 
 
 SPRING. 
 
 O golden season in childlike disguise, 
 
 Gay Spring ! so gratefully we feel thy smile 
 
 We needs must overlook thy vagaries 
 
 Whether thy winds blow cold or warmly wile ; 
 
 Or thou with childlike freedom dost presume 
 
 To fright with snow the flowers that earliest bloom. 
 
 But shouldst thou frighten thou wilt do no harm, 
 Neither with freezing cold nor sultry glare ; 
 
 Thou pleasant season! adding to each charm 
 An understanding with the sun and air. 
 
 Thou knowest when to warm and when to cool, 
 
 And age refreshed grows young beneath thy rule. 
 
 Thou hast the power to unbind the earth 
 From frosty chains and give her liberty — 
 
 A loving child to her who gave thee birth, 
 
 Her fetters fall from her when touched by thee. 
 
 And through the warmth that in thy bosom stirs 
 
 The icy grasp is loosed at length from hers. 
 
 When passes winter's dark, tyrannic sway, 
 From thee the earth fresh inspiration draws 
 
 Thou openest warm thoroughfares each day 
 Where frozen clod and hardened debris thaws. 
 
 When thy soft breath goes forth upon the Earth, • 
 
 Life conquers death in all renewing birth. 
 
SARBIEWSKI. 81 
 
 SARBIEWSKI. 
 
 Mathew Casimir Sarbiewski, who gained much 
 fame as a Polish lyrist in Latin, was born in 1595. He 
 was especially admired for his correctness of expres- 
 sion and the beauty of poetic turns. He was called 
 the Polish. Horace in an age when the knowledge of 
 the Latin tongue was considered as the highest accom- 
 plishment/ He was so perfect in the handling of 
 Latin that he outstripped all other Latin poets; his 
 poetic flight was one of an eagle, and no one has ap- 
 proached Horace nearer than he. 
 
 Sarbiewski entered the Society of Jesuits in 1613, 
 and lectured in the college of Wilno on the rules of 
 oratory. He then went to Pome, where he became 
 very famous, and where he was crowned with a poetic 
 wreath by Urban VII. Returning to Poland Sigis- 
 mund III named him a court-preacher to his son 
 Laclislaus IV and chose him as his personal companion 
 and friend. 
 
 Sarbiewski was quite an artist on the harp, and 
 sang well. "With these he amused and cheered the 
 king, and also interested him with his instructive con- 
 versation. Inseparable from the king he traveled with 
 him not only through Poland, but also into foreign 
 countries. He died April 2, 1640. During his life- 
 time he formed many intimate friendships with the 
 literary men of his time, and Dr. Watts translated and 
 imitated many of Sarbiewski's lyrics. 
 
 Sarbiewski's works were published in many places, 
 such as Cologne, Wilno, Antwerp, Cracow, Paris, Bres- 
 lau, and London. Louis Kondratowicz, an eminent 
 
[If 
 
 82 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND. 
 
 Polish poet and scholar, is the translator of Sarbiew- 
 ski's Latin poems into Polish. 
 
 TO THE CICADA. 
 
 Thou, whose voice in the grove's silence is heard aloft, 
 While thou drinkest the tear-drops of the heavenly dews, 
 Thy sweet music, Cicada, 
 In thine ecstasy pouring forth. 
 Come! come! summer on light wheels is advancing fast, 
 While the hastening suns move, be they hail'd but chid 
 For their tarrying too < long, 
 When the frosts of the winter flee. 
 As days dawn in their joy so they depart in haste; 
 So flee, speedily flee; speedily speeds our bliss. 
 Too short are its abidings ; — 
 But grief lingeringly dwells with man. 
 
 TO THE POLISH AND LITHUANIAN KNIGHTS. 
 
 Poles! O let no foreign customs throw their 
 Scandal among you. Teach religious duties, 
 Laws of your country, virtues of your fathers, 
 Teach to your children. 
 
 Sacred your temples, — your tribunals, justice; 
 Peace, truth, and love dwell midst you, omnipresent; 
 All that is vile and all that is unholy, 
 Drive from your country! 
 
 Walls screen not crime, and punishment will force its 
 Way through the towers and through the thrice-bound portals, 
 Smiting the vicious. Thunderbolts but wait to 
 Burst on the vile one. 
 
 Painted deceit, tyrannical ambition; 
 Wealth-seeking lust, and luxury's excesses 
 Chase them far from you; let them never hold a 
 Throne in your bosom. 
 
SARBIEWSKI. 83 
 
 Poverty gives to man unwonted vigor, 
 Teaches him patience 'neath the weight of suffering, 
 Arms him with courage ; but the stolen armour 
 Wearies, though golden. 
 
 Whether your lot be war or peace, ye Poles ! 
 Still be united, for united brothers 
 Stand like a temple on a hundred pillars, 
 Firmly supported. 
 
 So midst the rocks the sailor in his prudence 
 Looks to the stars ; and so the friendly anchor 
 Steadies the vessel on the heaving ocean, — 
 Steadies it surely. 
 
 So does the bond that binds the social fabric 
 Strengthen; while strife and mighty fraud and rancour 
 Overthrow cities, threatening desolation 
 E'en to the mightiest. 
 
 TO LIBERTY. 
 
 Queen of brave nations : — Liberty ! 
 What land thy favorite seat shall be? 
 What land more suited to thy reign 
 Than Poland's fertile, charming plain? 
 Daughter of council and of bliss 
 The mother and the nurse of peace; 
 Thou, sought midst many dangers round, 
 Midst more than many dangers found; 
 Higher than thrones thy throne we see. 
 Majestic more than majesty; 
 Thou mistress of our country's fame, 
 Now stop thy course, — thy smile we claim. 
 Arrest thy cloud-encircled car, 
 And linger where thy votaries are! 
 
84 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND, 
 
 0, see upon thy Vistula 
 Lithuania's sons in long array, 
 The Lechan and Littavian ranks 
 Like sea-waves gathering on its banks; 
 No servile crowds we bring to thee, 
 But heirs of ancient bravery : 
 Sons of the North, whose blood remains 
 As pure as in their fathers' veins; 
 Untaught from faith and truth to swerve, 
 Train'd by the laws their king to serve, 
 They spurn a stranger's stern commands, 
 And love their land o'er other lands ! 
 
 And is there ought so purely bright 
 As when in truth and virtue's light 
 Impartial Freedom deigns to shed 
 Her joys on prince and people's head? 
 Then the unfettered man disdains 
 Sloth's soul-debilitating chains, 
 And Genius, like a conqueror, flies 
 On to the goal and claims the prize. 
 
 No foreign calls our ranks can move; 
 We but obey the chief we love, 
 And follow where his footsteps lead, 
 To freedom's goal and victory's meed; 
 As o'er Carpathia's hoary height 
 Our sires achieved a glorious fight; 
 And on the widespread field of Thrace 
 Our fathers found their triumph-place; 
 And when our flags waved smiling o'er 
 The Bosphorus and the Baltic shore. 
 And proud Teutonia, bearing all 
 Her Asian spoils, was forced to fall 
 Before those iron columns we 
 Had rear'd to mark our sovereignty; 
 
SARBIEWSKI. 85 
 
 Those mighty trophies of the brave, 
 The unconquerable Bolesław; 
 And by the Borysthene's side, 
 And by the Volga's current wide. 
 And past the Alexandrian's shrines 
 And to those dark Lapponian mines, 
 Where the fierce North wind has its birth: 
 We trod the far Danubian earth. 
 Saw old Bootes freeze his waves, 
 And dug for the Meotians, graves. 
 
 Are we degenerate? Shall the fame 
 Of our own fathers blast our name ? 
 Smile on our prayers, O Liberty ! 
 And let the world thy dwelling be. 
 
 Urban* and Ferdinand combine, 
 O Wladislaw, their powers with thine. 
 And the world calls thee to confer 
 Her laurels on the conqueror, — 
 Thou, Sigismund's illustrious son, 
 Thou of the blood of Jagellon. 
 O what can darken, what delay 
 The glory of our future day? 
 
 Hail Wladislaw! thou hope of man, 
 Fav'rite of God, our Poland's van. 
 All hail ! our warrior senate cries. 
 All hail ! a people's voice replies. 
 A thousand lances shine around, 
 All hills and vales and woods resound 
 The song of joy. And raised above 
 His watery throne, his praise and love 
 
 * Urban VIII, who distinguished Sarbiewski by very marked at- 
 tentions, and when they parted hung around his neck a golden cross 
 to which a miniature of his Holiness was attached. 
 
86 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND. 
 
 Old Vistula shouts forth ; — their brow- 
 Proudly the Crapack mountains bow- 
 In homage. 
 
 Say what projects vast 
 Struggling in thy great soul hast? 
 For such a soul unceasing teems 
 With mighty thoughts and glorious dreams, 
 And still springs forward to the praise 
 Of distant deeds and future days: 
 Nor sloth nor luxury shall impede 
 That opening fame, that dawning deed; 
 Or quiet wisdom to o'erthrow 
 The dark designings of the foe, 
 Or splendid daring — swift and bold, 
 Sweeping like surges uncontroll'd, 
 The heir-loom of thy sires of old. 
 
 Thus did the Jagellons, they spread 
 
 Their praise, their glory and their dread — 
 
 Envied, admired, and fear'd — the son 
 
 Soon made the father's fame his own: 
 
 And envy's wing could not pursue 
 
 A flight so high and glorious, too; 
 
 The ambitious son outshone the sire, 
 
 As glory's mark ascended higher. 
 
 Till to our thought no hopes remain 
 
 Their fame and glory to maintain. 
 
 This is our noblest heritage, — 
 
 A name, bequeathed from age to age. 
 
 For thee, from centuries afar 
 
 A mingled wreath of peace and war, 
 
 Have generations waited, — now, 
 
 Wear the proud trophy on thy brow: 
 
 Make all thy father's victories thine, 
 
 With these thy gentle virtues twine ; 
 
SARBIEWSKI. 87 
 
 Success shall show thee fairer, — woe 
 Shall bid thy roots yet deeper grow. 
 Such are Sarmatia's prayers. Her prayers 
 Up to the heavens an angel bears ; 
 On vows no chance shall e'er repeal 
 Eternity has set her seal. 
 
 A THOUGHT. 
 
 (From Saphics.) 
 
 He has lived long and well whose death enforces 
 Tears from his neighbors, — who has made his glory 
 Heir to himself, — rapacious time will plunder 
 All, all — besides it. 
 
88 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND. 
 
 KONAKSKL* 
 
 Stanislaus Hieronim Konarski belongs to the 
 greatest practical philosophers of the age. It was he 
 who, having ascertained by his learning and compre- 
 hensive powers of the mind the vanity and absurdity 
 of the ways and manners of education and enlighten- 
 ment practiced in the period in which he lived, by his 
 writings scattered to the winds the darkness, reinstated 
 the freedom of thought, and presented to his country^ 
 men fresher models than the old musty Latin works; 
 implanted into the minds of Polish youth new ideas 
 tending to moral improvement, and awakened the true 
 spirit of inquiry after learning. He struck the old 
 pedantism a heavy blow, introducing in its stead fresh- 
 ness and naturalness of expression and modern concep- 
 tions. His works written on the subject had a great in- 
 fluence on the reform of Polish literature, because they 
 not only treated on aesthetics but also on moral and 
 practical philosophy. The most prominent of these 
 are ' ' De Emendandis Vitiis" and ' ' Yolumina Legum. ' ' 
 The first treats extensively of the defective style of 
 writing and oratory, but what is most curious and cred- 
 itable to him is that in order to have his criticism fall 
 gently upon the works of his predecessors and contem- 
 poraries, he very good humoredly criticised some of 
 his own works formerly written, and pointed out his 
 own defects with unsparing justice. In ' ' Yolumini de 
 Legum " he endeavored, with much zeal for the public 
 
 * Although not a poet was a man of eminent literary talents, and 
 having created a new epoch in Polish literature deserves an honored 
 place here. 
 
KONARSKI. 89 
 
 good, to collect different statutes and scattered consti- 
 tutions into a settled code of laws. That successful 
 service to his country accomplished much good, and 
 was of itself enough to immortalize his name. In his 
 " Art of Correct Thinking. Without Which There Can- 
 not Be Correct Speaking." where, in sensible and 
 judicious observations he straightens out the mind of 
 the Polish youth by numerous and well-selected ex- 
 amples, adducing also specimens of beautiful and per- 
 fect oratory. The especial merit of this work is that 
 it contains a great deal of useful matter necessary to 
 the Polish people of those days. It was the noble aim 
 of the author to put down prejudices, and lit the mind 
 for the reception of useful truths. The fourth work of 
 Konarski was " Of Successful ^Tay and Manner of Ad- 
 vising." ^Ve can place that work among those produc- 
 tions of which the Polish nation has a right to be proud. 
 You can see in it a true citizen, whose heart burns with 
 love to his country, and earnestly engaged with the 
 welfare of his fellow- citizens. In writing this work tor 
 a people who were not as yet well versed in political 
 science, and promulgating certain truths contrary to the 
 common prejudices of the majority, he had to use vari- 
 ous methods to elucidate, explain, and adapt them to 
 the understanding of all. The fifth production of this 
 distinguished man was "Of Religion, of Honest Peo- 
 ple, and Against the Doctrines of Deism." wherein the 
 author endeavors to convince his readers that without 
 religion morality cannot have solid foundation; hence, 
 good and virtuous intentions of a community are flimsy 
 and uncertain unless supported by religious convic- 
 tions. 
 
 Taking it as a whole Konarski" s writings show 
 genius. His correct views in the matter of presented 
 
90 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND. 
 
 subjects; his lively imagination; broad and sensible 
 explanations, and above all his power of philosophical 
 reasoning, emanating from his profound knowledge of 
 the subjects upon which he treats, places him in the 
 highest ranks of Polish writers. 
 
 Konarski was born in 1700, and received his in- 
 itiatory education at the institution of the Order of 
 Piiars, which order he entered in the seventeenth year 
 of his age, and against the wishes of his powerful rela- 
 tives. 
 
 He was soon transferred thence to the College of 
 Warsaw as the professor of philosophy. In the year 
 1725, with the advice of his uncle Tarło, the bishop of 
 Posen, he went to Italy, where, in the city of Rome, 
 he gave lectures on oratory and history. From Rome 
 he went to Paris, where he closely connected himself 
 by the ties of friendship with the celebrated Fontenelle, 
 the great philosopher, orator, and poet. After a lapse 
 of six years he returned to his country and became 
 professor of history in Cracow, then lie occupied the 
 same dignity at Rzeszów, and was made Provincial of 
 his order. In the year 1743 he established a boarding- 
 school for the youth of the nobles, or Collegium ~No- 
 bilium. He also established similar schools at Wilno 
 and Lemberg. At his Warsaw college he arranged the 
 building so that a part of it was appropriated exclu- 
 sively for dramatic representations, and dramatic plays 
 of the most celebrated tragic poets were there repre- 
 sented, especially the French: Corneille, Racine, and 
 Crebillon. Konarski had also a great influence in 
 putting down the liberum veto, receiving for the great 
 service the hate of second-class nobility. 
 
 In 1748 he again left his native land for other coun- 
 tries. He visited France and the most celebrated acad- 
 
KOXAKSKI. 91 
 
 emies, and returning to Warsaw employed himself in 
 finishing his " Collegium," which was opened in 1754. 
 In 1719 Komorowski, the Primas, sent Konarski to 
 Rome in an important cause, which mission he fulfilled 
 with great credit to himself. He lived on terms of 
 friendship with the most distinguished men of his age, 
 and almost of all countries, who frequently sought his 
 advice. He was personally known to Pope Benedict 
 XIY, to August II and III, as also to Stanislaus Lesz- 
 czyński, whom he accompanied to Lotaringia (Lorraine). 
 In France he had insured to him by Louis XY the in- 
 come of two abbacies. Ranks of dignity which were 
 frequently offered to him he would never accept; hence, 
 for the bishopric by Benedict XIY, as also for the 
 bishopric of Przemyśl by August II, and the same dig- 
 nity offered him by King Stanislaus Poniatowski, in 
 Livonia, he only returned thanks but would not accept 
 of them. The king wishing to honor Konarski for his 
 great labors ordered a medal to be struck in his honor, 
 with the inscription, Sapere Auso (To him who dared 
 to be wise). He died in 1773. 
 
 His work, " De Emendandis Vitiis" was published 
 in Warsaw in 1741; " Of the Art of Correct Think- 
 ings also in Warsaw in 1767; " The Best Mode in 
 Advising" in 1760, and " Of Religion " in 1769. 
 
92 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND. 
 
 JSTAPOJSZEWICZ. 
 
 Adam Stanislaus Naruszewicz, although brought up 
 according to the old customs of the country, was never- 
 theless a quick learner of the new social and political 
 elements which began to permeate through the higher 
 and more advanced social circles in Poland; hence he 
 may be considered as the incarnation of two different 
 epochs. His writings, therefore, are the depositories 
 of two contending intervals. In them he boldly educts 
 the progressive principle, fearlessly attacking the 
 corruption of the age and handling without gloves the 
 pretentions of the nobility, indolence, extravagance, 
 and other national defects. 
 
 As a poet he represents two sides, diametrically 
 opposite to each other : — one that of a panegyrist, the 
 other that of a satirist. He wrote odes, satires, fables, 
 and idyls, which in those times comprised about the 
 whole poetical cycle, which he considered as his own, 
 and which would serve him to pave the way to dis- 
 tinction and fame. 
 
 Although there is much of the poetic spirit in his 
 odes, yetas a whole, emanating from different circum- 
 stances, adverse to poetic inspiration and replete with 
 exaggerated flattery, they do not on that account pos- 
 sess much of poetical value. He had doubtless much 
 power and poetic ardor, and the spirit of his lyric 
 poetry could soar higher than any of his contempo- 
 raries. His lively and fiery imagination opened to him 
 a rich depository of bold and exalted thoughts; but 
 this life-giving ardor, this creativeness of imagination, 
 accompany the poet only when their incitement comes 
 
NARUSZEWICZ. 93 
 
 from the deep feeling of truth, and when the theme 
 itself is worthy of poetic inspiration. 
 
 Many of his lyrics have only a semblance of decla- 
 mation, and a superficial luster takes place of emotion. 
 Their taste and style remind one of the compositions 
 of the sixteenth century. He speaks as a true lyrist 
 only when the theme is patriotic citizenship, and the 
 love of his country warms him up. 
 
 In his ]yric muse Naruszewicz constrains himself 
 to flights of fancy, and in his satires he cannot keep 
 away from exaggeration, though we may say that in his 
 satires he very properly points out national defects, 
 and white furnishing a great many progressive lessons, 
 he at the same time paints a faithful historical picture 
 of the blemishes of the existing social system. His 
 satire of "The Yoices of the Dead," as also " The 
 Return of the Senators," are written in an old, con- 
 strained style, full of ludicrous images. Naruszewicz 
 was very much addicted to the introduction of mytho- 
 logical personages, which he pours upon his readers 
 without stint. However, it was the failing of all the 
 poets of Stanislaus' Age, but Naruszewicz exceeds 
 them all. 
 
 In his satire "The Nobility " Naruszewicz strongly 
 upheld the privileges of birth ; indeed, he tried to build 
 a partisan wall between the two different classes which 
 was very distasteful even to his own kindred. In his 
 satire "The Folly" he represents a false devotee, or 
 we may say a downright hypocrite. "The Spoiled 
 Age " is a continual grumbling that things are not as 
 they should be. In his " Flattery " he ridiculed the 
 common national foible of court manners and the bad 
 influence they had on national literature. " The Lean 
 Litterateur " is another unique production, reminding 
 
94 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND. 
 
 us of the sad epoch of superficiality when solid sciences 
 were not appreciated, and hence the true litterateur was 
 always lean and poor, and as a characteristic type it 
 went into a proverb. 
 
 As to idyllic compositions Naruszewicz had no great 
 talent. Accustomed to court life and a great friend to 
 a fashionable world, he could not understand nor ap- 
 preciate the charms of rural life; indeed, his pastorals 
 "The Farm-house," "The Happy Marriage," and 
 "Narcissus," have more of a satirical than of a pas- 
 toral turn. However, his Polish is pure and correct, 
 and in his power, freshness, and poetical imagery, he 
 is superior to Krasicki. Indeed, we find in his satires 
 many beautiful expressions, — new and pleasing turns 
 with which he truly enriched the Polish literature. 
 
 Naruszewicz was born in 1733, receiving first rudi- 
 ments of education at Pińsk. In 1748 he joined the 
 order of the Jesuits, which sent him to Lugdun. Re- 
 ceiving assistance from Prince Czartoryiski he per- 
 fected himself in learning in France, Italy, and Ger- 
 many. Returning to his own country he received the 
 professorship of the Cathedra of Poetry in the Academy 
 of Wilno, and subsequently of Warsaw. He was so 
 liked by the king, Stanislaus Augustus, that after the 
 abolition of the order he resided with him. After 
 receiving the abbacy of Niemencżyn he was admitted 
 to the coadjutorship of the bishopric of Smoleńsk. 
 He afterward held the office of the Clerk of the Grand 
 Duchy of Lithuania; finally he was made a bishop. 
 Stanislaus Augustus honored him with a decoration, 
 and ordered a medal struck with visages of Sarbiewski 
 and Naruszewicz. He died in 1796 at Janowce. 
 
 His works were published in Warsaw in 1778-1803, 
 and at Leipzig in 1835. Naruszewicz's biography was 
 
NARUSZEWICZ. 95 
 
 written by Julian Bartoszewicz in his work u Cele- 
 brated Men of Poland of the Eighteenth Century," 
 published in St. Petersburg in 1S53, in three volumes. 
 
 CONSULTATION OF ANIMALS. 
 
 In a corner of Africa most remote 
 
 Animals, so runs the anecdote, 
 Those beasts that have.hoofs and those that have claws, 
 
 Established government and laws. 
 
 With that worthy gentry all prospered well 
 
 Or so begun. I'm glad to tell 
 That harmony reigned throughout the land ; 
 
 And, difficult to understand, 
 Friendship, too, dwelled there, which you will agree 
 
 Is what we very seldom see 
 Among the masses of human kind 
 
 (Sorry to bring the fact to mind). 
 The wolf did not start from his savage lair 
 
 To devour goats, and pigs to snare ; 
 And not till brother in strife with brother 
 
 Begun to wrong and wound each other 
 Was there example harmful in the least 
 
 Set before the misguided beast. 
 
 It chanced, when hard times fell, the state 
 
 Its scanty funds to aggregate 
 Called council ; with care that nothing should pass 
 
 Except in justice to each class 
 Of animals: — asses, the goats, and sheep, 
 
 That the apportioned tax should keep 
 Of equal weight, 'mong the high and the low, 
 
 And the state burdens ordered so 
 That each could easily render his share, 
 
 The lowly and the millionaire. 
 
96 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND. 
 
 With preparation and dignity great 
 
 The worthy councillors of state 
 A meeting called to settle as they could 
 
 These matters for the public good. 
 
 The elephant was first to speak, — said he: 
 
 "Citizen animals, most worthy! 
 Oxen, goats, asses, and mules, and hares, ■ 
 
 Distinguished by the name each bears, 
 That matters to all should be without wrong, 
 
 To the meek sheep or lion strong, 
 I propose to you in all sincerity, 
 
 Without favor or asperity: 
 Let each one who thinks that in small or great 
 
 He has broken the laws of state 
 Contribute a mark to the treasury; 
 
 From this a great auxiliary 
 Will our country gain, while at the same time 
 
 You must reflect, all sorts of crime 
 In our country's bounds, from west to east, 
 
 From north to south, will be decreased. 1 ' 
 
 " That perhaps might do," said the crafty fox, 
 
 Bowing most humbly to the flocks ; 
 A good-natured grin on his countenance spread 
 
 And wagging his yellow tail, said : 
 " Greater the income, in my opinion, 
 
 If young and old of this dominion 
 Were allowed to apprise their good degrees, 
 
 And pay a florin for each of these; 
 My fame for judgment I'll stake in this way, 
 
 A larger sum we could display, 
 Which would be with the utmost promptness paid, 
 
 And never any trouble made. 
 
NARUSZEWICZ. 97 
 
 Because, may it please your reverence, 
 
 They'd rather pay than evidence 
 Transgression of the law's just scope, 
 
 Your honor sees the point — I hope." 
 
 WHO IS FOOLISH ? 
 
 He is foolish who, possessing neither strength nor heart, 
 With vain empty boasts acts an idle swaggerer's part. 
 Who with proud assumption wondrous learning will pretend, 
 And seek to teach a language he does not comprehend. 
 Or he who marries not as befits his own estate, 
 For to fret or be fretted will surely be his fate. 
 Who seeks fortune in cards, profit in a bone, nor knows 
 Ever that which comes easily as easily goes. 
 He is foolish who through craft to defraud others tries, 
 And seeks credit for that purpose in honesty's guise. 
 He is foolish who drinks when his toes are out, and lives 
 Beyond his income, taking all while he nothing gives. 
 A simpleton is he who's by trifles filled with fears, 
 And he who readily believes each little thing he hears. 
 The rich who buy on credit and let their money rust; 
 Foolish is the merchant who'll an idle spendthrift trust. 
 He is foolish who weekly his losses will bemoan, 
 Or weds an old woman for the money she may own. 
 Foolish he who with affairs of state will interfere, 
 Unfit to aid or council he muddles what was clear. 
 Who boldly of his creditor asks a loan, although 
 He has failed to pay a debt contracted long ago. 
 He is foolish who alone on paper projects makes, 
 Who leaves unfinished ever the tasks he undertakes. 
 Who's familiar with unequals shows his lack of sense, 
 Or who farms from a book or from school gets eloquence, 
 Who only speaks truth when there's no falsehood at command, 
 Who amusement seeks with that he does not understand, 
 Who pays much attention to the talk of common folk, 
 7 
 
98 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND. 
 
 Who allows a little jest his anger to provoke. 
 
 Who — but there! my paper's out, and some perhaps will say 
 
 I am making my remarks in a fault-finding way. 
 
 Pray excuse me, sirs, if I have said too much ; at times 
 
 A subject has been borne too far by my erratic rhymes. 
 
 Poets, and musicians, too, upon extremes will touch, 
 
 Often one will play too long, the other say too much. 
 
KNIAZŃIN. 99 
 
 KNIAZNIN. 
 
 Fkancis Dyonisius Rntaznin was a poet whose 
 writings are characterized by pleasantness, suavity, and 
 purity of the heart. His vivid conceptions, combined with 
 great feeling, eminently qualified him for a lyric poet. 
 He does not soar very high, nor is he carried by sudden 
 flights of imagination, but whenever he follows his own 
 inspiration he charms the reader with his wonderful 
 simplicity. In that respect he may be considered as 
 equal, if not superior, to Karpiński, since his poetry 
 strikes more deeply into the heart and is richer in 
 colors and imagery. He wrote with great feeling and 
 expression. 
 
 Among his works we can mention " To a Citizen," 
 " Ode on the Centennial Celebration of John Sobieski's 
 Yictory over the Turks at Vienna, " "To Grace," 
 "Rosemary," etc. The construction of Kniaznin's 
 verse is peculiar to himself; concise in expression, the 
 selection of soft syllables and natural expression of 
 thought make his verses very harmonious and grateful 
 to the ear. 
 
 Kniaznin was born in 1750, and was brought up and 
 educated by the Jesuits; in fact he joined the society, 
 but after the abolition of the order in 1773 he again be- 
 came a civilian, and labored assiduously in the great 
 library of Załuski. After that he became a secretary 
 to Prince Czartoryiski at Puławy, a hospitable place, 
 which in those days was in reality a shelter for learned 
 men. The changeful events of those years, and an un- 
 happy love, darkened his existence and produced de- 
 mentia. He died in 1807. 
 
100 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND. 
 
 His complete works were published in Warsaw 
 1828, and at Leipsic 1835. 
 
 A REVERIE. 
 
 The goddess of darkness, and silence, and dreams, 
 Hath spread her black wings o'er a slumbering world, 
 Care holdeth no longer his empire o'er man 
 But deep in oblivion's abyss has been hurled. 
 
 Majestic the moon riseth up in the sky, 
 
 With her maidens of honor, the stars, in her train, 
 
 The earth is in solitude gloomy arrayed, 
 
 And in silence profound reigns o'er hamlet and plain. 
 
 Such a lesson as this once could light up my soul, 
 And forgetting the troubles and cares of the earth 
 My mind on the wings of conception would fly, 
 And give to a thousand imaginings birth. 
 
 I hovered in joy o'er the gay land of dreams, 
 Gave to gladness a smile, and to sadness a tear, 
 And buoyed in safety on silver-winged hope, 
 Never let thoughts of the future with bliss interfere. 
 
 There fiery and bold as the eagle of Jove 
 
 My young spirit roved through the paths of the sky, 
 
 I gave to the wind all devices of love, 
 
 Smiled at languishing simpers, and laughed at a sigh. 
 
 But love stole within my cold heart and there placed 
 An image of her whose cold hardness I mourn ; 
 I loved her — I thought that the world was but her — 
 I loved — but alas! was not loved in return. 
 
 To-day e'en the ghost of my once blessed hours 
 Has sank in the earth, and departed from view, 
 And the flowers of love, to which wishes gave birth, 
 Have my sighs for their air, and my tears for their dew. 
 
KNIAZŃIN. 101 
 
 For another has plucked the red rose from the stem, 
 And the beautiful flower in his bosom will bloom, 
 Whilst I, like a spirit from heaven cast out, 
 Am sentenced to Erebus, sorrow, and gloom. 
 
 ETERNITY. 
 
 Holy Eternity! Thou w T ork of wonder! 
 In thy belief all virtuous hearts concur ; 
 Those that have in thee hopeful confidence 
 Paint thee in tints of rare magnificence ! 
 While others trembling for themselves in fear 
 Would with doubt's gloom thy sacred light obscure. 
 
 The earth and fathomless sea 
 
 Are worthy of God's dignity, 
 And thou wilt forever with them endure! - 
 
 Time, in its broken and unbroken flight, 
 Going we perceive not how and whither, 
 Is only a small branch from thee grown hither, 
 Unfolding till it with thee unite. 
 
 RELIGION. 
 
 Religion, thou blessed and holy name! 
 Thy sovereignty and thy power how great! 
 How many virtues rare within thee wait 
 For hearts that can thy presence truly claim. 
 
 How happy on this earth the man may be 
 Whose eyes thy truth and glory can perceive; 
 A guard thou art for all that will believe, 
 A shield from sin for those that cling to thee. 
 
 In trouble, consolation lies in thee ; 
 Thou bindest man to God with holy chain, 
 Misfortune linked with hope forgets its pain ! 
 Thou bind'st the Present with Eternity. 
 
102 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND. 
 
 MORAWSKI. 
 
 Feancis Morawski differs from other poets in this 
 respect: that he was named " A Soldier Poet." Sub- 
 sequently we see his easy and unrestrained wit soaring 
 in his fugitive verses, but with such happy turns and 
 skill, and above all such humor, which in our literature 
 is exceptional and rare, and belongs neither to the 
 classic nor romantic school, that we may say he stands 
 by himself. Morawski's mind was very flexible, he 
 being a frequenter hot only at camp-societies, but also 
 a welcome visitor of fashionable salons, giving him an 
 opportunity to acquire that ease and pleasing mien 
 which never forsook him even to the last moments of 
 his life. 
 
 When he was twenty he belonged to the classic 
 school. Between twenty and thirty he waged a liter- 
 ary war with the so-called romantic school, and 
 although his letters and satires were only in manu- 
 script, they circulated freely and had a great repute, as 
 indeed they were very forcible and witty. 
 
 In the fourth decade of his life we see him writing 
 ballads and romances; in the fifth he is the translator 
 of "Andromache," and then he finishes his poetic 
 career by " A Yisit Into the Neighborhood," and a 
 poem, "The Home of My Grandfather." They were 
 indeed all true Polish pictures, — replete with, and full 
 of, old-time diction, simplicity of language, and faithful 
 delineations of historical figures. And thus Morawski, 
 commencing only as a soldier poet, subsequently goes 
 through other periods, and with a flexibility peculiar 
 to himself, — everything new that came into repute in 
 the literary world. 
 
MORAWSKI. 103 
 
 He was born in 1785 in the Great Duchy of Posen, 
 and received a careful education at Leszno. He after- 
 ward attended a law school at Frankfurt, and subse- 
 quently at Kalish. In the year 1806 he served in the 
 National army and participated in the great wars of 
 Napoleon, and reached the rank of the chief of staff. 
 His eulogy, delivered at the funeral ceremony of Prince 
 Joseph Poniatowski, 23d of December, 1813, was a 
 splendid effort of oratory. During the existence of 
 the Duchy of Warsaw he served in the Polish army, 
 and in 1819 obtained the rank of brigadier-general. 
 During his sojourn at Warsaw he frequently visited 
 General Vincent Krasiński, whose house was the as- 
 semblage of distinguished men representing literature. 
 After the year 1831, having suffered imprisonment at 
 Wołogda, in Russia, he retired to Posen, and settled in 
 a village called Lubonia, where he wrote poetry, prin- 
 cipally for a literary publication called "The Friend 
 of the People," issued at Leszno. He died in 1861. 
 
 His works were published at Breslau; then a col- 
 lection of poetry in 1841; at Leszno in 1851, and St. 
 Petersburg in 1855. His son published his Fables at 
 Posen in 1862; Five Poems of Lord Byron at Leszno 
 in 1853. 
 
 A sketch of his life, written by L. Siemieński in 
 the .Polish Review, was published at Cracow in 1866. 
 
 GIERMEK.* 
 
 Once in Poland's land deep sadness 
 Filled the people ev'rywhere, 
 For the Swede with war's fierce madness 
 Conquered all and none would spare. 
 
 * Squire or shield-bearer. 
 
104 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND. 
 
 In the lindens' shadows dreary, 
 Strayed the army's broken band; 
 By the camp-fires dumb and weary 
 Mused the warriors of the land. 
 
 When a bard with white hair flowing, 
 Came the shattered ranks among; 
 Well they knew those accents glowing, 
 As he touched his lute and sung: 
 
 Olden themes can tell a story 
 Charming every heart and ear; 
 Olden tales of valor's glory, 
 Ev'ry patriot loves to hear. 
 
 Once we stood a lofty tower, 
 And a shield firm-fixed and strong 
 To repel the foreign power 
 Moved to work our people wrong. 
 
 On the foes of other nations 
 Fast our Polish arrows poured ; 
 Sang we Freedom's exultations 
 And the peace that we adored. 
 
 Clash of armies fierce contending, 
 Anguished moans and trumpets swell, 
 With pursuits wild thunders blending, 
 Formed the hymns we knew full well. 
 
 Ev'ning's light serene and solemn 
 Sets Petrolia's fields aglow; 
 Comes the army's stately column, 
 Unappalled to meet the foe. 
 
 Wagons, caissons, onward sweeping, 
 Shake the ground with thundrous pace, 
 
MORAWSKI. 105 
 
 Rich the field for Death's grim reaping, 
 As the threatening armies face. 
 
 On one side in spotless glory 
 Faith's bright banner fluttered high 
 O'er brave youths and hetman hoary 
 For the right prepared to die. 
 
 Mad with passion's wild commotion 
 On the other side arrayed, 
 Raging like a troubled ocean, 
 Tartar rabble's ranks displayed. 
 
 Sank the sun in blood, as warning 
 Every one that strife is near; 
 Carnage dire begins when morning 
 In the flushed East shall appear. 
 
 Now the Polish chief, attended 
 By trained bearer of his shield, 
 When the first dusk has descended 
 Mounts resolved to scan the field. 
 
 Now the foes' dark camp surveying. 
 Rides he numbering fires alight, — 
 Hears their buzz, their horses' neighing, 
 And in thought has caused their flight. 
 
 Chief restrain thy soaring fancies 
 Tartars fight with desperate zeal ; 
 Swift and changeful war's wild chances, 
 Hark ! those sounds raised peal on peal. 
 
 'Tis the Tartars' rabble forces, 
 All the camp is now alarmed; 
 Cries the chief : "Quick! to your horses!" 
 Ghief, — shield-bearer, — all are armed. 
 
106 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND. 
 
 Through the darkness dense prevailing, 
 Through tumultuous rising sound, 
 'Mid the ranks they rush assailing 
 The fixed rabble that surround. 
 
 Now the young shield-bearer breaking, 
 From his youth merged fire and life; 
 In his arm while still unshaking, 
 Brave-souled hetman led the strife. 
 
 Hear they coming in the distance, 
 Polish warriors! glorious bands! 
 But too late is their assistance; 
 Destined they for Tartars' hands. 
 
 Youth is taken! — hetman taken! 
 'Mid a savage shout prolonged; 
 Stubborn Khan with anger shaken 
 Views the captives he has wronged. 
 
 With a fierce revenge that never 
 Boil'd with greater malice, he 
 Soon decrees the two forever 
 Shackled foot to foot shall be. 
 
 To the skies above them shining, 
 Lifted they their tear-dimmed eyes; 
 Yet why sing I their repining 
 Reveries sad and hopeless sighs? 
 
 He who never had to languish 
 In fell slavery's chains can know 
 All a captive's bitter anguish, 
 In the power of ruthless foe. 
 
 Who in grief vain and despairing, 
 Has bedewed his food with tears, 
 
MORAWSKI. 107 
 
 'Midst a savage rabble bearing 
 Pain untold, long suffering years. 
 
 For a time in mournful dreaming 
 Sat the bard, depressed and mute; 
 With the silent tears down streaming, 
 Then resumed his song and lute. 
 
 Soon the hetman gray is sleeping, 
 Hushed to rest as 'mid his own; 
 But the youth a watch is keeping, 
 Wrapped in dreams of home alone. 
 
 Full of grief and pain, no sighing 
 Or embittered tear relieves; 
 On the ground beside him lying 
 He a glittering axe perceives. 
 
 Trembling, dreaming, thinking, yearning, 
 Filled with purpose high he stands, 
 Noble fire within him burning, 
 Grasps the axe with vigorous hands! 
 
 On his iron shackles gazing, 
 Firm, unfaltering aim he takes 
 At his foot; — the axe upraising — 
 Severed 'tis — the chief awakes ! 
 
 Cries the youth : thy people need thee, 
 Slumbering guards the way leave clear. 
 Conquer Khan, for I have freed thee, 
 Joyfully I will perish here. 
 
 Rose the chief, — the youth confided 
 To God's care while tears flowed fast, 
 Blest him, from the dungeon glided 
 And the slumbering sentry past. 
 
108 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND. 
 
 Suddenly the guards awaken ! 
 Find no prisoner but the youth, 
 To the Khan the news is taken, 
 Hastened he to prove its truth. 
 
 Scarce believing what was told him, 
 In the youth's bold eyes he gazed, 
 Doubting though he did behold him, 
 Strove to read him — sore amazed. 
 
 Virtue conquers Hate's fell power; 
 Cure the youth — 'tis my command, 
 Said the Khan, — and with rich dower 
 Send him to his native land. 
 
 Now before the court — all wearing 
 Radiant robes of royal sheen, 
 Comes the youth with grateful bearing, 
 Walking two famed knights between. 
 
 With a crutch his form sustaining, 
 Now the beauteous youth appears, 
 Wonder in their bosoms reigning, 
 All the court is moved to tears. 
 
 Comes the youth deep homage showing 
 To the king placed on his throne, 
 Who a famous sword bestowing 
 Named him knight, while thro' his own 
 
 Circle came the hetman hoary 
 With a golden foot, and turned 
 To the youth. " Distinctive glory," 
 Said the king, " you've richly earned. 
 
 " This your coat-of-arms for wearing, 
 All in mem'ry of your deeds; 
 
MORAWSKI. 109 
 
 Full of virtue, full of daring." 
 Then the martyred youth he leads 
 
 'Mid the people's shouts up pealing 
 To the blest altar of the Lord; 
 And before it humbly kneeling, 
 There he fervently implored 
 
 That success might e'er attend them; 
 Prays he to the God of heaven 
 That more heroes he will send them 
 For their country's glory given. 
 
 Then the bard no longer raising 
 His free song, — his lute has stilled, 
 While his eyes are deeply gazing 
 In the hearts his song has thrilled. 
 
KARPIŃSKIE MONUMENT AT KOŁOMYIA (GALICIA). 
 
KAKPLŃSKI. Ill 
 
 KARPIŃSKI. 
 
 Francis Karpiński is one of those few who, during 
 the reign of Stanislaus Augustus, deserve the name of 
 true poets. He differs from the old classical Polish 
 poets in this, that they were artistic and followed cer- 
 tain rules of composition with much strictness, but 
 Karpiński, too sincere to bend that way, chooses no 
 especial system, but sings like a bird, he breathes what 
 he has in his soul, and spreads the feelings of his heart 
 right before us. In his Thyrses and Corydons we can 
 plainly see the rustics of Polish villages with small no- 
 bility in the background. 
 
 Karpin ski's songs breathe the elegiac, rustic spirit, 
 remote from overstrung cares sings and fondlings and 
 erratic reveries. He sang with a sincere feeling, de- 
 scribing his emotions almost with a childlike simplicity 
 — though every thought seems combined with feeling, 
 and every feeling is represented by a corresponding 
 pen image. All his original poetry bears a stamp of 
 sadness. Some of these songs can fairly compare with 
 the most beautiful compositions of Goethe. It is al- 
 most impossible to find anything equal to them as re- 
 gards delicacy of feeling and expression. With the 
 most beautiful of these we may include the idyl "Lau- 
 ra and Philon." His religious songs hit exactly the 
 heart of the popular feeling. They are simple and art- 
 less, and always worthy of their subject. Among these 
 we can mention "The Morning Hymn," u All of Our 
 Daily Doings," " During the Labor in the Field," etc. 
 All these songs are destined to remain forever on the 
 lips of the people. 
 
 As a political poet Karpiński has no significance, 
 
112 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND. 
 
 for he never took active part in the troublous move- 
 ments during the reign of Stanislaus Augustus, al- 
 though he wrote a few threns, consecrating them to the 
 cause of his country, one of them on ' ' The 3d of May, 
 1791," and another "The Lament of a Sarmatian 
 Over the Grave of Stanislaus Augustus, the Last 
 Polish King from the House of Jagellons." His song 
 stopped with the sad fate of his country, and he him- 
 self said that he laid down his lute on the grave of 
 Sigismund. 
 
 Karpiński excels in sad themes and grave subjects. 
 "The Duma of Ludgarda" is a fine specimen of the 
 kind. 
 
 He was born in 1741, and commenced his education 
 at Lemberg (Leopol or Lwów), then for a short time 
 he was engaged in law practice, but he soon became 
 tired of it and traveled in foreign countries. He re- 
 mained in Vienna for about one and a half years, de- 
 voting himself to studies. Returning to his own coun- 
 try he for some time followed farming, and then he 
 became an inmate of Prince Czartoryiski's family, and 
 finally held the office of Secretary of the Interior 
 under King Stanislaus Augustus. Retiring from the 
 office the king persuaded him to accept the tutorship 
 of young Prince Radziwił, but after a lapse of a year 
 he left the lucrative place and took in rentage the vil- 
 lage of Krośniak and again engaged in farming. 
 
 In the year 1807 he went to Warsaw, but soon quit 
 the capital and returned once more to the peace and 
 quiet of a country life, where he passed the remainder 
 of his days in seclusion. Being a single man he left 
 his property to his relatives. He died in 1825. He 
 was called the poet of the heart. 
 
 His works were published at Warsaw in 1792, 1806, 
 
KARPIŃSKI. 113 
 
 and 1830, in Breslau 1826, in Leipsic 1836, and by Tu- 
 rowski, in Cracow, 1862. 
 
 Besides these his comedy, "The Rent," came out 
 in 1782; the tragedy, "Boleslas III," Warsaw 1790, 
 and " The Memoirs of the Times From 1741 to 1822," 
 published by Moraczewski, Posen 1844, and Lemberg 
 1849. Anton Kornilowicz wrote "Life and Writings 
 of Karpiński," Wilno 1827. 
 
 MORNING HYMN. 
 
 "Kiedy ranne wstają zorze." 
 
 When the morning stars are rising, 
 Earth and sea thy glories praising, 
 Join all nature's voice in singing, 
 Praise to thee, Oh God, we're bringing ! 
 
 Man on whom thou'st poured rich treasure, 
 Endless bounties without measure, 
 By Thy power redeemed, life given, 
 Why not praise Thee, God of heaven! 
 
 When at morn I first awaken, 
 On my lips Thy name is taken, 
 And I call on God profoundly, 
 Then I seek Him all around me! 
 
 Yesternight were many taken, 
 To the sleep that ne'er shall waken, 
 While our ling' ring breath is given — 
 For Thy praise, great God in heaven! 
 
 EVENING HYMN. 
 
 Through the past day our behavior, 
 
 With mercy accept just Savior, 
 And when we sink to dreamful sleep, 
 
 May praise of Thee our visions keep. 
 8 
 
114 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND. 
 
 As Thy eyes are turned upon us, 
 Day and night are looking on us, 
 
 Where feeble and weary mortals, 
 Wait for help from out Thy portals. 
 
 Turn away the dark night's terror, 
 Save us Lord from shafts of error, 
 
 Judge and Guardian in Thy keeping, 
 Have us waking, have us sleeping. 
 
 YEARNINGS IN THE SPRING. 
 
 Full many times the sun has come and gone 
 
 And favored the day with light ; 
 But from my life all sunshine has withdrawn 
 
 Why must I ever walk in night? 
 
 The grain is shooting up so fresh, so .fair, 
 
 Almost the heads begin to show ; 
 So verdant are the wide fields ev'rywhere, 
 
 Why does my precious wheat not grow? 
 
 Within the grove sweet sings the nightingale, 
 
 Echoes the grove its melody; 
 Gaily the birds sing in the woodland and vale, 
 
 But my bird does not sing for me ! 
 
 Many flowers have sprung from the moist ground, 
 
 After a reviving shower; 
 Bright tinted are the meadows all around, 
 
 Oh ! why springs for me no flower ? 
 
 How long, O Spring! shall I beseech in vain? 
 
 Disconsolate I sigh and yearn ; 
 While my sad tears have bathed the earth in rain, 
 
 For this, a harvest rich return. 
 
KARPIŃSKI. 115 
 
 PEACE THAT VIRTUE BRINGS. 
 
 Whoever paints virtue sad, has seen 
 
 But little of her charms serene; 
 
 E'er pleasantly she smiles nor sighs, 
 
 Nor turns aside her lovely eyes. 
 Naught can the deeps of her calmness stir, 
 Fortune, misfortune, are alike to her. 
 
 In vain mishaps to work her ill 
 Their poisonous darts make sharper still; 
 She meets them as the steadfast rock 
 Receives unmoved the sea wave's shock 
 Or as the fire that burns with ardent glow 
 In gold's bright semblance more and more will grow. 
 
 His country Socrates loved well, 
 And for its cause drank poison fell, 
 Nor felt a fear, but strong and brave 
 To friends beside him counsel gave; 
 Anitus grumbled in amaze to see 
 E'en death could not annoy that spirit free. 
 
 Why runs he with distracted air? 
 
 Why sadly weeps and tears his hair? 
 
 He grieves because that has been done 
 
 For which no help is 'neath the sun. 
 Let him a hundred years lament, 'tis vain ; 
 A farthing's worth it helps not to complain. 
 
 The chain in ages past begun, 
 
 Wrought from the world's swift changes, none; 
 
 Can it undo save He whose hand 
 
 Linked it together as He planned? 
 Why grieve then for what is or for what was, 
 Since all is ruled by just, eternal laws? 
 
116 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND. 
 
 Brief are our lives and naught we know 
 Of the to-morrow. Since tis so, 
 Why should we borrow care or sour 
 With needless fears a single hour? 
 Gold's worshipers may tremble full of fear, 
 No cause to tremble have God's children dear. 
 
 Upon the path with thorns entwined, 
 Fragrant flowers youll also find: 
 Then let us forward bravely go, 
 Nor mind a little pain, although 
 We are stung at times, it is said a wound 
 Heals quick where roses without thorns are found. 
 
WORONICZ. 117 
 
 WORONICZ. 
 
 John Paul Woronicz occupies one of the most 
 distinguished places among the poets of Poland. In 
 genius he surpasses many of his contemporaries, 
 characterized by the purely national simplicity of the 
 olden times. At the decline of the old epoch he comes 
 in as a new prophet of other times and other peoples, 
 dissimilar in the outlook of the present generation, but 
 inimitable and incomparable. He did no homage to 
 the new conceptions, innovations, or impressions of the 
 age he lived in, drawing his subjects from historical 
 elements and historical reminiscences, the faith of his 
 ancestors; from the burning feelings of the purest 
 patriotism gushed forth his poetical inspirations, and, 
 like a true bard of the people, he was their interpreter 
 and their embodiment in their grandest national rem- 
 iniscences. 
 
 In many respects Woronicz is allied to the two 
 greatest bards of the Holy Scriptures. He combined 
 the ardor of Ezekiel with the tender emotions of Jere- 
 miah, and it can be truly asserted that no poet was ever 
 more impressed with them than Woronicz, no poet bet- 
 ter appreciated them than he did. 
 
 The feeling of national pride was the chief theme of 
 his lyrics, but their tenor is sad and the intrinsic con- 
 struction of his songs is solemn. He paid but little 
 attention to their smoothness, correctness, and finish. 
 Bold and manly conceptions are so molded as to 
 purposely give them the form of perpetuity. 
 
 In his " Hymn to God " the bard sings of the won- 
 derful goodness of God to the Polish nation. We see 
 
118 POETS AND POETKY OF POLAND. 
 
 here as if an apotheosis of the whole people was ex- 
 alted to the highest and almost gigantic extent. Sub- 
 lime poetic art flows into a deeply affecting and re- 
 ligious strain; the load of grief is raised heavenward, 
 where buoyant imagination takes its flight into the 
 highest regions of sublimity; for it represents the 
 whole nation chanting the covenant made with God for 
 a thousand years. 
 
 His "Temple of the Sybil" is an epopee, a hymn 
 of Poland's glory, sung in praise of national deeds and 
 patriotic remembrances; heroic deeds of valor are un- 
 earthed from the ruins of the past — of nine hundred 
 years — its glories and its trophies are the historical 
 themes of this great poetic creation. The style of ex- 
 pression, the ardor, and the extraordinary boldness of 
 imagery are the characteristics of the poem. Similar 
 literary qualities characterize also his "Lech," "The 
 Diet of Wiślica," and "The Dissertation on National 
 Songs." 
 
 Woronicz was born in 1759, in the province of Vol- 
 hynia, and was educated at the Jesuit College in Os- 
 trowo. He joined the order when quite young. 
 On account of his unusual talents he was called to a 
 professorship at that college, and filled his duties so 
 well that he received commendations of not only his 
 superiors, but also thanks of those whom he taught. 
 
 After the abolition of the order in 1773 he obtained 
 a situation at the Mission at Warsaw, and giving him- 
 self up to arduous labors he became so erudite in learn- 
 ing that he commanded the respect of the most dis- 
 tinguished and learned heads of the church. Adam 
 Ceciszewski, the bishop of Kijow, as also of Garnysz, 
 the bishop of Chełmno, frequently consulted with him 
 in regard to church affairs. In this way the young 
 
WORONICZ. 119 
 
 chaplain paved his way to the acquaintance of the king, 
 Stanislaus Augustus. In 1795 he left Warsaw, and was 
 satisfied with the modest parsonage at Liwo, and with 
 much ardor gave himself up to the duties of a country 
 pastor. From Liwo he was assigned to the curacy of Casi- 
 mir, in the neighborhood of Puławy, where the sight 
 of "The Temple of the Sybil" filled with so many 
 national souvenirs and relics furnished him the materi- 
 als for composing the celebrated poem of that name. 
 The society of "Friends of the Sciences" at Warsaw 
 made him a member. Being again assigned to a new 
 curacy at Powsinie, near Warsaw, and before he had yet 
 settled at his new parish, Frederick August called him 
 to fill the office of a dean at the cathedral at Warsaw, 
 and a counsellor of state. In this new situation he 
 soon was known as an orator of great distinction. 
 
 When the remains of the heroic Prince Poniatowski, 
 who perished at the battle of Leipsic, in 1813, were 
 brought to Warsaw, Woronicz delivered a funeral ora- 
 tion which stands up to this day as the highest effort of 
 the kind. Afterward the Emperor Alexander I made 
 him bishop of Cracow. In the year 1829 he was as- 
 signed to the archdiocese of Warsaw, to which was at- 
 tached the dignity of the Primate, and while holding 
 that high office he presided and conducted the corona- 
 tion of Nicholas I as the King of Poland. Soon after 
 Woronicz left Warsaw for Vienna in order to recover 
 his failing health, but unhappily soon after his arrival 
 there he died, December 4, 1829. 
 
 A collection of his poems was published in Cracow 
 1832, and in Leipsic in two volumes in 1833. 
 
120 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND. 
 
 FROM THE TEMPLE OF THE SYBIL.* 
 
 Oracle of Hesperian lands ! fame crowns thy brow 
 
 Of vast and sacred groves, all-powerful abbess thou! 
 
 To whilom lost and scattered Trojan bands, once more 
 
 Hast shown the welcome headland of safe fortified shore. 
 
 Later, with wonderful mysteries hast led apace 
 
 To glory grand and great their ever-conquering race. 
 
 Now having forsaken Cumsean rock renowned 
 
 Thou hast on Vistula's shores a shining temple found ! 
 
 Let me iń my song praise of thy new abode proclaim, 
 
 And praise of the people long extinct — and of their name ! 
 
 Here shepherds gather from all the heaths by winding ways, 
 
 Remind one of the olden, happy, vanished days, 
 
 That he possessed the name of fortunate, whose soul 
 
 Could not the whole world govern, but could himself control, 
 
 Who faithful as a friend, and as a father kind and wise 
 
 Wiped full many bitter tears from sorrowing eyes— 
 
 His riches counted he in sheaves and in herds alone — 
 
 But far more than these the wealth of love was all his own. 
 
 His nature serenely high was also gently bland 
 
 And worthy of the virtuous Amarylla's hand, 
 
 With whom in affection and peace for aye lived he, 
 
 In concord sweet unruffled by adversity. 
 
 Craved he no other's goods — but wholly was content, 
 
 His old age was adorned by love and honors blent, 
 
 And when called to his last resting place, calmly slept — 
 
 Regretted by all in truth — by all sincerely wept.f 
 
 * Temple of the Sybil. A lofty building in the garden of Puławy, 
 erected in imitation of the Temple of Tiburtine Sybil on the river 
 Teverone, in Italy, by Princess Isabella Czartoryiska, as a depository 
 of Polish national souvenirs by a cove of the river Vistula, and at the 
 base of a mountain among beautiful trees. It bears an inscription : 
 " The Past of the Future." 
 
 f Prince Adam Czartoryiski. The family of Czartoryiski comes 
 from the lineal of a royal family of Gedymines. 
 
WORONICZ. 121 
 
 LOVE AND VIRTUE. 
 
 He that can feel within his heart true love 
 Is virtuous already — or such will prove. 
 
 THE POLES. 
 
 Poles ! my dear brethren your high laws are all the same — 
 Virtue is your element and valor is your name! 
 
ARCHBISHOP KRASICKI. 
 
KKAS1CKI. 123 
 
 KRASICKI. 
 
 Ignatz Krasicki, the celebrated archbishop and 
 poet, is an acknowledged representative of his period. 
 He was not one of those geniuses who have their mind's 
 eye fixed upon their own greatness and glory in the 
 distant future; on the contrary he was a true citizen, 
 endeavoring in the happiest possible manner to lift up, 
 not himself, but his fellow-countrymen and the age he 
 lived in. If even Mother Nature had not fitted him 
 with that facility and pleasant ways, his own good heart 
 would have led him to seek the way to conquer super- 
 stition, bad taste, and especially the carelessness and 
 indifference to learning. He appeared on the stage 
 exactly in the right time, when sciences in Poland had 
 not yet assumed a definable shape, and of course had 
 not reached the point of desired amplification. The 
 spirit of philosophy of the eighteenth century, with its 
 erroneous teachings, was in the ascendant; but Krasicki 
 overcame that difficulty by boldly yet pleasantly point- 
 ing out a different and a better way. Although he 
 himself had been brought up under its baneful influ- 
 ences, he was able by his writing to gradually reinstate 
 the old-time customs, faith, and maimers of his 
 ancestors. 
 
 Krasicki occupied a high place in Polish literature. 
 He was very witty, and although he did not display 
 great creative powers in his comic composition, he had 
 a way of his own to sing with the harmony of a bird, 
 adding to it a precision and a consummate finish. Being 
 an excellent judge of the human heart, he had a happy 
 faculty of seeing men and things exactly as they were; 
 
124, POETS AND POETKY OF POLAND. 
 
 hence lie was pertinent and practical. He was an 
 excellent delineator of the faults and foibles of the 
 living pictures of society. 
 
 Among the poetical works of Krasicki his satires 
 are entitled to the first place and consideration; except 
 their pungency they have no real bitterness in them, 
 and always a tendency to correct the existing state of 
 things. In them he paints in a humorous manner the 
 customs, ways, and manners so precisely that such a 
 description was something very uncommon in those 
 days. While castigating the ways and manners he 
 invariably brought up an ideal how they should be. If 
 he ridiculed anything funny, sluggish, or what deserved 
 reprimand, he at the same time set forth types worthy 
 of imitation. By such course he plainly proved that 
 whoever undertakes to point out others' faults he must 
 love them. 
 
 His satires are of two different kinds — some touch 
 the weaknesses and defects of the humanity at large, 
 as for instance "Malice, Hidden and Open," "The 
 Happiness of Rogues," and "Drunkenness "; in others 
 again he points out the national shortcomings, as in 
 "The Fashionable Wife," "The Journey," "Prodi- 
 gality," "Praise of Age," and "Court Life." Some, 
 however, contain irony and sarcasm, as " The Spoiled 
 World." 
 
 His " Monachomachia, or the War of the Monks," 
 was written when he and Voltaire lived together at the 
 Palace of Sans-Souci. It was a happy occurrence that 
 when Krasicki embraced Voltaire's philosophical ideas 
 he did not reach as deeply as Voltaire himself. Having 
 been born in the southern part of Pussia-Poland he 
 was by nature true to himself, and did not possess that 
 virulence of character. Being himself an Ecclesiastic, 
 
 
KRASICKI. 125 
 
 he knew the defects and digressions of the clergy, and 
 inliicced his castigations accordingly. In this produc- 
 tion lie distinguishes himself in pleasant but harmless 
 wit, nice imagery, accuracy, and grace of expression. 
 Throwing the mantle of fun, and even ludicrousness, 
 over high thoughts, the author exerted great power and 
 influence in that direction. When it was ascertained 
 that his intent was misunderstood and misconstrued, 
 and looked upon as a lampoon on the clergy, and that 
 many minds were vitiated thereat, Krasicki composed 
 '• Antimonachomachia '' — sort of a revocation of the 
 former poem; but 4i Monachomachia " had neverthe- 
 less the desired effect in correcting the existing evils. 
 The subject of the poem was the confederation of the 
 clergy against the author of the offensive literary 
 production. 
 
 •• Myszeis " is a playful poem containing within it a 
 hidden moral and satirical comparisons in regard to 
 national defects. This contention for the preeminence, 
 or we should say " Who shall be greatest? " between 
 rats and mice, means probably the old political wrangles 
 in Poland, — misunderstandings or quarrels between 
 the Senate and the Chivalry of those days. 
 
 Besides the satirical writings of Krasicki we can 
 place his Letters, — ■ the subject matter and the style of 
 which very much approach his satires. These, being 
 written in verse after French models, palpably remind 
 us of the haste and defects of the literature of that 
 period. 
 
 In his "Doswiadczyński" (the man of experience), 
 a moral tale written in prose, Krasicki paints the social 
 defects of that time. Thoughtlessness, prodigality, 
 litigation, bribery, the law intrigues, court eloquence, 
 are pictured in vivid colors. This jocular but highly 
 
126 POETS AND POETRY OF " POLAND. 
 
 interesting production hits somebody or something 
 every time, and shows in the author an uncommon 
 talent and discrimination of how and where to casti- 
 gate national blemishes. 
 
 From all of Krasicki's writings his Fables were 
 perhaps the most popular; they all contain truths, 
 expressed with great conciseness and wit, comprising 
 at the same time deep meaning, sound practical philos- 
 ophy, replete with the spirit of reflection, humanity, 
 and frequently patriotism. They are all short, prac- 
 tical tales, allegories, or witty anecdotes. "The War 
 of Chocim" Krasicki composed to show that a good 
 epopee could be written in the Polish language. 
 
 His " Pan Podstoli " * we consider a valuable 
 depository, and it stands as a living monument of 
 Polish ancestry. In this work Krasicki rises higher 
 in philosophical tendency than any painters of char- 
 acters or novel-writers have ever led us. In the 
 representation of Mr. Podstoli he did not follow any 
 especial ideal, or the originality of any person; he 
 simply and plainly painted a characteristic portrait of 
 a citizen, husband, father, and neighbor, who in the 
 fullness of his own and his family's happiness con- 
 quers old impediments and defends himself from the 
 new ones; prizing knowledge, liberal in his household, 
 generous in his frugality, an indulgent moralist, glad 
 in the goodness of his heart, sincere in his moderation, 
 and awakening in every heart a longing desire for hap- 
 piness similar to his own. 
 
 Krasicki is the man of his epoch, not only of the 
 age he lived in, but for all ages to come, so long as we 
 will think, feel, and write in Polish. Krasicki had 
 
 * Tinder-carver — An honorary title among the ancient Polish 
 nobility. 
 
KRASICKI. 127 
 
 within him every quality to raise him to so high a 
 sphere. He possessed immense creative powers, an 
 original mind, and original ways of looking at things, — 
 qualities which in reality constitute a true poet. He 
 created a sphere to which he attracted the people 
 without any resistance on their part, — so much so that 
 his poetry became a necessary element in their 
 existence. 
 
 The great archbishop stands on the borders of the 
 eighteenth and nineteenth centuries; but the creation 
 and preparation of a boundless poetical sphere, and 
 bringing a general use of his ideas into different 
 strata of society, make him a poet not only of his age, 
 but also of the present time. 
 
 Krasicki was born in 173tfc at Dubiecko, now in the 
 southern part of Eussia-Poland. After finishing his 
 studies at Lemberg he resided at Eome. Eeturning to 
 his country he became a canon, and then a curate at 
 Przemyśl. When hardly thirty years old he presided 
 over the Ecclesiastical Tribunal at Lublin, and it was 
 not long after that the king, Stanislaus Augustus, made 
 him coadjutor of the old bishop, Grochowski, and 
 when he died in 1767 Krasicki succeeded him as the 
 Bishop of Warmia, with the title of a prince. In 1772, 
 after the first partition of Poland, when Warmia, with 
 the western part of Prussia, came under the reign of 
 Prussia, Krasicki became a vassal to Frederick II, who 
 having a sort of penchant to surround himself with 
 learned men took him to his side and invited him to 
 reside in his palace of Sans-Souci. When, after the last 
 partition of Poland, a considerable part of the king- 
 dom of Poland came under the Prussian dominion, 
 Krasicki was made the archbishop of Gniezno, in 1795, 
 and occupied that high place till his death. In 1800 
 
128 POETS AKD POETRY OF POLAND. 
 
 he was made a member of the Society of the Friends 
 of Learning at Warsaw. He died in 1801. 
 
 All his works were published at Warsaw in 1803 and 
 1804, in ten volumes; in Paris, 1830, ten volumes in 
 one; in Leipsic, 1834. Besides his encyclopaedic col- 
 lection of the most important information, alphabet- 
 ically arranged, his comedies u The Liar," "The Poli- 
 tician, " and " Solenizant" (the solemnizerof his birth- 
 day) were published under a pseudonym of Michael 
 Mowiński. 
 
 THE WAR OF CHOCIM. 
 
 Canto I. 
 
 Long in the murderous rolls of conquering fame 
 The Osmanlis, — scourge of God, — in proud success, 
 
 Had triumph'd. Devastation, blood and flame 
 They scatter'd in their fury, merciless. 
 
 Unsated even by slaughter they became 
 Prouder in power, — encouraged to oppress; 
 
 Half the wide world had recognized their sway, 
 
 And their stern scepter bade the rest obey. 
 
 Fall'n Greece! on thy majestic ruins, high 
 The haughty Moslem rears his tyrant throne; 
 
 How many desolated nations lie 
 
 In dust ! — how many suffering kingdoms groan ! 
 
 Towns, towers in ashes sink ; by his stern eye 
 Dismay'd, their terror trembling millions own, 
 
 Shuddering in dread, when with half-stifled breath 
 
 They see him wave the scimitar of death. 
 
 Before him fell the holy city's walls. 
 
 Thy daughters, Zion! wept in slavery long; 
 Whelm 'd in the dust thy palaces and halls. 
 
 No more Mount Calvary's sacred scenes among 
 
KRASICKI. 129 
 
 Kneel pious pilgrims; — drear desertion palls 
 
 The Savior's sacred tomb; an impious throng 
 Insulting trampled where to fallen man 
 Salvation's marvelous mystery began. 
 
 The valiant Osman then the throne possess'd, — 
 Osman, whose conquests like the ocean spread; 
 
 To daring deeds adventurously he press'd, 
 And joy'd his sire's ambitious path to tread. 
 
 His busy love of conquest found no rest, 
 But in devoting every Christian head. 
 
 Impious! to deem a tyrant's peevish rod 
 
 Could raze or blast what has been raised by God. 
 
 Such thoughts he cherishes; the powers of Hell 
 Fan his ambitious flame: before his eyes 
 
 They bid fresh wreaths of shadowy laurels dwell — 
 A filmy web; though victory's heedless cries 
 
 Ring in his ears like music, sorrow's swell 
 
 Seems joy, while in his soul stern thoughts arise. 
 
 'Twas thus deluded warrior bands became 
 
 A scourge to nations, — to the world a shame. 
 
 So from the palace happy quiet flies, — 
 
 The seat of peace is in the shelter'd cot; 
 When cares disturb the mind, sleep shuns the eyes, — 
 
 Sleep, not the monarch's, but the peasant's lot: 
 Though on a couch of down proud Osman lies, 
 
 Repose his weary eye-lids visits not. 
 'Twas dawn, — the star of morn palely shed 
 Her beams, when o'er him slumbers faintly spread. 
 
 The great Arch-fiend approach'd him, — he of old 
 Hurl'd down from highest heaven, — who bids abound 
 
 On earth both guilt and guile. A cloth of gold, 
 From distant India brought, encurtain'd 'round 
 9 
 
130 POETS AND POETEY OF POLAND. 
 
 The tyrant's bed: — in form of human mould 
 
 The daemon wrapp'd him; and with human sound, 
 While the false prophet's visible shape he took, 
 Thus to the deeply-slumbering monarch spoke : 
 
 "Nay! on a soft and an effeminate bed, 
 This is no fitting time, my son ! to taste 
 
 Oblivious sleep. Aurora blushing red 
 
 Heralds the morn; the pale stars sink to rest; 
 
 The sun uprises bright: — Awake! and lead 
 
 Those conquering bands who wait thy high behest: 
 
 Awake! and let thy great example tell, 
 
 Sloth cannot in the minds of heroes dwell. 
 
 " Awake ! let them behold in thee whate'er 
 Befits a conquering nation's monarch ; scorn 
 
 Of sloth; delight the steely mail to wear; 
 A wakeful eye anticipating morn: — 
 
 Thine arm'd host waits thee, nought is wanting there 
 To valor, but a leader; fierce they burn 
 
 For the wild joy of battle: — thus of yore 
 
 Their sires won fame; and lo! they pant for more. 
 
 " By glory led, whose brightly beaming light 
 Shines all propitious by the hero's side, 
 
 Each step is certain conquest; to the fight 
 A hero leading heroes; terror's tide 
 
 Shall whelm the Christians; and thy power shall blight 
 Each bud of hope for them; thy falchion dyed 
 
 With blood shall on the Faithful joy bestow, — 
 
 That sword which flashes death upon the foe." 
 
 As when the savage boar outstretch'd in sleep, 
 In his dark covert hidden, hears the horn 
 
 Of the sharp hunter, and from slumbers deep 
 
 Awakes in bursting wrath, and rage, and scorn, — 
 
KRASICKI. 131 
 
 Bristled and panting see the monster leap 
 
 Forth from his den; foaming and fury-torn 
 He dashes tow'rds the sounds, — so Osman sprung, 
 While round his dreaming eyes the vision hung. 
 
 And fierce and fatal were the threats which call'd 
 His troops around him then; the battle cloud 
 
 Spread darkly gathering. Armies were enthrall'd; 
 Viziers and Agas at the mandates loud, 
 
 And seldom-check'd Pachas, by fear appall'd, 
 
 Brought their attendant hordes, and meekly bow'd; 
 
 While scarce one welcoming, one approving glance 
 
 Escaped the frowning despot's countenance. 
 
 He stood among them like a pyramid 
 
 O'er-darkling with its shade the plain around, 
 
 And thus unveil'd his daring purpose, — hid 
 Till then ; while at the valor-stirring sound, 
 
 Prostration mute, and eager rapture bid 
 
 Meet utterance : — " Thou, the Koran's moat and mound, 
 
 Stretch out thy blade; thy foes shall pass away. 
 
 And prostrate earth adore the Prophet's sway. 
 
 11 Nobly thou hast begun, and so proceed ! 
 
 Let thy sword herald on the law divine; — 
 Destroy the impugners of the Prophet's creed, 
 
 But on the faithful let thy favor shine. 
 Thy glory shall encircle earth ; the meed 
 
 Of pious triumphs, — thou shalt raise a shrine 
 To victory. And as Rome was victory's queen, 
 Stamboul shall now become what Rome has been." 
 
 Skinder Pacha was there, — 'twas he who won 
 
 Cecora's bloody day, — and thus he gave 
 His monarch humble counsel: " Thy proud throne 
 
 Towers above all thrones, and thus thy slave 
 
132 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND. 
 
 Presumes t' advise. Since Poland's bravest son 
 
 Sleeps mouldering in his melancholy grave, 
 Be Poland thy first spoil: for Poland lies 
 Crouch 'd at thy feet, — and at thy frown she dies. 
 
 " Żółkiewski was their chief: his fame in war 
 
 Was mighty: toils and time had made him gray: 
 
 His band look'd proudly on their country's star; 
 His countless band ; and in the glimmering ray 
 
 Of faded recollections twinkling far 
 
 Sought hope ! Thou gav'st them to us as a prey, — 
 
 Thou, Prophet! whom they dared blaspheme. They fell, 
 
 As ever falls the insulting infidel. 
 
 " And now dismay has crowded on defeat, 
 And terror holds them in its heavy chains; 
 
 Send forth thy mandate, and they shall retreat, 
 O'erpower'd and scatter'd, as across the plains 
 
 An atom in a whirlwind. It were meet 
 
 To whelm in dust their wasted, weak remains, — 
 
 Their wives, their children, slavery's bonds await, — 
 
 All yield to fate, — and they must yield to fate. 
 
 " They have despised thee in their insolent pride ; 
 
 They have rebell'd against thy sovereign will ; 
 Laugh'd at thy awful frowns ; and turn'd aside 
 
 Prom thy bright smiles: and undespairing still, 
 Their obstinate zeal supports them. Chiefs divide, 
 
 And factions tear them; yet by force or skill 
 They hang together: and these stubborn foes 
 The only barrier to thy sway oppose." 
 
 Thus the fierce Skinder spoke: their lord's behest 
 Anxious the whole divan awaited. He 
 
 The wild, rude anger of his eye suppress'd; 
 While bursting joy, dim dreams of victory, 
 
KRASICKI. 133 
 
 And restless passions struggled in his breast. 
 
 He bow'd assent : and with proud dignity 
 Threw round him a dark glance of light afar. 
 And utter'd, " War, my warriors! nought but war!" 
 
 He said that he himself his troops would head, 
 And lead them on to triumph. At the word 
 
 A murmuring concert-tone of gladness spread, 
 And loud eulogiums on their valiant lord ; 
 
 For armies when by hero-monarchs led, 
 
 Know no defeat. A sultan's self-drawn sword 
 
 Flashes with victory. A chieftain brave 
 
 Makes all his followers spurn the gaping grave. 
 
 Then to the camp vast crowds of warriors throng, 
 From every quarter summon'd. Shouts of joy 
 
 And the gay music of the battle-song 
 
 Bid the heart leap, and light the ebon eye. 
 
 There young and old, children and sires, among 
 The gathering band are mix'd tumultuously; 
 
 And many an oath is heard, and many a vow 
 
 To Allah and the Prophet utter'd now. 
 
 And o'er the palace portal high unroll'd, 
 
 The Prophet's banner, deck'd with pearls and gems, 
 
 Floated. It was a sheet of broiderd gold, 
 Sparkling with jewels fit for diadems, 
 
 Which dazzle when their brightness we behold: 
 And the sublimest of all apothegms: 
 
 " There is no god but God, — and Mahomet 
 
 His Prophet is." on the bright field was set. 
 
 And proudly to the wind its folds it flung, 
 
 And million voices blended all around; 
 The clashing cymbals high aloft were flung. 
 
 The spahts shouts, and the strange babel-sound 
 
134 POETS AND POETEY OF POLAND. 
 
 Of countless voices uttering joy, o'er-rung 
 
 All heaven ; the war-steeds stamp'd the dusty ground, 
 Eager for battle. Osman bent his head, 
 And to the crowds the white-lock'd Mufti said: 
 
 "Ye have been chosen, Faithful! from the crowd 
 Of nations, sacred duties, mighty deeds 
 
 Triumphant to accomplish. Victory loud 
 Calls to the noble strife where victory leads; 
 
 Heaven blesses Ismael's sons; their banner proud, 
 With glory seated on its shrine, proceeds; 
 
 The Prophet's standard blinds the Infidel, 
 
 And God's bright smiles of light around it dwell. 
 
 "Yes, Osman! glorious thy reward shall be! 
 
 Bright as the dreams that pla} r around thee now 
 Shall be the future's dazzling victory; 
 
 And high as night's proud stars thy fame shall glow 
 O'er thy ruin'd foes. At thy decree 
 
 Cecora's scatter'd fragments swift shall go 
 Into oblivion. Thou shalt reign alone, 
 And all the prostrate world thy mandates own." 
 
 Then the mysterious Koran-tome he took, 
 And read its dark and deleterious page ; 
 
 Mingling new cheats with that all-cheating book, 
 He pours his blasphemies ; then strove to engage, 
 
 With a devout but most dissembling look, 
 
 Heaven's smiles upon the tyrant, — to assuage 
 
 Heaven's frowns ; and on the chiefs, and on the crowd, 
 
 Saints*, Mulahs, and Imams, pour'd blessings loud. 
 
 Then to his palace he return'd, and soon 
 
 Warriors from every quarter join'd his train; 
 
 From whence Euphrates, lighted by the moon, 
 
 Bursts through his cliff-bound way; and from the plain 
 
 * Santons. 
 

 KRASICKI. 135 
 
 Where rolls the yellow Tigris 'neath the noon, 
 
 Rushing in rapid depths toward the main: 
 And from the jagged and the granite shores, 
 Where fierce Araxes through the hard rocks roars. 
 
 And whence the solemn Xilus rolls his tide, 
 
 Enriching at each step Egyptian lands, 
 To where in seven-mouth 'd eloquence of pride 
 
 He breaks impatient from his earthly bands 
 Into the Ocean's bridal bed. The wide 
 
 And scorch'd Sahara, and Xumidia's sands, 
 Sent forth their sons, and Ethiopia's eye 
 Look'd proudly on her troops of ebony. 
 
 From Yemen came a sturdy shepherd race, 
 
 Bronzed in the fierceness of the burning sun; — 
 
 The tribes of Fez, who deem it a disgrace 
 
 To spare or sympathize where gore-streams run; 
 
 From Mecca : from Medina — hallow'd place ! 
 Scene of the Prophet's birth: from Lebanon 
 
 And from Mount Carmel's sides: — impatient all, 
 
 Panting for fame, and reckless though they fall. 
 
 But who can count them, — who, — when all array'd 
 They pass'd before the sultan's raptured eye? 
 
 He saw his million vassals who display'd 
 
 Their gorgeous pomp: and hope's light ecstasy. 
 
 Scepters and crowns and mighty kingdoms laid 
 At his proud feet by victory. To the sky 
 
 Tower'd his ambitious thoughts; his frowns he huiTd 
 
 And pour'd his threats of insult o'er the world. 
 
 HOW MUCH TO DRIXK. 
 
 You may drink of wine three times at a feast. 
 The first small glass won't hurt you in the least. 
 The second you drink to the health of friends, 
 And if you stop there, all pleasantly ends. 
 
136 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND. 
 
 But suppose you drink the third to the guest, 
 Be sure that at this point you will rest — 
 For the fourth begets a coarseness of speech, 
 Words rude and vulgar your converse will reach; 
 At the fifth your anger is uncontrolled, 
 Loudly you talk — not knowing where to hold; 
 And if, after all these, a sixth succeed, 
 You are left in a wretched state indeed; 
 And one's perception need not be acute 
 To see you've reached the level of a brute ! 
 
 DRUNKENNESS. 
 
 A SATIRE. 
 
 Where were you? T can hardly go. Are you sick? Yes, 
 
 You know I never humor myself to excess; 
 
 But such a headache as I've had words can't convey. 
 
 You must have surely had a gay time yesterday — 
 
 That's why you are sad to-day, how was it? I think, 
 
 After a luscious meal, water is good to drink. 
 
 Nay, not so good my friend, — and may that man be cursed 
 
 (IT1 tell you how it was) who used that proverb first. . 
 
 Day before yesterday I got drunk — wife's birthday; 
 
 I regret it not — that occasion should be gay. 
 
 'Tis a great day you know — nor is it very wrong 
 
 To raise your neighbor's spirits — wife was full of song. 
 
 We had lots of wine, and its quality was prime, 
 
 So you can bet we drank and we had a big time. 
 
 Till morn the feast continued, about noon I woke — 
 
 Head like a chunk of lead — to cough and spit and choke; 
 
 Madame proposed tea, but that's sickening, you know; 
 
 Somehow, 'twas but a chance, I passed a drug store. So 
 
 I took a drink of bitters, as anybody would, 
 
 Then I drank again, thinking it would do me good. 
 
KRASICKI. 137 
 
 Still sick, again I drank, then I felt better quite, 
 
 And thus, then, happened two guests of yesternight; 
 
 Under such conditions a treat I could not shun — 
 
 And then how can one treat and yet himself drink none? 
 
 That wouldn't do. I drank, it happened, so you see, 
 
 The liquor was A No. 1, and hot as it could be. 
 
 That's good for the stomach, and as my good luck willed, 
 
 The nausea was stopped — that dreadful headache stilled. 
 
 Well, again, to happy home with my friends I went, 
 
 We found dinner ready, and it was excellent. 
 
 Mr. Andrew said temperance was a thing he prized, 
 
 Aye, long live temperance! drunkenness we despised. 
 
 At hand stood the bottle, the cork beside it laid, 
 
 Mr. Albert of dyspepsia somewhat afraid, 
 
 After the ham eaten, proposed a little wine. 
 
 One or two glasses drank for the health is fine, 
 
 Especially when the wine is pure and past its youth. 
 
 We acceded all to such self-evident truth — 
 
 Talked of manly spirit, of bold and grand designs, 
 
 Talked of gold and silver, of digging in the mines. 
 
 And so the bottle dried up — how? we scarcely knew, 
 
 And so another came — and while our ardor grew, 
 
 Disappeared the third, the fourth, and then the fifth came on, 
 
 Then the sixth and seventh and eighth and the tenth was gone ! 
 
 And when our arguments grew louder and more free, 
 
 Mr. Andrew dared to fling the name of fellow at me. 
 
 I, a fellow! I'll teach you not to be so bold — 
 
 At me he goes, and I at him, we took fierce hold. 
 
 Albert interposed, and the servants next appeared, 
 
 I really do not know how the quarrel cleared — 
 
 Certes it is a bottle was broken on my head, 
 
 Be drunkenness below to darkest regions sped! 
 
 What is there in it? There is trouble, strife and pain, 
 
 Nausea, bruises, plasters — these are its only gain. 
 
 Well said: a pastime 'tis to which the lowest cling, 
 
 An upright man will scorn it as a shameless thing. 
 
138 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND. 
 
 All sorts of feuds and trouble from its reign outcome — 
 
 Mem'ry grows dull — reasoning powers grow numb; 
 
 Health suffers, and its victim hastens to life's brink. 
 
 Just look upon a man who is a slave to drink! 
 
 A man but in appearance — really a brute. 
 
 When a man is drunk 'tis fitting to compute 
 
 Him with senseless cattle — justice, not abuse. 
 
 If heaven thought fit to place wine here for man's use, 
 
 It was to help him, not to incapacitate — 
 
 The use of God's great gifts should e'er be moderate. 
 
 Though dumb brutes are senseless we oft are shamed by them. 
 
 Intemperance is a sin' that animals condemn 
 
 In men who drink but not alone to slack their thirst. 
 
 Brutes drink what is needful — man who calls them accurst 
 
 Is worse indeed than they are, more abject and low. 
 
 Heed not the wounds and piasters; the meed of guilt is — woe! 
 
 Far greater punishment than those bruises is meet 
 
 For those that keep transgressing in their blind conceit. 
 
 Knowledge, which distinguishes man from animal, 
 
 They often disregard for causes small. 
 
 What gain is sufficient to balance its neglect; 
 
 For its loss what profits sufficient can collect. 
 
 In those who commit not excesses base and vain 
 
 You'll find good sense and comfort — and freedom from all pain. 
 
 See the results that with temperance agree — 
 
 Perfect health, cloudless brain, and a mind gay and free; 
 
 Strength exceptional, and energy for their tasks; 
 
 Property in order, in smiles their household basks; 
 
 Cash to meet each needful and sensible expense, — 
 
 These are the inducements to follow temperance; 
 
 And aught but total abstinence is risky, 
 
 It is: Good-bye — I go to take a drink of whisky. 
 
KKASICKI. 139 
 
 FABLES. 
 
 THE KING. 
 
 A certain king there was of projects grand 
 Would register the wise ones of the land, 
 The names likewise of all the happy found, 
 And set the scribes to search the kingdom round. 
 The seeker for the happy found but few, 
 But great the multitude of wise ones grew, 
 So great the scribe beheld his labor vain, 
 No paper left the number to contain! 
 
 THE LAZY OXEN. 
 
 The first commission of an ill 
 
 Delight is no less; 
 'Tis. in the effect it brings about 
 
 That lies the bitterness. 
 As easily is proven by 
 This most veracious history. 
 
 In spring the oxen all refused 
 
 To plough the grassy plain ; 
 When autumn came they would not haul 
 
 From out the fields the grain. 
 In winter, being scarce of bread, 
 They knocked the oxen on the head. 
 
 THE MOSQUITO AND THE FLY. 
 
 If we must fly at all, I know 
 
 We should soar neither high nor low, 
 Mosquito said, who, buzzing by, 
 
 Saw in a pail a drowning fly. 
 And sadly he bemoaned its fate, 
 
 That it had not been fortunate, 
 And, like himself, had wings to fly 
 
 Where'er he willed, or low or high, 
 
140 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND. 
 
 And mourning o'er its fate he turned, 
 Fell in the candle and was burned. 
 
 ; THE BOYS AND THE FROGS. 
 
 At evening a small lake beside 
 
 A group of boys with hop and stride 
 
 Watching to see the frogs, ran by; 
 And when a frog with motion spry 
 
 Popped up, knowing of naught to dread, 
 They dealt a blow upon its head 
 
 Their love of sport to gratify. 
 
 But one frog, bolder than the rest, 
 With courage thus the boys addressed, 
 
 The while he rose into their sight: 
 " You'd better stop, — it is not right 
 
 For you to play the way you do ; 
 It is but senseless sport for you, 
 
 For us 'tis death, or wounds and fright." 
 
 THE RAM AND THE JACKASS. 
 
 The ass complained in moving words 
 
 It was a shame and sin 
 To cast him from the stable out 
 
 And let the ram within; 
 But while the loudest were his moans 
 Thus spake the ram in bitter tones: 
 
 " Be quiet, pray, my long-eared friend; 
 
 With anger be less rife, 
 A butcher's standing by my side 
 
 With ready, sharpened knife. 
 Comfort yourself with this conceit; 
 ' Mankind will not eat jackass' meat! ' ' 
 
KRASICKI. 141 
 
 THE STANDISH AND THE PEN, 
 
 Betwixt the standish and the pen 
 
 A dreadful quarrel rose, 
 Which came to words of bitter kind, 
 
 Black looks and almost blows, 
 As to which penned a certain fable 
 That lay just written on the table. 
 
 Its author in the meanwhile came 
 
 The library within, 
 And, finding out the cause of this 
 
 Most sad and dang'rous din 
 Exclaimed: " How many bards at war 
 Just like this pen and standish are! " 
 
 THE DOG AND HIS MASTER. 
 
 A certain dog of watchful kind 
 
 To scare the thief away 
 Barked from the setting of the sun 
 
 Until the dawn of day. 
 His master at the morning light 
 Flogged him for barking thus all night. 
 
 Next night the dog in kennel slept 
 
 Sound with prodigious snore, 
 The thief broke in and seizing all 
 
 Made exit by the door. 
 When morning came they flogged the brute 
 Because the lazy dog was mute. 
 
 THE TALLOW-CANDLE AND THE TORCH. 
 
 A tallow-candle and a torch, 
 
 Both in a narrow place, 
 
 Were lighted, when the first began 
 
 To speak, with fancied grace: 
 
 " Fear not the dark, my glimmering brother, 
 
 My light shall the darkness smother." 
 
142 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND. 
 
 " Fool ! " said the torch, " and thinkest thou 
 
 That all the world are blind, 
 
 That thy pretensions will deceive 
 
 A sensible mankind? 
 
 Or that they do no difference know 
 
 'Twixt my bright light and thy faint glow ! ' 
 
 THE FOOL AND THE SAGE. 
 
 A fool one day a wise man asked 
 What good was there in learning, 
 
 If it improved one's happiness 
 And ought diminished mourning; 
 
 E'er mended coats or broiled a goose, — 
 
 In short, what was its aim or use? 
 
 At first the sage refused to speak, 
 But for a long time pressed, 
 
 In angry words yet courteous tones 
 This answer apt expressed: 
 
 " It becomes us this, its chiefest rule, 
 
 To give no answer to a fool." 
 
 THE TORTOISE AND THE MOUSE. 
 
 A tortoise crawling o'er the plain, 
 
 Bearing her shelly house, 
 Met 'fore she long had traveled 
 
 A fat and pompous mouse, ■ 
 Who said: " I pity one past telling, 
 Who hath to carry such a dwelling." 
 
 " Reserve your pity, pray, my friend," 
 
 The tortoise calm replied, 
 " And hie you to the palaces 
 
 Of man, to bloat your pride; 
 Though mine is formed of clumsy bone, 
 And is not handsome — 'tis my own." 
 
KRASICKI. 143 
 
 THE HAUGHTY RAT. 
 
 Upon the altar, during mass, 
 
 One Sabbath morn there sat, 
 Surrounded by admiring friends, 
 
 A consequential rat. 
 11 For me," said he, " the incense floats, 
 And peal yon swelling organ notes.' 1 
 
 E'en as he spoke, the incense cloud, 
 
 Borne by the summer breeze, 
 Came curling o'er the altar top 
 And made his ratship sneeze. 
 Hearing the sound, a wary cat 
 Leaped up — adieu, my haughty rat! 
 
 THE CAT AND THE HOUND. 
 
 A pussy who in corner sat, 
 
 Devouring dainty mice, 
 Was by a mighty stag-hound asked 
 
 Why lived she not more nice? 
 Said he, " I eat no mice-like gear, 
 But seize and slay the stately deer." 
 
 The cat replied with modest look, 
 
 " I grant my mice are small, 
 But please, my friend, to recollect, 
 
 That I consume them all; 
 Preferring for myself a mouse, 
 To a deer for my master's house." 
 
 THE TWO PAINTERS. 
 
 Two painters once, 'tis" said, there were, 
 
 Each bore a wond'rous name; 
 But one far o'er the other stood 
 
 In point of noisy fame. 
 
144 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND. 
 
 The best no cash nor blessing got, 
 The worst one had them both, I wot. 
 
 The first his portraits made from nature, 
 
 True to the copied one ; 
 Correct in every form and feature, 
 
 With faithful care 'twas done. 
 The last drew little on truth's store, 
 Embellishing from fancy more. 
 
 THE CHILD AND THE ROD. 
 
 The father whipped his child because 
 
 He was so slow to learn; 
 Imagining the smart would make 
 
 Him smarter to discern. 
 But e'er that way again he trod 
 His son and heir had burned the rod. 
 
 Next time when little John deserved 
 
 A heavy punishment, 
 The father, to the usual place, 
 
 To find his weapon went. 
 And, as 'twas missing, he was fain 
 To use instead his walking cane. 
 
 THE SHEPHERD AND HIS SHEEP. 
 
 A shepherd shearing sheep one day 
 Declaimed most zealously 
 
 Upon the care was ta'en of sheep, 
 From utter charity. 
 
 How they had homes to rest their feet 
 
 And in the winter food to eat. 
 
 The sheep he held was mute — 
 
 The angry peasant cried, 
 "Ungrateful! no acknowledgment?" 
 
 When calmly it replied — 
 
KRASICKI. 145 
 
 " Well, God must pay men for their care: 
 From what is made the coats they wear?" 
 
 THE CAPTIVE BIRD. 
 
 " Why weepest thou? 1 ' a youngling bird 
 
 To older one appealed, 
 "Art thou not better in this cage 
 
 Than in yon dangerous field? 
 For me the prison-house and care, 
 'Fore danger and the open air," ' 
 
 " Peace !" said the elder bird, " be still ! 
 
 Within this thou wert born; 
 But I have known the hallowed sweets 
 
 Of freedom in life's morn. 
 Bright liberty once sunned my brow, 
 I weep that I'm a prisoner now." 
 
 THE PHILOSOPHER. 
 
 There lived somewhere, in olden time, 
 
 A proud philosopher, 
 Who, fixed in his opinions, thought 
 
 That he could never err. 
 Progressed through life without assistance, 
 And scoffed the thought of God's existence. 
 
 But sickness came, and with its pangs 
 
 Came loss of fortitude ; 
 And he who measured heaven's space, 
 
 And farther'st planets viewed, 
 Came not alone a God to know, 
 But all the fiends of hell ; also. 
 10 
 
146 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND. 
 
 WENGIERSKI. 
 
 Thomas Kajetan Wengierski, the Polish Piron, was 
 born in Podolia in 1755, and educated by the Jesuits 
 at Nowe Miasto, as also at Warsaw. He became a 
 chamberlain to the king Stanislaus Augustus, but his 
 unbridled passion tor satires and epigrams caused him 
 many bitter enemies. All his writings are distinguished 
 for smoothness and great wit. His ' c Calash " and ' ' The 
 Philosopher" are short poems, but excellent. He is 
 also the author of "Organy" (the organs), a poem of 
 great power and bitter satire. His satirical attacks of 
 persons connected with the king's court caused his dis- 
 missal, and he was obliged to leave the country. 
 
 He traveled in England, Italy, France, Martinique, 
 Hayti, St. Domingo and the United States of North 
 America. He gave a lucid account of his travels in 
 Southern France and Italy in the French language, but 
 the rest of his peregrinations were written in his native 
 tongue. 
 
 There is no denying that Wengierski was a poet of 
 great genius, but his language is occasionally some- 
 what loose. He died at Marseilles quite young (at the 
 age of thirty-two), having impaired his health and 
 shortened his life by all sorts of excesses. 
 
 Lucian Siemieński, in his "Literary Portraits," pub- 
 lished in 1850, wrote an article on the "Travels and 
 Reminiscences of Wengierski," mentioning many inter- 
 esting incidents in the poet's life, softening greatly the 
 asperse criticisms on Wengierski, and acquainting us 
 with the unknown part of his life and character. 
 
VVENGIEESKI. 147 
 
 MY WIFE. 
 
 A DREAM. 
 
 Strangely 'wilder'd I must seem, 
 I was married in a dream, — 
 Oh, the ecstasy of bliss! 
 Brother! what a joy it is! 
 Think about it and confess 
 'Tis a storm of happiness, — 
 And the memory is to me 
 Sunbeams, — but sixteen was she. 
 Cheeks of roses red and white; 
 Mouth like Davia's ; eyes of light, 
 Fiery, round, of raven hue, 
 Swimming, but coquettish too; 
 Ivory teeth; lips fresh as dew; 
 Bosom beauteous, hand of down, 
 Fairy foot. She stood alone 
 In her graces, — she was mine, 
 And I drank her charms divine. 
 
 * * * * 4 
 
 But in early years our schemes 
 Are but showy, shadowy dreams; 
 For a season they deceive, 
 Then our souls in darkness leave. 
 Oft the bowl the water bears, 
 Yet 'tis useless soon with years; 
 First it cracks, and then it leaks, 
 And at last — at last it breaks. 
 All things with beginning tend 
 To their melancholy end — 
 So her beauty fled. 
 
 Then did anger, care and malice 
 Mingle up their bitter chalice. 
 
148 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND. 
 
 Kiches like a whirlwind flew, 
 
 Honors, gifts, and glories too; 
 
 And my lovely wife, so mild, 
 
 Fortune's frail and flattered child, 
 
 Spent our wealth, as if the day 
 
 Ne'er would dim or pass away; 
 
 And — 0, monstrous thought ! — the fair 
 
 Scratched my eyes, and tore my hair; 
 
 Nought but misery was our guest, 
 
 So I sought the parish priest. 
 
 " Father! grant me a divorce — 
 Nay, you will grant it me, of course: 
 Reasons many can be given, — 
 Keasons both of earth and heaven." 
 
 " I know all you wish to say: 
 Have you wherewithal to pay? 
 Money is a thing of course, — 
 Money may obtain divorce." 
 
 " Reverend father! hear me, please ye, 
 'Tis not an affair so easy." 
 " Silence, child! where money's needed 
 Eloquence is superseded." 
 
 Then I talked of morals; but 
 The good father's ears were shut. 
 With a fierce and frowning look 
 Off he drove me, — 
 
 And I woke. 
 
 WHAT ONE LIKES. 
 
 " Co kto lubi." 
 
 Let the toper his empty glass fill, 
 And the gambler throw his dice with skill; 
 Let the huntsman gallop his steed at will, 
 And the warrior other warriors kill; 
 
WENGIERSKI 149 
 
 Let the courtier buzz in the palace gate, 
 The usurer eat the youth's estate; 
 The lawyer pillage and prose and prate, 
 And rob even beggars, with looks sedate; 
 The monk may leave his sandals where 
 They tell strange tales, — I nothing care, 
 If of this world's follies I get my share ; 
 Let each just as he likes — that's fair. 
 
 The end of life is happiness. — Pursue 
 
 That end life's transitory journey through, 
 
 Nor fear, on earth, while happiness pursuing, 
 
 That thou art storing up for heaven thy ruin. 
 
 But if thou fear the future, oh, beware 
 
 At every step, and tread with cautious care; 
 
 For in this world, to sin and sin unheeded, 
 
 A very decent character is needed ; 
 
 So get a character, and then just do 
 
 Whate'er you please, — the world will smile on you. 
 
 Helter skelter, a dandy scuds over the streets, 
 
 With his hot, foaming steeds, helter skelter, 
 The dread and annoyance of all that he meets, 
 
 Who fly at his coming for shelter. 
 His horses he flogs and cries " Out of the way, 1 ' 
 
 As they tear up the pebbles and stones, sir; 
 And he thinks it a great condescension to say 
 
 " Be off ! or I'll break all your bones, sir." 
 I saw him once knock a poor mendicant down, 
 
 And laugh as the luckless one stumbled; 
 And I said, " E'er he reaches the verge of the town 
 
 That cold-hearted pride will be humbled ! 
 Sure a tyrant like this, one so reckless and base, 
 
 Should be curl'd to be cautious or quiet." 
 But still he dash'd on in his life-scorning race, 
 
 Till he rattled toward Nowy Siviat* 
 
 * Nowy Swiat," the New World, — a fashionable part of Warsaw. 
 
150 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND. 
 
 When he struck on a stone at a corner — and smack 
 
 Went the axle, and down came the hero. 
 He was thrown like a stone from a sling, on his back, 
 
 And his pride sunk at once below zero. 
 I have seen him on crutches, and hope he has found 
 
 This secret — I need not reveal it, — 
 'Tis easy indeed to occasion a wound, 
 
 But not very easy to heal it. 
 
TREMBECKI. 151 
 
 TREMBECKI. 
 
 Stanislaus Trembecki was a man of extraordinary 
 powers of mind. He possessed the greatest facility of 
 being easily impressed with all kinds of literary crea- 
 tions. He was well versed in Latin literature, wrote 
 in French as well as in Polish, and was thoroughly 
 learned in all Slavonic languages. In life, and in the 
 world around him, objects presented themselves to him 
 only as themes for writing poetry upon. He praised 
 many people and many things, but he loved no one 
 and nothing. He never had a soul-attachment to any 
 one. Persons and things that interested him he loved 
 but for a little while. "Not having the popularity of 
 Krasicki, he was superior to him in taste and poetic 
 talent. Among the learned he had a great repute. 
 He composed satires, letters, fables, on common and 
 political subjects. We must also add that he was dis- 
 tinguished in epic poetry. In his lyrics he was cold 
 and constrained, but occasionally he warmed up with 
 patriotic feeling, but even then he was more eloquent 
 than poetic. His satires were the fruits of momentary 
 impressions and tools of contention. Open and hab- 
 itual derider, he comes out with bitterness and severity, 
 never trying to smooth things over with harmless wit 
 or even irony, frequently using common and even 
 coarse expressions. In his panegyrics he frequently 
 piles flattery with great profusion. Epic poetry was his 
 chief pursuit, in which he distinguished himself as the 
 poet most conversant with the patterns of the masters 
 of antiquity. Initiated into the mysteries of poetic 
 spirit, in the riches and adaptation of his native 
 
152 POETS AND POETKY OF POLAND. 
 
 tongue he was gifted with aesthetic feeling and a deli- 
 cate taste. Although an imitator and a disciple of a 
 new school, he did not know how to become a national 
 writer, neither did he wish to approach the grateful 
 simplicity and freshness of the poets of Sigismund's 
 times, yet he equaled them in power, dignity, and fer- 
 tility, but in the outward smoothness and polish consid- 
 erably outstripped them. 
 
 His most celebrated poem is "Zofiówka" (Sophia's 
 Park or Garden), a description of a garden of that 
 name, the property of Count Potocki, situated close to 
 the city of Humań, in Ukraine. In this park of mag- 
 nificent proportions and great beauty is a grotto, on 
 entering which your senses are struck with a delightful 
 sight of rare works of art and many wonderful curiosi- 
 ties. As you gaze around it the spell of enchantment 
 only increases, and you almost imagine that you have 
 entered the gates of Paradise. The following in scrip tion 
 in Polish may perhaps be seen up to this day over the 
 grotto, the meaning of which is this: 
 
 Before you enter here leave your troubles all behind, — 
 If you're already happy, more happiness you'll find. 
 
 The conciseness of presenting high thoughts, the power, 
 skill, and the appropriateness in description, the inim- 
 itable skill in the outer form of the verse, distinguish 
 him from all his contemporaries. Trembecki has been 
 called more of an artist than a poet. 
 
 He was born in 1723. While yet very young he 
 traveled over nearly all Europe, and resided for some 
 time in Paris, where he contracted a friendly intimacy 
 with many distinguished French poets. It was there 
 that he was impressed with the philosophy of the eigh- 
 teenth century, and with the manners and customs of 
 
TREMBECKI. 153 
 
 the French court of Louis XV. He fought thirty duels, 
 the cause of almost every one being women. Returning 
 to his country he became chamberlain to King Stanis- 
 laus Augustus; from this time hence he lived at War- 
 saw, and was engaged in the, composition of different 
 kinds of verses. After the abdication of King Ponia- 
 towski he remained with him continually at Grodno 
 and St. Petersburg. After the king's death he resided 
 at Tulczyn, in the Province of Podolia, at Count 
 Potocki' s manor. For thirty years he never ate meat 
 nor drank any wine. Toward the end of his life he 
 associated with but very few, and scarcely left his 
 house. He spent one clay in the week giving alms. 
 He died in 1812. 
 
 All his works were published in 1828, in two vol- 
 umes, at Breslau, and in Leipsic in 1806 and 1836. 
 Quite a learned dissertation on Trembecki's poetry was 
 published by Hippolitus Klimaszewski in 1830. "Zo- 
 fiówka" was translated into French by De Lagarde. 
 
 BALLOON. 
 
 Where the eagle in his rapid flight 
 
 With strong pursuit the birds do scare — 
 
 And lurid thunderbolts with angry might 
 Rush through the regions of the air. 
 
 A strange pair whom fear has never checked, 
 
 Resolved to o'ercome Nature's laws; 
 And striking the road where Icarus wrecked, 
 
 Soared through the clouds without a pause. 
 
 With gas the vehicle the pair innate, 
 Upward the air its course inclines — 
 
 Its chains are threads, its rudder is fate, 
 They are competing with the winds. 
 
154 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND. 
 
 The lofty, gorgeous houses, one by one, 
 Lessen and disappear from sight, 
 
 And looking from the trap of the balloon — 
 A ruined heap they all unite. 
 
 The broad Vistula, so august and grand, 
 
 Looked like a stream whose drops would fail, 
 
 Its width like a finger from a child's hand, 
 Though it flowed grandly in the vale. 
 
 Yet some attribute wonders strangely great 
 
 To this unsafe and crazy craft, 
 Perhaps 'tis so, yet I may truly state, 
 
 Wise men have at their judgment laughed. 
 
 Yet we admit that Nature's giant might 
 Has burst strong walls of stone and steel, 
 
 Man's wisdom, too, all obstacles shall smite — 
 But give him time with work and zeal. 
 
 With gallant ships his fertile brain has filled 
 The stormy and the pathless main, 
 
 Of gems to rob the ocean he is skilled — 
 Eternal rocks he rends in twain. 
 
 The mighty elements their wrath forego 
 Under his skilled and wise command; 
 
 He bids the waters leave the valleys low, 
 And mountains sink to level land ! 
 
NIEMCEWICZ. 
 
NIEMCEWICZ. 157 
 
 NIEMCEWICZ. 
 
 With pleasure Heaven itself surveys 
 A brave man struggling in the storms of fate, 
 And greatly falling with the falling state. Pope. 
 
 Julian Ursin Niemcewicz, secretary to the senate of 
 the kingdom of Poland, and soon after a senator, 
 president of the Royal Society of Science of Warsaw, 
 and member of many literary societies in Europe and 
 America, was born of an ancient and respectable family 
 in Lithuania, in the year 1T5S. As citizen, statesman, 
 author, historian, and poet, he shone with an eclat 
 unparalleled since the clays of Crichton. While still 
 very young he was elected representative of the palati- 
 nate of Polish Livonia to the diets of 1788 and 1792. 
 Much civil courage was requisite in those assemblies to 
 combat the menaces and intrigues of the factions, and 
 much activity to repress the turbulence of the people; 
 for in addition to the dangers to be apprehended from 
 exterior enemies, the ambition, interest, and prejudices 
 of the great, and the ignorance of the people, were 
 opposed to the efforts of the patriots. 
 
 The young Niemcewicz, endowed with a generous 
 mind and superior talents, knew how to merit this 
 doubje praise. Amidst the representatives of his 
 country his eloquence was poured forth in defense of 
 the sacred cause of rational liberty, and sustained the 
 rights of the peasant against the usurped privileges of 
 the aristocrat when this important question was before 
 the house. To disseminate his principles he united 
 with two of his colleagues, — the castellan Thadeus 
 
158 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND. 
 
 Mostowski, and the representative of Livonia, Joseph 
 Weyssenhoff, in publishing a political journal; and 
 notwithstanding the s-hort duration of " The Foreign 
 and National Gazette " (1st January, 1791), it rendered 
 important service to the public cause. The muse of 
 Niemcewicz, by chanting in spirited strains the exploits 
 of the heroes of his country, kindled the torch of 
 patriotism in the breasts of their compatriots. The 
 laurel that entwines the brow of the hero would wither 
 in his tomb if, like that of Achilles, it were not pre- 
 served by the bard in unfading freshness. Niemcewicz 
 also made the theater subservient to his ruling passion. 
 One of his comedies, the "Return of the Representa- 
 tive," displays equally his talents and public spirit. 
 During the public fetes on the anniversary of the 3d 
 of May, 1791, a new drama (Casimir the Great) had 
 the honor of embellishing the national rejoicings, 
 adding to his fame, and acquiring lasting and deserved 
 popularity. The memorable day on which it was 
 enacted was the last of Poland's happiness. A handful 
 of traitors, bribed by the empress, Catharine III, sup- 
 ported by her troops, and encouraged by the shameful 
 irresolution of King Stanislaus Augustus, with the deadly 
 blight of their treason blasted the councils of the 
 brave, and prepared for the ruin of their unfortunate 
 country. But Poland did not yield without covering 
 herself with immortal glory during the last moments 
 of her political existence. The illustrious Kościuszko 
 raised the standard of independence, and placed him- 
 self at the head of those brave men who resolved to 
 bury themselves under the ruins of their country. The 
 young Niemcewicz became aid-de-camp to the general- 
 issimo. It was he who composed the proclamations, 
 orders of the day, and bulletins of the battles, — all 
 
NIEMCEWICZ. 1 59 
 
 dictated by ardent love for Poland and for glory. But 
 when, after unhoped-for success, the fatal day of the 
 10th of October, 1794, covered Poland with mourning, 
 and Kościuszko, pierced with wounds, fell into the 
 hands of the enemy on the field of Macieiowice, the 
 brave Niemcewicz, also grievously wounded, shared 
 his fate. They were sent, with a number of other 
 illustrious victims, to the dungeons of St. Petersburg. 
 In their solitary confinement they mourned over the 
 fate of Poland until the accession of Paul I to the 
 throne of Russia restored 14,000 Polanders, dispersed 
 through Siberia and the different strongholds of the 
 vast Russian empire, to liberty. But the virtuous 
 Niemcewicz seemed destined to form an exception to 
 the amnesty of 1797. Niemcewicz still inspired the 
 new czar with suspicion. "I fear," said Paul, "that 
 his ardent mind, vast intellectual powers, and persua- 
 sive eloquence will excite new troubles in my empire." 
 The entreaties of Kościuszko overcame the fears of the 
 czar, and Niemcewicz followed his immortal friend into 
 that refuge of oppressed virtue, the hospitable land 
 of America. In exile, as well as in captivity, he found 
 in letters his chief consolation. It was in his Russian 
 prison that he composed his beautiful translation of the 
 "Rape of the Lock," and of "Racine's Athalia." 
 Desirous of seeing his family he sailed for Warsaw in 
 1809, and there published his works in twelve volumes. 
 Received into the Scientific Society, he joined in their 
 labors, and wrote some political tracts, which are 
 greatly esteemed. It was in Paris, in 1803, that he 
 was invited into Russia, where the government offered 
 him employment; but disdaining to serve the spoilers 
 of his country, he refused the offers of Alexander, and 
 returned to America, where he married a lady native of 
 
160 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND. 
 
 ]STew Jersey, whose talents and agreeable qualities 
 formed the frequent theme of his muse during his short 
 visit to Europe. During his former visit to America 
 he had, with his general, Kościuszko, been admitted into 
 the friendship of the immortal Washington. In the verd- 
 ant groves of his charming residence in Mount Yernon, 
 and on the banks of the superb Potomac, Niemcewicz 
 mused on the condition of his beloved Poland, or con- 
 templated the august' figure of the most virtuous of 
 Americans, until his sentiments of respect and venera- 
 tion for this hero found utterance in his biography of 
 George Washington. The events of 1806, the creation 
 of the grand duchy of Warsaw, and their hopes of 
 the complete restoration of Poland, caused many of 
 her patriots to return thither, and among the rest 
 JŃiemcewicz, who was nominated . secretary to the 
 senate — an office he filled until 1830. The muses 
 were his relaxation, science and his duties as a states- 
 man his occupation, and the veneration of his com- 
 patriots his solace. Frederick Augustus, King of 
 Saxony and Grand Duke of Warsaw, conferred upon 
 him the order of St. Stanislaus. He was afterward 
 nominated a member of the Directory of Public In- 
 struction; he devoted himself to this honorable office, 
 which he retained until 1821, when an absolute system 
 adopted anew by Stanislaus Grabowski, senator and 
 minister of public instruction, made him resign it. 
 His retirement was requisite to enable the government 
 to stifle every germ of liberty. JSTiemcewicz was 
 always odious to Pussia, both from his services to 
 Poland and from his avowed hatred to her oppressors. 
 His "Lithuanian Letters," published periodically dur- 
 ing the war of 1812, to promote a revolt in Lithuania, 
 contributed much toward increasing this feeling. All 
 
NIEMCEWICZ. 161 
 
 his works aimed at the one point, that of keeping 
 Polish patriotism alive. His national melodies, his 
 historical pages glowing with love of his country, and 
 ingenious allegories equaling La Fontaine's, which his 
 fertile imagination offered periodically to his country- 
 men, all breathed the same spirit. 
 
 The retirement of Niemcewicz from the directory 
 did not deprive him of all means of serving his com- 
 patriots. Called by the choice of the inhabitants of 
 Warsaw to the presidency of the beneficent society of 
 that city, he found a sweet pleasure in exercising his 
 philanthropic feelings. Another proof of public 
 regard awaited him. The Royal Scientific Society 
 honored themselves by raising him to the office of 
 president, vacant by the death of the learned and 
 philanthropic Stanislaus Staszyc. 
 
 Niemcewicz was equally illustrious as historian, 
 journalist, romancer, and poet. His romances "Dwaj 
 Sieciechowie" and " Leyba i Siora " (Levi and Sarah) 
 are of great importance, and were not without influence 
 on the public mind. Following is a list of his works : 
 
 1st. The Secret History of John of Bourbon; trans- 
 lated from the French in 1779, 2 vols. 8vo. 
 
 2d. The History of Margaret of Yalois, Queen of 
 Navarre; translated in 1781. 
 
 3d. Odes on quitting England (1787). 
 
 4th. Casimir the Great, a drama in three acts, acted 
 at Warsaw May 3, 1792. 
 
 5th. The Rape of the Lock; translated into Polish 
 verse from the English of Pope in 1796. 
 
 6th. Wladislas, King of Poland, a tragedy, acted 
 at Warsaw in 1796. 
 
 7th. King John Sobieski's Page, a farce, written in 
 1808. 
 
162 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND. 
 
 8th. Lithuanian Letters, written in 1812. 
 9th. The Public Prisons, written in 1818. 
 
 10th. Keign of Sigismund III, King of Poland 
 (1819), 3 vols. 8vo. 
 
 11th. Two historical romances (1819). 
 
 12th. Odes of the Polish Army in 1792. 
 
 13th. Historical Melodies in 1819. 
 
 14th. Fables and Tales (1820). 
 
 15th. Historical Recollections of Poland as it has 
 been (1822), 4 vols. 8vo. 
 
 16th. John de Tenczyn, an historical romance, 
 translated into German in 1826. 
 
 17th. Leyba i Siora, a Jewish romance; translated 
 into German, English, and Dutch. 
 
 18th. What Pleases Ladies, a tale of Voltaire; 
 translated from the French. 
 
 19th. Odes of Pope and of Dry den on music; 
 translated into verse. 
 
 20th. The Miseries of Human Life; translated into 
 Polish. 
 
 1st. Athalia, a tragedy of Racine's ; translated into 
 verse. 
 
 22d. Hedwige, Queen of Poland, an opera in verse; 
 the music by Kurpiński. 
 
 23d. The Return of the Representative, a comedy 
 in three acts, in verse; this work, twenty years after 
 its publication, excited the resentment of the Grand 
 Duke Con stan tine. 
 
 24th. Traits of the Life of General Washington. 
 
 25th. Rasselas, Prince of Abyssinia; translated 
 from the English. 
 
 26th. The Suspicious, a comedy in Hve acts and in 
 verse, acted during the revolution. 
 
 27th. The Yain Man, in five acts. 
 
NIEMCEWICZ. 168 
 
 28th. Kochanowski, a drama. 
 
 And a number of other works of great interest. 
 
 In 1830, the day preceding our revolution, the 
 supreme counsel of the kingdom having felt the neces- 
 sity of being supported by names dear to the natives, 
 called upon Niemcewicz to join its ranks. It was to 
 his venerable appearance, and the words of wisdom 
 and eloquence that he addressed to the people assem- 
 bled under the windows of the hall of government, that 
 the accomplishment of a revolution, unstained by 
 crimes or excesses, may be in a great measure attrib- 
 uted. As a member of the national government until 
 the creation of the dictator, he assisted in all the delib- 
 erations of the senators, of whom he was the secre- 
 tary. He had the signal honor of being elected senator 
 without the formalities prescribed by law, the senate 
 wishing to confer on him a mark of national gratitude 
 and veneration. The day of glory again dawned in 
 Poland, and the veteran of seventy-two embraced with 
 all the ardor of youth the cause of liberty; but to him 
 the revolution shone like an expiring lamp> for eternity 
 was opening before him. With a self-devotion and 
 energy of mind that neutralized the assaults of age, 
 Niemcewicz, deputed by the national government,, 
 undertook a journey to London to interest the British 
 cabinet in the cause of liberty and of Poland; but the 
 days of reverses arrived, and, exiled with the more 
 virtuous among his countrymen, he returned no more 
 to Poland. After living for a long time in retirement 
 in London, he went to Paris to rejoin the greater part 
 of his friends and colleagues, and from time to time 
 published little tracts or poems analogous to his cir- 
 cumstances. In 184:1 he ended his career with the 
 tranquillity resulting from a life of duty. The Polish, 
 
164 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND. 
 
 French, American and English residents in Paris united 
 in paying him the last tribute of respect due to man, 
 and accompanied his honored remains to the cemetery 
 of Montmorency. 
 
 Among the spectators at this melancholy scene we 
 iind Mr. Gibbs, an American gentleman, who thus said 
 to the assembled friends of the deceased: "Gentlemen, 
 the noble Polander to whom we pay the last tribute has 
 the sympathy of all my fellow-countrymen; as to the 
 American citizen, companion of Kościuszko and to the 
 friend of liberty, I outrun, I am sure, and express their 
 wishes, when in their name and mine I pay to his 
 memory due tribute of profound esteem. Firm in his 
 principles, magnanimous and unconcerned for himself 
 in the hopes of prosperity for the cause of mankind, 
 his memory deserves the eulogies of good men of all 
 countries. His name will be placed among those of my 
 fellow-countrymen who are honored with the name of 
 benefactors of mankind." 
 
 The professors and members of the Princeton Col- 
 lege (X. J.), at a meeting called expressly for that pur- 
 pose, passed the following resolutions: 
 
 Resolved, That this society has learned with pro- 
 found grief of the death of their respected member, 
 Julian Ursin Niemcewicz; 
 
 Resolved, That this society, with numerous friends 
 of the departed, mourn his death, and as a proof of his 
 services and regard to his memory will wear usual 
 mourning for thirty days; 
 
 Resolved, That copies of these resolutions be sent to 
 the "Princeton Whig," "National Intelligencer" and 
 "New York Journal of Commerce." 
 
NIEMCEWICZ. 165 
 
 In a poetical epistle addressed to his old friend, Gen. 
 Kniaziewicz, thus he describes 
 
 AMERICA AND GENERAL WASHINGTON. 
 
 With my wounded commander* compelled to depart 
 
 From thee, oppressed Poland, the pride of my heart; 
 
 An asylum I sought o'er the dark rolling sea, 
 
 In the land of the noble, the brave and the free ; 
 
 But e'en there the sad thought of my country would rise, 
 
 And the tears of deep anguish would roll from my eyes. 
 
 In boundless savannas, where man never strayed, 
 Amid woods that ne'er echoed the axe's keen blade; 
 In the foaming abyss, where the clouds of bright steam 
 Round the falls of the roaring Niagara gleam; 
 And on the deep sea, when the white sails are spread, 
 Lo! the shade of my country, all gory and dead. 
 
 Full of bliss to my heart is the thought of that day 
 When to Washington's mansion I wended my way; 
 To visit the warrior, the hero and sage, 
 Whose name is the day-star to each coming age; 
 By his valor the new world rose happy and free, 
 And her glory his endless memento shall be. 
 
 His features are still on my memory denned, 
 With the fadeless and delicate colors of mind. 
 Full, noble, majestic, with a crown of swan-hair. 
 And a brow deeply writ with the finger of care: 
 Old Roman simplicity marked his fine face, 
 Expressive of dignity, grandeur and grace. 
 
 How oft on his accents with rapture I hung. 
 
 While wisdom and kindness distill'd from his tongue; 
 
 Kościuszko. 
 
166 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND. 
 
 And whene'er the sad tale of our fall I'd relate — 
 How brilliant our struggle, yet awful our fate — 
 A sweet tear-drop of sympathy stole down his cheek — 
 Better pledge of affection than language could speak. 
 
 Precious tear ! a rich proof of his sorrow for thee, 
 
 Loved home of my fathers ! once peaceful and free. 
 
 And oh, could I that gem which so peerlessly grows, 
 
 In some costly and beautiful crystal enclose, 
 
 So priceless a treasure a witness I'd keep, 
 
 That o'er Poland's sad ruin a great man could weep. 
 
 And further down, such a picture he makes of his 
 abode in the 
 
 UNITED STATES: 
 
 When an exile from home, with deep sorrow oppressed, 
 In the new world a pilgrim, unknown and unblessed, 
 With no light to illumine the shadows that spread 
 Like the gloom of the sepulcher over my head, 
 My lonely condition made woman's bright eye 
 Mould the beautiful tear-drop of sweet sympathy. 
 
 But the feelings of pity were soon changed to love, 
 That bright seraph of mercy bequeathed from above ! 
 With the gift of her fond heart she sweetened my woe, 
 Making hope's dying embers with sweet brightness glow; 
 Since then my neat cottage, the meadow, parterre — 
 Rich pleasures of freedom ! — have been my sole care. 
 
 How oft has Aurora, from his soft couch of blue, 
 Found me cutting fresh grass, all so pearly with dew; 
 Or engrafting a shoot on the thriving young tree, 
 While nature was smiling in beauty and glee. 
 O delightful employment ! — with pleasure how rife 
 Are the exquisite scenes of a pastoral life. 
 
NIEMCEWICZ. I fi 7 
 
 Far away from the crowd of the giddy and vain, 
 From the thraldom of tyrants, the rude and profane; 
 From the folly of idlers that cumber the earth, 
 Wasting life's precious season in profitless mirth- 
 Ambition and av'rice disturb not the breast, 
 While hope points the soul to the realms of the blest. 
 
 So pure were the joys and so peaceful the life 
 That I shared with my lovely and beautiful wife, 
 I might have been happy, could man but forget 
 When his country with deadliest foes is beset. 
 But too oft the sad thoughts would convey me away 
 In the stillness of midnight, the bustle of day, 
 Thro' the foam-crested waves of the dark rolling sea, 
 To thee, distressed Poland — once peaceful and free ! 
 
 DUMA.* 
 
 GLIŃSKI.t 
 
 "W okropnych cieniach pieczarów podziemnych." 
 
 In a dark, dreary dungeon, where the beam, 
 The cfladdenincf beam of sunlight never shone: 
 
 Where from the dismal roof its little stream 
 Of twilight pour'd a pendent lamp; — alone 
 
 And conscience-tortured — sat, to misery bound, 
 
 Gliński — in victory and in crime renown'd. 
 
 His forehead years and grief had furrow'd o'er. 
 
 His grey hair hung disorders on his brow ; 
 His bloody sockets saw the light no more; 
 
 Plough'd were his wasted cheeks with scars and woe. 
 He sat and lean'd upon his hand: — his groans 
 Were echoed by the dungeon's gloomy stones. 
 
 * A Duma, an elegiac poem; a plaintive song 
 
 t Gliński was a Polish chief who flourished at the beginning of 
 the sixteenth century. The events referred to in this Elegy took 
 place in 1515. 
 
168 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND- 
 
 With him his only child, his daughter fair, 
 
 A very gem of virtue, grace and youth. 
 She left the smiling world and the free air, 
 
 Her miserable father's woes to soothe; 
 Pleased in that fearful solitude to stay, 
 
 While life's young bloom fled silently away. 
 
 " Father! I pray thee by these tender tears " — 
 So spake the maid — " be comforted, and chase 
 
 Despair; though chains hang heavy on thy years, 
 Yet hope deserts not e'en this desert place. 
 
 Time may smile upon thee; thou may'st rest 
 
 Thy gray old age upon thy country's breast." 
 
 " My country! breathe not that dread name to* me, 
 For crimes rush down upon my tortured thought. 
 
 And wakened conscience gnaws the memory, 
 And gentle sleep these eyes will visit not. 
 
 Did I not head her foes! — And can the name 
 
 Of * traitor ' but be link'd to death and shame? 
 
 "AH that can raise a man above mankind, — 
 All that is good and great in war or peace, — 
 
 Power — riches — beauty — courage — strength of mind,— 
 Yes! nature gave me these, and more than these. 
 
 I wanted nought but laurels — which I found — 
 
 And glory's trophies wreathed my temples round. 
 
 " The locust-swarming hosts of Tartans broke 
 
 Upon Lithuania and Volhynia's land, 
 Plundering, destroying; their terrific yoke 
 
 Spared neither sex nor age ; the fiery brand 
 Of desolation swept the country o'er — 
 Children and mothers drown'd in fathers' gore. 
 
 " I sought the invaders' ravage to withstand. 
 
 Proud of their strength, in widespread camps they lay; 
 
NIEMCEWICZ. 169 
 
 But they were scattered by my victor hand. 
 The misty eve look'd on the battle fray, 
 While corpses on the Niemen's waters rode, 
 And Infidel blood the thirsty fields o'erflow'd. 
 
 " When Alexander on his dying bed 
 
 Lay, mourn'd by all his children-subjects, came 
 
 The news that the defeated Tartars fled, 
 Upon his clouded brow joy's holy flame 
 
 Kindled sweet peace. ' Now let me, let me die, 
 
 For I bequeath to Poland victory ! ' 
 
 " My deeds, my monarch's praises, warm'd my breast, 
 And love of daring violence grew. The fame 
 
 Of Zabrzezynki oft disturb'd my rest. 
 
 I — a most foul and midnight murderer — came 
 
 And butcher'd all in sleep. My Poles rebell'd — 
 
 I join'd with Poland's foes, by rage impelled. 
 
 "Flagitious sin, and memory's fiercest smart; 
 
 The eagle blended with the hurrying steed * 
 From cruelty and crime won not my heart, 
 
 Nor sheath'd the sword that did the cruel deed. 
 The foemen Russ I bent to my control, 
 
 And fought 'gainst Poles — e'en I — e'en I — a Pole! 
 
 " I look'd upon the battle-field; I saw 
 
 Many a well-known corpse among the dead. 
 
 Then did fierce agony my bosom gnaw; 
 
 Then burning tears of conscious guilt were shed: 
 
 And I implored forgiveness — from my king, — 
 
 Forgiveness for a vile and outcast thing. 
 
 " I told my penitent tale. My foes had wrought 
 Upon the czar, and roused him to distrust. 
 
 * The arms of Poland are a ichiie eagle. Those of Lithuania are a 
 horse galloping, with a rider holding a sword ready to strike. The 
 latter is called Pogon, from pursuing. Gonic means to pursw. 
 
170 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND. 
 
 He met indignantly my honest thought, 
 
 Dash'd my awakening virtue to the dust; 
 Bid them tear out my eyes, and bind me here 
 In galling fetters to this dungeon drear. 
 
 " Ten years have pass'd; and yet I live. The sun 
 And the gay stars shine on, but not for me. 
 
 Darkness and torments with my being run; 
 My strength decays; my blood flows freezingly 
 
 Through my chill'd veins; and death — not gentle death 
 
 Lays its rude hand upon my weakening breath. 
 
 " Yet a few days — this corpse, my grief's remains, 
 
 Will ask a handful of unfriendly earth. 
 Leave then, my child, these foul and foreign plains, 
 
 Blest who can claim the country of his birth. 
 The Poles forgive, — and thou shalt be forgiven. 
 My child, be blest, and I be left to heaven. 
 
 " Yes! thou shalt see thy country, and its smile 
 Shall chase the memory of these gloomy days; 
 
 Thy father's princely hall shall greet thee, while 
 Thy thought o'er long-departed glory strays; 
 
 Thy friends, thy countrymen, shall welcome thee, 
 
 Give thee their love, — but pour their curse on me. 
 
 " Yet e'en my death may hallow'd thoughts inspire ; 
 
 From this scathed trunk may wisdom's blossoms grow. 
 My history shall check revengeful ire, — 
 
 None other Pole shall join his country's foe. 
 Why should a traitor live when he hath bound 
 His veil'd and sorrowing country to the ground?" 
 
 Thus spake the miserable man. A groan, 
 A dark and hollow groan the dungeon fill'd; 
 
 On her pale breast his snow-white head was thrown ; 
 Death's shade o'ershadow'd, — and all was still'd. 
 
NIEMCEWICZ. 171 
 
 So died the mighty Gliński: — better lot 
 Might have been his, — but he deserved it not. 
 
 This Duma is one of the most popular in Poland. It 
 is also the subject of one of the best of the Polish trag- 
 edies by Wenźyk. 
 
 DUMA. 
 
 POTOCKI. 
 
 " Słuchajcie rycerze młodzi." 
 
 Come, listen youthful warriors, now, 
 
 While my sad tale of grief is told; 
 And let it kindle glory's glow 
 
 While it records the deeds of old. 
 For I will sing the glorious wreath 
 
 Which erst the patriot hero wore 
 Who nobly died a hero's death 
 
 While crown'd with laurel'd victory o'er. 
 
 Chmielnicki's fierce and savage band 
 
 Had ravaged our Podolia's vales; 
 The cries of mothers fill'd the land, 
 
 Wide-echoed round from hills and dales. 
 Our ploughmen from their fields are torn, 
 
 Our maidens shameless slavery prove, 
 Our shepherds are to exile borne, — 
 
 Not to be exiled from their love. 
 
 Potocki — old and hoary — stood 
 
 Proud in felicity and fame, 
 When the loud shrieks, the cry of blood, 
 
 Like soul-disturbing tempests came. 
 He sigh'd; a stream of tears roll'd down 
 
 His venerable cheeks, while thought 
 Rush'd on the brighter moments gone. 
 
 But age had come, and left him — nought. 
 
172 POETS AND POETKY OF POLAND. 
 
 The will, but not the power, was there. 
 
 Down dropp'd the falchion from his grasp. 
 But see his hero son appear — 
 
 Spring on his steed — the war-brand clasp. 
 Why should he waste in ease and sloth 
 
 The brightness of his morning star, 
 When virtue and when valor both 
 
 Had charm'd his ear with tales of war? 
 
 " My son," — his eyes with tears were fill'd — 
 
 "Thy country groans! Go, warrior! be 
 Thy bosom now thy country's shield, — 
 
 Be worthy of thy sires and me ! 
 Go ! — for thy country live ! Be blest 
 
 With triumph glorious and renown'd! 
 So calmly shall I sink to rest 
 
 When I have seen thee victory-crown'd." 
 
 A fond farewell sent forth his son, 
 
 When he had bound him to his breast. 
 He put the heavy armor on; 
 
 The while a golden helmet prest 
 The raven ringlets of his hair: 
 
 Yet ere he sought his warriors he 
 Saw midst many a maiden fair 
 
 His maiden at a balcony. 
 
 She was a maid of beauty rare — 
 
 The loveliest maid Podolia knew — 
 Fair as the morning rose is fair 
 
 When blushing and when bathed in dew. 
 And she was true to love and fame, 
 
 And young, — and pledged her hand and heart 
 To him whose valiant sword should claim 
 
 In battle fray the bravest part. 
 
 Then drew the ardent hero nigh, 
 And lowly bent on reverent knee: 
 
NIEMCEWICZ. 173 
 
 "O thou, my heart's felicity, 
 
 All, all life's sweets I owe to thee! 
 Now bless me in the field of death, 
 
 And smile upon me, struggling there. 
 My heart's best blood, my latest breath, 
 
 I'll pour for fame and thee, my fair!" 
 
 His heart was full — he spoke no more. 
 
 Her eyes were wet — the maid unbound 
 The snow-white scarf her bosom wore, 
 
 And girt the hero's shoulders round. 
 " Go! rescue what is lost! My vow 
 
 By this pure pledge shall fail thee never! 
 Be crown'd with bright affection now, 
 
 Be crown'd with bliss, with fame, forever!" 
 
 Meanwhile the piercing clarions sound, 
 
 The dust-clouds o'er the plains arise; 
 The troops of warriors gather round. 
 
 While helms and armor dim the eyes. 
 The courts, the gates, the lofty walls 
 
 A thousand anxious gazers show. 
 The slow-descending drawbridge falls, 
 
 While to the gory fight they go. 
 
 ł Twas evening. Through a gloomy night 
 
 Toward the Yellow Lake they sped. 
 The morning came, but not in light, — 
 
 'Twas wrapp'd in clouds opaque and red. 
 The mighty army of Bogdan 
 
 Spread countless o'er the extended land; 
 The brave Potocki led the van, 
 
 To smite the innumerable band. 
 
 Then dreadful havoc's reign was spread, 
 The murd'rous fires of death were there; 
 
 Swords cleft the helm and helmed head, 
 And hissing arrows fill'd the air. 
 
174 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND. 
 
 The dauntless chieftain fought, — he press'd 
 The foremost on the foe, — when deep 
 
 A deadly arrow pierced his breast; 
 He fell, — fell lock'd in endless sleep. 
 
 Yet victory crown'd our arms. 'Twas vain; — 
 
 It was no triumph ; — He away, 
 Courage and joy were turn'd to pain. 
 
 They throng'd around him in dismay: 
 They bathed his wounds; they wash'd the gore 
 
 With tears, — while round the corpse they stand 
 Then on their shields that corpse they bore, 
 
 Their hope — and of their fatherland. 
 
 And on a green and woody glade 
 
 'Neath a proud tomb his dust they set; 
 They hung his armor and his blade, 
 
 And that white scarf, — with blood 'twas wet. 
 And there through many a day forlorn, 
 
 His joy-abandon'd maiden went; 
 And from the evening to the morn 
 
 She pour'd — she wept — love's sad lament. 
 
 Sleep, noble hero! sweetly sleep 
 
 Within this dark and sacred wood; 
 The silent moon her watch shall keep 
 
 Upon thy gravestone's solitude. 
 And should some future warrior come, 
 
 And the decaying trophies see, 
 His eye may linger on thy tomb, 
 
 And learn to fight and die from thee. 
 
 * Translation of the four lines on the frontispiece : 
 
 Ye exiles, roaming through the world so helplessly and long, 
 When will your weary feet find rest, O broken-hearted throng ! 
 The wild dove finds its hidden nest, the worm its native clod, 
 But Poland's son can only claim of earth a burial sod! 
 
FASTI DI ANA. 175 
 
 FASTIDIAKA. 
 (GUZDRALSKA.) 
 
 A HUMOROUS TALE OF THE THIRTEENTH CENTURY. 
 
 In an old tatter'd chronicle, whose pages 
 
 Had been defaced and stain'd by ruthless time,- 
 
 A dusty fragment of departed ages, 
 
 When Casimir, the monk, o'er Poland's clime 
 
 As sovereign ruled, — but older far than he, — 
 
 I found this strange, recorded history. 
 
 Near Łenczyca, upon a flowery mound, 
 A proud and noble mansion look'd around, — 
 Its name I have forgotten; and 'twere vain 
 To rack my broken memory again. 
 But an old manuscript that long was hid, 
 Moth-eaten, 'neath a crumbling coffer-lid; 
 It tired my weary, eyes, — though I possess'd 
 A microscopic glass, — the brightest, best, 
 Which magnified a hundredfold, at last 
 Gave me some light, — and my reward was vast. 
 
 There lived a noble, whose proud wish aspired 
 To honor, — and he found what he desired. 
 A Truchses* now, — and next a Stolnikf. His 
 Were piles of wealth, — and towns and palaces. 
 That matters not: his pride, his boastings were 
 Of his fair daughter. She was passing fair; 
 And bounteous Nature o'er that maiden threw 
 All charms man loves, and all he honors too. 
 She was a very queen of grace, whose skill 
 Play'd with the heart and wielded it at will. 
 
 * Wine-bearer: f Plate-bearer; — titles at court. 
 
176 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND. 
 
 The story of her beauty, like a breeze 
 That bears perfume, spread through the provinces, — 
 Spread o'er the land ; and many a raptured youth 
 Laid at her feet the vows of love and truth. 
 
 They saw her, and were lost: a single glance 
 Of that bright, lovely, laughing countenance 
 Won all the soul. No wonder; — the control 
 Of wit and beauty ever wins the soul. 
 And was she faultless ? No ! one little sin — 
 For she was human — one alone crept in ; 
 One little fault or error, which — Heaven knows — 
 Was a dust-atom on a scarlet rose. 
 What could this little dangerous error be? 
 Time and the maiden never could agree. 
 She knew not wherefore years should be divided 
 In days and nights and hours, — and years derided: 
 She thought that time, to please a maiden's whim, 
 Mighty tarry: — little knew the maid of him. 
 She deem'd her smile should stop the hurrying day, 
 When in delights and feasts it sped away; 
 And the wing'd hours in their swift flight restrain, 
 And to a rock time's slippery spirit chain. 
 E'en thus she lived, and dreams like these employ'd 
 The shifting moments which those dreams enjoy'd. 
 Her dawn was noon, — time's dawn her middle night,- 
 Always too late ; her place, though noblest, might 
 Remain unfill'd. At table she first came 
 When all was over; and 'twas just the same 
 E'en when a new piece charm'd the theater; 
 At the last act's last scene she would appear 
 Nor at the church, O mortal sin! before 
 The careful beadle closed the sacred door. 
 She was her parents' hope, her parents' bliss, 
 So no reproaches smote the maid for this. 
 
FASTLDIAXA. 1 i , 
 
 Yet there is pleasure, — so the record says, — 
 Sweet pleasure in these lingerings, these delays: 
 And none of her admirers loved her less, — 
 Many and noble, — for her tardiness. 
 But one was privileged o'er the rest, — and he 
 Was the young Wojewod of Kujavy; 
 He bore Guzdawa's arms. (And those who bear 
 These old insignia, Paprocki* supposes 
 Were long distinguished for their length of noses, 
 Their large, bright eyes, their crisp and curly hair. 
 Unwearied in all enterprise, in war 
 Supremely valiant, — rather superstitious, — 
 Amorous as born beneath love's famous star.) 
 Indeed our Wojewodzicf was ambitious 
 To be a true Guzdawa ; and the youth, 
 In size, form, virtues, was their heir, in truth. 
 His life was stainless, and 'twas decorated 
 With all the gems of talent. Happy fated, 
 He won the lady's promise to be his. 
 And parents' blessings crown'd the promised bliss. 
 Then his brains swam in joy. and rapture threw 
 Her sunshine on the moments as they flew. 
 Four weeks before the paschal feast began 
 The nuptial preparations. Mad desire 
 Made days and hours and moments as they ran 
 Linger like years, whose lingering footsteps tire: 
 But hope, and meditations, and soft sighs 
 Relieved their tardy passage, as he brought 
 Her paramount wit, her gentle voice, to thought: 
 The million graces playing round her eyes. 
 And her white hands, 'bove all, so purely fair, 
 Xo ivory with their brightness could compare. 
 
 * A famous heraldist of old time. 
 
 f Wojewodzie, son of the Wojewod; and so Sedzie, son of the judge; 
 Chnronżyc, son of the ensign ; — ic is here synonymous with the 
 Russian icicz, or vich, or citch. 
 12 
 
178 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND. 
 
 A thousand and a thousand times he said, 
 
 "She is indeed the sweetest, loveliest maid!" 
 
 And then a thought, — sad thought, — would oft intrude ; 
 
 " She's so forgetful, though so fair and good ! 
 
 'Tis surely not her fault, but time's; who may, 
 
 And no doubt does, mistake the time of day. 
 
 But let us wed, — this weakness shall be check'd; 
 
 'Tis a slight fault, and easy to correct. 
 
 Watches and clocks shall hang on every wall, 
 
 And silver hammers all the hours recall; 
 
 Hours, minutes, seconds, — monitors like these 
 
 Will chase the maid's obliviousness with ease." 
 
 So was he satisfied, — and his doubts were gone. 
 
 The marriage contract sign'd, and all was done: 
 
 And the church doors were open'd for the pair; 
 
 Gorgeous and great was the assemblage there. 
 
 The bridegroom sallied forth from his abode, 
 
 And no unhappy omen stopp'd his road: 
 
 He came with friends and relatives who wore 
 
 Their sable furs — adorn'd, as well became 
 
 Men who did honor to so proud a name, 
 
 With dazzling gold and sunny scarlet o'er. 
 
 The chronicle describes the gay parade, 
 And well-plann'd order of the cavalcade. 
 Twelve trumpeters in Flemish garments clad, 
 Which many a splendid decoration had. 
 And, as the Wojewodzie long had headed 
 His father's hussar troops, a numerous band 
 Of spearmen the procession next preceded; 
 Upon their shoulders wings of eagles flapp'd 
 And quivers full of silver arrows rattled 
 Behind them as they forward moved embattled; 
 Round each a leopard skin was loosely wrapp'd, 
 Its claws and tusks were fasten'd on the breast. 
 The standards revel'd with the winds, and prancing 
 
FASTIDIANA. 179 
 
 Their richly saddled steeds appear'd advancing, 
 
 Their riders all in martial sternness drest.* 
 
 Then came a troop of Tartars, — such as sate 
 
 With the lord's household, or watch'd round his gate; 
 
 And each his bows and arrows bore, 
 
 And a wide-flowing mantle wore, 
 
 Bending his proud and sprightly Bachmatf o'er. 
 
 Next thirty youthful squires led thirty steeds 
 
 To decorate the scene ; — their race proceeds 
 
 From most renown'd Arabia, and the shore 
 
 Of the Euphrates, — whence to Poland's plains 
 
 Transferr'd their fame, their ancient fame, remains; 
 
 So proud, so ardent, that the wearied hand 
 
 Of their tired rider could restrain no more 
 
 Their noble spirits to his mute command. 
 
 They toss'd their hoofs in air; — the golden bit 
 
 Was cover'd o'er with foam ; — their nostrils broad 
 
 As if with glowing sparks of fire were lit: 
 
 Proud were their trappings, as the knights who rode; 
 
 The saddles were all set in turquoises, 
 
 And the rich housings swept the very ground : 
 
 Pearls were profusely scatter'd o'er the dress; 
 
 A target at the saddle hung ; and near 
 
 A truncheon and a crooked scimitar; 
 
 Rubies and sapphires sparkled all around, 
 
 With smaragds, topazes, whose lights and dyes 
 
 Blinded the eyes. 
 
 Next came a troop of friends, sedate but gay ; 
 
 Their silk and velvet garments fill'd the way, 
 
 Bound with resplendent girdles; and they held 
 
 Their battle-axes, — for their rank was high ; 
 
 Then six proud, dappled steeds the car impell'd, 
 
 Where sat the bridegroom in his ecstasy, 
 
 * This description, though rather grotesque, is a correct delinea- 
 tion of the costume of the old Polish hussars, 
 f Bachmat ; — a Tartar horse. 
 
180 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND. 
 
 Eight golden columns bore a canopy 
 
 Of richest velvet, and the youth was clad 
 
 In most superb brocade; his under vest 
 
 Of crimson, which a row of buttons had 
 
 Of sapphires and of rubies of the East. 
 
 There was a clasp, whose glorious brightness never 
 
 Could be described — so I shall not endeavor: 
 
 It was a carbuncle so large that kings - 
 
 Might envy, — brighter than the sun which flings 
 
 His glories o'er the noon. Upon his head 
 
 High plumes above a splendid bonnet spread. 
 
 Two noble youths sate by him: one the son 
 
 Of the Wyszogród pennon-bearer; one 
 
 Grod's wealthy heir; but both of brilliant eyes, 
 
 And gay in humor; and their heads were bare.* 
 
 Next a long train of squires and knights appear, 
 With their attendants in rich liveries; 
 Each wore a splendid scarf with garments meet. 
 The cavalcade was closed by a long suite 
 Of six-horsed heavy-laden coaches, which 
 Bore presents for the bride, superb and rich. 
 Beautiful pearls from Uria, ear-rings, gems, 
 Bracelets, and jewels fit for diadems, 
 And fit a lady's eyes to please : nor were 
 The richest clocks and watches absent there. 
 While thus the sun toward the church was bent, 
 His busied father stay'd at home, intent 
 On the approaching festival. He stored 
 With giant goblets the capacious board, 
 With plates of silver and with cups of gold ; 
 Emboss'd tureens, and rich-carved bowls, to hold 
 Medals of ancient days, — the cups and vases, 
 Gilded and rich, had their appointed places. 
 
 * It was an old custom with the Poles to shave their heads. 
 
FASTTDIANA. 181 
 
 From distant forests, wagons brought vast stores 
 Of their wild tenants, deer and fawns and boars. 
 Game without number, — which six master-eooks 
 Who bore their German caps, prepared with all 
 The due formalities of cookery books. 
 Mincemeats and spices; — but I'll not recall 
 These long details. The noblest thing they did 
 Was to erect a mighty pyramid 
 Of almonds crusted o'er with sugar. Can 
 Aught in the art exceed a Marcipan?* 
 
 A curiously-constructed lynx portray'd 
 
 The escutcheons of the bridegroon and the maid, 
 
 Gordowa's and Rogala's: and a brand 
 
 Of Cupid's fire they held in either hand. 
 
 The table was weigh'd down by luxuries rare, 
 
 And all the neighboring men of rank were there; 
 
 Prelates and senators; our Truchses vow'd 
 
 To give the act its due solemnity, 
 
 And went to Skirniewic with a crowd 
 
 Of friends and of dependants, but to see 
 
 The venerable primate, and entreat 
 
 That he w T ould honor his poor house, and be 
 
 The officiating minister, as meet. 
 
 So the guests came at last. You wish to know 
 How they were housed; — I cannot tell you how. 
 The dwelling had four rooms and one saloon; 
 (A splendid mansion, then!) the guests were driven 
 To rather closish quarters; but 'twas soon 
 Arranged. One chamber to the primate given; 
 The others where they could repose their head; 
 And all slept soundly, though they had no bed. 
 Then dawn'd the happy moment. At eleven 
 
 * Marcipan. A large round cake adorned with various emblem- 
 atical figures. It is still used by the peasantry at wedding festivals. 
 
182 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND. 
 
 'Twas fix'd the nuptial pledges should be given 
 
 Before the sacred altar. Parents, friends, 
 
 Were seated in the church ; the clergy led 
 
 The primate, with his mitre on his head, 
 
 His pastoral staiF in hand, — who now ascends 
 
 His throne. The tapers are enkindled. Where, 
 
 Where is the bride? — They wait an hour, — they sent 
 
 To ask what cause, what luckless accident 
 
 Delay'd her. Lo! he comes! — the messenger 
 
 Begs for a short delay. One stocking she, 
 
 The lady had got on, and speedily 
 
 Would finish with the other. Well! they wait; — 
 
 Time lingers, lingers still. The clock strikes Three; 
 
 They send again. 'Twas strange she should forget 
 
 The hour, she said; — but she would braid her hair, 
 
 And in a very twinkling would be there. 
 
 One hour, — and yet another, — five o'clock, 
 
 When other heralds at her chamber knock; 
 
 She just was fixing on her robes a wreath, 
 
 And would come instantly. The well-bred sun 
 
 Linger'd; but as his patience soon was done 
 
 Be sank the occidental hills beneath. t 
 
 But love had made the bridegroom angry, while 
 
 Hunger attack'd the guests ; their empty skins 
 
 Began to be rebellious; 'tis a vile 
 
 Peace-breaker, that said hunger; — they had thought 
 
 Of the rich feast; some little, and some nought 
 
 Had taken ; so they suffer'd for their sins. 
 
 Oh, had they but some bread and sausage brought! 
 
 At last the ladies yawn'd; a senator 
 
 Open'd his gasping mouth from ear to ear; 
 
 The primate was observed to whiten, — then 
 
 The bridegroom rose, and to the castle fled, 
 
 Entreating on his knees the lingering maid 
 
 To hasten, though undress'd: " Just tarry; when 
 
FASTIDIANA. 183 
 
 I've tied this bow," the lady said, " I'll come, — 
 I'll come indeed." 
 
 He hasten'd back, — he heard 
 A blending of strange sounds which struck him dumb; 
 He enter'd; — first the primate's form appear'd 
 Sunk in the canon's arms; — he look'd around; 
 Knights, senators, were stretch'd upon the ground, 
 Two palatines, three barons, — vanquish'd all 
 By heat and hunger; tears of anguish fall 
 Down the parental cheeks; — his love turn'd cold, 
 " Ere thou art dress'd," he said, " I shall grow old; 
 And if to-day thou trifle thus, to-morrow " — 
 He said no more; but sprung with silent sorrow 
 Into his car, and fled. Such haste was wrong; 
 But young men's passions are perverse and strong. 
 His hurry did no good; — and those who marry 
 Should ne'er fall out with things that make them tarry. 
 Yet a few hours, — even though impatient, — he 
 Had been rewarded. 'Twas exactly three, 
 Three in the morning, when the lovely lady 
 Dress'd for the altar — all adorn'd and ready. 
 
184 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND. 
 
 DMOCHOWSKI. 
 
 Francis Xavier Dmochowski was born in the year 
 1762, in the province of Podlasie. He attended the 
 school of the fathers Piiars, and in 1778 joined the 
 order, and was employed as teacher in Radom, Łomża, 
 and Warsaw. He then lived with Kołlontaj, through 
 whose influence he obtained a parsonage at Koło. 
 Dmochowski was very active during the great Diet, 
 and published "The Official Gazette " up to the 1st of 
 November, 1794. Having left Poland to travel in for- 
 eign countries he did not return till 1800, when he was 
 married to an estimable lady, Isabella Mikorska, and 
 they published during the following five years a liter- 
 ary review. He translated Homer's "Iliad," Milton's 
 "Paradise Lost," and Virgil's "iEneid," as also let- 
 ters and satires of Horace. His funeral oration on the 
 death of Archbishop Krasicki is one of the finest efforts 
 of the kind. He died in 1808. 
 
 In the year 1826 the miscellaneous writings of 
 Dmochowski were published at Warsaw in two vol- 
 umes. Dmochowski has rendered great services to 
 Polish literature, and in fact he was counted among 
 the most distinguished writers of the day. His verse 
 is very smooth and harmonious, and we may justly 
 add that he greatly contributed toward the spread of 
 literary knowledge among the masses. He lived long 
 enough to see several editions of his works, which 
 serves as a proof of his popularity as a writer of those 
 days, for he has indeed left an indelible impression 
 upon the pages of Polish literature. During his whole 
 life Dmochowski endeavored to be useful in the cause 
 of literature and. national advancement. 
 
DMOCHOWSKI. 185 
 
 CRACOW'S ENVIRONS. 
 
 Dear to my heart is every spot of earth 
 On Poland's bosom, where her sons had birth. 
 For me, on Cracow's fair surroundings fall 
 A charm, which makes them loveliest of all ! 
 At every turn, where'er the footstep strays, 
 So many souvenirs arrest the gaze; 
 So many records of the past which tell 
 Of Poland's day of glory ere she fell. 
 
 CASTLE OF OYCOW. 
 
 Ye who have wandered thro' each foreign land 
 Have marked the Seine and Tiber's silver course, 
 And raised the eye to Alpine summits grand, 
 Should ye not blush to seek for beauty's source 
 In other countries than your own? Behold 
 Where scenes as beautiful arrest the eyes 
 In Oycow's groves and forests manifold — 
 Its river's flow, its rocks that grandly rise ! 
 
186 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND. 
 
 MINASOWICZ. 
 
 Joseph Dionisius Minasowicz (b. 1798, d. 1849). 
 In this distinguished litterateur we find two talents com- 
 bined, which are considered as diametrically opposite 
 to each other, to wit, Law and Poetry — a combination 
 of a similar kind is seldom found in one and the same 
 individual. While a professor in the University of 
 Warsaw he was a learned expounder of the history of 
 the Roman and commercial law, and then again he 
 appears before the world as an elegant poet and a 
 translator of Schiller's works, which difficult task he 
 accomplished most successfully. Many of his fugitive 
 pieces are written with peculiar correctness of style and 
 elegance of expression. All of his works were pub- 
 lished at Leipsic, 1844. Mr. Minasowicz was a man 
 of refinement, generous disposition, and a profound 
 scholar. 
 
 THE MAIDEN AND THE ROSE. 
 
 I the strong resemblance see 
 Between a blooming rose and thee; 
 Yet when the charms of both I view 
 My fancy gives the wreath to you. 
 The rose its loveliness displays 
 At most a few short passing days, 
 Then fades — as I behold it now, 
 And it will shortly die. Whilst thou, 
 The theme of my poetic strain, 
 Unchanged forever shalt remain ! 
 
MINASOWICZ. 187 
 
 WHAT YOU ARE. 
 
 (written when a lad.) 
 
 The flower stays in the same place 
 
 And hardly moves at all. 
 Waits for the rain to wet its face, 
 
 Till wind the dust makes fall. 
 
 But who is blessed with legs can flee, 
 
 Swiftly and with power 
 Can run; so, O God, I thank Thee 
 
 I am not a flower. 
 
 And animals have legs also, 
 
 As our dog has — our Tray; 
 But they such converse must forego 
 
 As folk may use alway. 
 
 Between a goose and sheep tell me 
 
 How converse could be brought? 
 Impossible! I thank Thee, God, 
 
 An animal I'm not. 
 
 No animal — a man am I, 
 
 Language can hear and heed — 
 Can send my happy prayer on high, 
 
 And also I can read. 
 
 My elders know in great degree, 
 
 And in a few years' span 
 I'll be like them. God, I thank Thee 
 
 That I was born a man! 
 
188 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND. 
 
 FELIŃSKI. 
 
 Aloizy Felsińki, the celebrated translator of De- 
 lille, left after him a historical drama entitled " Barbara 
 Radziwił," the appearance of which awakened a desire 
 in all the poets of that time to study history. This 
 famous drama was rendered with such great adherence 
 to historical truth, such consummate knowledge of man- 
 ners, customs, and traditions, that it created the great- 
 est admiration in the public mind. Feliński was a poet 
 who was capable of infusing into his Tragedy of Bar- 
 bara more nationality than any of his contemporaries. 
 On that account Barbara Radziwił will ever remain a 
 lasting monument of Polish literature. He was also the 
 author of a "Dissertation on Orthography," In his epoch 
 Feliński was considered as the brightest literary star. 
 
 Feliński was born in 1771, at Luck, in the province 
 of Volhynia. He went to school in Dombrowice, estab- 
 lished by the Order of Piiars, and in 1790 became an 
 intimate friend of Thaddeus Czacki, the great friend of 
 learning. In the revolution of Kościuszko he was that 
 chieftain's aid. After the war he spent some time in 
 Germany, and on his return to Poland he settled in the 
 village of Osow, where he resided till 1815. In that 
 year he came to Warsaw, where he was called to the 
 professorship of literature. In 1819 he became the 
 director of the Lyceum of Krzemieniec, as also the 
 professor of literature. He died in 1820. 
 
 POLISH NATIONAL HYMN. 
 
 "BOŻE COŚ POLSKĘ." 
 
 Lord, thou hast to Poland lent thy might, 
 And with a Father's strong, protecting hand 
 
FELIŃSKI. 189 
 
 Hast given fame and all its glory bright, 
 And through long ages saved our fatherland. 
 We chant at thy altars our humble strain, 
 O Lord, make the land of our love free again ! 
 
 Thou who in Nature's deepest gloom inspired 
 The strife to save the holy cause from shame, 
 The world's esteem for our brave deeds desired, 
 And filled it with our glory and our fame. 
 We chant at thy altars our humble strain, 
 O Lord, make the land of our love free again ! 
 
 Renew, O Lord, we pray, her old renown! 
 
 Make rich her soil,— life to her fields convey, 
 
 With happiness and peace our future crown; 
 
 O angry God, grant us this boon we pray! 
 We chant at thy altars our humble strain, 
 O Lord, make the land of our love free again! 
 
 Not long our freedom has been lost, but flows 
 
 In rivers, blood which heroes' hearts outpour; 
 
 How bitter, then, the sufferings of those 
 
 Whose liberty is lost forevermore! 
 We chant at thy altars our humble strain, 
 O Lord, make the land of our love free again ! 
 
 O gracious Lord! whose mighty hand doth hold 
 
 The scales of justice o'er world's rulers vain, 
 
 Crush out unholy aims of tyrants bold 
 
 And hope awake in our poor souls again. 
 We chant at thy altars our humble strain, 
 O Lord, make the land of our love free again! 
 
 Thou, holy Lord ! thy wond'rous might we praise, 
 
 Oh may it freedom's blissful sun restore, 
 
 On Polish soil the tower of peace upraise 
 
 Which foes shall tremble and recoil before! 
 We chant at thy altars our humble strain, 
 O Lord, make the land of our love free again! 
 
190 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND. 
 
 Lord ! who rules o'er all the wide world hath, 
 At thy command we raised from dust may be; 
 If in the future we deserve thy wrath 
 Turn us to dust — but let that dust be free ! 
 We chant at thy altars our humble strain, 
 Lord, make the land of our love free again! 
 
 FROM THE TRAGEDY OF BARBARA RADZIWIŁ. 
 Isabella, Sister op Sigismund Augustus, to Boratyński. 
 
 Yes, she has all my friendship, I glory in that truth, 
 
 She was a most beloved companion of my youth ; 
 When I felt life a burden and fainted 'neath its weight, 
 
 She was the first to show me life's joys were also great. 
 When the czar with all the power of the East and North 
 
 To blot out the Polish Nation drew his dread sword forth, 
 Her sire hastening to his post at the army's head, 
 
 To Lithuania's frontiers whence his duty led, 
 To risk the doubtful issue of a battle, all knew 
 
 Must be fierce and final, in my presence bade adieu 
 To Sigismund, the king, and these were the words he said: 
 
 " 'Tis Victory or Death, freely shall my blood be shed 
 For thee and for my country a grateful offering, 
 
 And thou shalt soon behold me a conqueror, my king, 
 Or thou wilt never see me outside the land of souls, 
 
 My lips shall never tell thee of the defeat of Poles; 
 But let my only daughter, this favor I would crave — 
 
 With no one to protect her, — her mother in the grave, — 
 When her father, too, is lost, a father find in thee." 
 
 Alas! the dreadful stroke, which he seemed then to foresee 
 Fell heavily upon him, that warrior true and tried, 
 
 He went, he fought with valor, he conquered, and he died. 
 
KROPLXSKI. 191 
 
 KEOPINSKI 
 
 Louis Kropixski is placed in the first rank of Polish 
 poets principally because of his authorship of the trag- 
 edy "Ludgarda," the incidents of which were founded 
 upon fiction instead of historical truth. Yet it is so 
 well written that it was compared with Barbara Radzi- 
 wił of Feliński. It contains indeed many beautiful 
 passages, but. on the whole, it reminds one that it is 
 an imitation of French tragedies. At this present 
 time, aside from fine poetic verses, it has no value. 
 In its own time, however, it caused a great sensation 
 on account of its powerful dramatic effect. 
 
 He is also the author of a novel, "Julia and 
 Adolph. or Extraordinary Love of Two Young People 
 on the Bank of the River Dniester." In this novel it 
 was the purpose of the author to show that the Polish 
 language was capable of equal harmony and expres- 
 sions of the most delicate shades" of feeling with any 
 French production of a similar kind. He also com- 
 posed many beautiful fugitive pieces. 
 
 Kropiiiski was born in Lithuania in 1767. During 
 the reign of Stanislaus Augustus he entered the mili- 
 tary service, and as a lieutenant-colonel participated in 
 the battle of Maciejowice in 1794, and received in that 
 memorable battle thirteen wounds. After that event 
 he went to Italy, and as a true connoisseur he collected 
 many valuable works of art. and brought them to Po- 
 land. On his return he acted as secretary of war. In 
 1812 he was named general of brigade, and soon after 
 advanced to the rank of a general of division. After 
 the end of the war he married, and gave himself up 
 
192 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND. 
 
 entirely to domestic life. He was honored with the 
 friendship of Thaddeus Czacki, and made inspector of 
 schools and colleges. He was also a distinguished 
 member of the ' ' Society of the Friends of Learning " 
 in Warsaw. Ten years before his death he became 
 blind, and died in 1844. His "Ludgarda," written in 
 1809, was brought out on the stage in 1816. It was 
 translated into German by Melish and Pol de Pollen- 
 burg (brother of the poet Yincent Pol). Goethe gave 
 a flattering opinion of ' ' Ludgarda. " All of Kropinski's 
 writings were published at Lemberg in 1844. 
 
 HUMAN LIFE. 
 
 As by eternal decree, 
 
 Four seasons in the year there be, 
 
 So has a man — 
 Four seasons in life's span. 
 
 In the spring, 
 Fearless and rejoicing — 
 We bask in youth's glad beam ; 
 Our eagle souls are like the birds: 
 We sing, we soar, we fly, 
 Ever loftier and more high — 
 And in this joyful career, 
 
 Sweeping through life on rapid wing, 
 At errors of our sires we sneer — 
 
 But into the same traps we spring! 
 For youth has many a trap and net, 
 Crags and lures its path beset. 
 
 In summer, too, it still is pleasant. 
 
 With beams divine, 
 When the bloom is most bountiful, 
 
 The moon does shine — 
 
KROPIŃSKI. 193 
 
 Far o'er, 
 
 We soar — 
 But not so fleet 
 During the heat: 
 Begin we then the shade to prize, 
 Within whose depths experience lies. 
 
 In autumn, 
 
 Less bright the fields of green become — 
 
 Leaves grow sere, and fall here and thither, 
 
 And with them our hopes begin to wither. 
 
 No longer gaily do we sing; 
 
 And tears at times bedim the eye. 
 
 Still later — 'though the sun shines high, 
 
 And upon its rays at times 
 
 Sends a breath of balmy climes ; 
 
 That breath reminds us of the spring, 
 
 But ah, it is no more the same thing! 
 
 The memory of those vanished days 
 
 Whispers: " We ne'er will come again!" 
 
 This thought a poignant torture has: 
 
 No longer we do soar and sweep, 
 
 But oft, alas! in silence weep. 
 
 But even that season chimes 
 
 With pleasantness at times. 
 
 It is a sort of " talking matters over," 
 
 The Past, and what future time does cover; 
 
 Chatting with friends, prospects and aims, 
 
 This or that, the heart most dearly claims. 
 
 At last the winter reigns, 
 Nature is held in frosty chains, 
 And the white grass-plots 
 Glisten with diamond dots, 
 
 As if to amuse children. 
 13 
 
194 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND. 
 
 But then, we can't so easily be beguiled, 
 Since unlike in the spring, summer and autumn, 
 By growth of green forgotten, 
 Life to death seems reconciled. 
 
 We begin to complain of the present, 
 And only the Past we call pleasant — 
 
 We prate, 
 
 And ruminate; 
 Our senses we can scarce employ, 
 Like hours the moments slowly ebb; 
 And like a spider from its web, 
 From stuff of flimsy make, 
 Which any little wind may break, 
 We draw our joy! 
 
 We exist only by a fear 
 
 Lest something should break — ■ 
 
 We know not which course to steer, 
 Uncertain which road to take. 
 
 Where are we to live? what does await? 
 
 Thus by the eternal decree, 
 Man's stay on earth does terminate; 
 
 In life's fourth goes he. 
 And in his journey woe betide 
 
 Who to the realms of endless bliss 
 
 Has not pure conscience 
 For a guide! 
 
 A FRAGMENT FROM HIS ELEGY ON HEDWIGE, 
 QUEEN OF POLAND. 
 
 Too soon she drained the cup of bitterness, 
 Though her life's op'ning days seemed born to bless; 
 And with a sadness sweet she bore each bitter grief, 
 Religion was her shield, pure conscience her relief. 
 
osiński. 195 
 
 OSIŃSKI. 
 
 Louis Osiński was not only a superior poet, but also 
 a learned litterateur and a distinguished orator. He 
 was born in the province of Podlasie in 1775, and 
 received the first rudiments of education at the insti- 
 tution of Piiars, at Łomża, where he endeavored to 
 fit himself for the profession of a teacher. Unfavor- 
 able circumstances, however, connected with political 
 changes in Poland, changed also his purpose in that 
 respect. But he was always industrious, and never 
 slacked in his literary pursuits. 
 
 During the Prussian government of that part of the 
 country he published a volume of poetry which was 
 well received by the public. But the poetical field was 
 not the only one he traveled. He acquired great fame 
 as an orator. His legal argument delivered before the 
 high court in defense of Col. Siemianowski was not 
 only very learned, but also one of the most eloquent 
 efforts of the day. Another effort of Osiński — "Eulogy 
 on Xavier Dmochowski," a distinguished Polish poet 
 — delivered before the society of "Friends of Learn- 
 ing," only increased his fame as a national orator. His. 
 command and skill in the effective use of the Polish 
 language was considered as something extraordinary. 
 When he lectured on literature hundreds, and we may 
 say thousands, of the most refined and learned people 
 listened to him with admiration. 
 
 During the existence of the "Duchy of Warsaw " he 
 was called into the public service as a secretary in the 
 department of justice, and subsequently as chief clerk 
 of the court of Cassation. In 1818 he was chosen as 
 
196 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND. 
 
 a professor of literature in the University of Warsaw. 
 Osiński also published a literary journal with a Latin 
 motto: " Omnes tulit punctum qui miscuit utile dulci " 
 (Containing all the points — the useful with the pleas- 
 ant). 
 
 His poetical compositions and translations of dramas 
 and comedies, together with his lectures on literature 
 and his eloquent orations, were published at Warsaw 
 in 1861 and 1862. He died in 1838. 
 
 IN PRAISE OF COPERNICUS. 
 
 The highest sphere of mortal glory lies 
 
 In power to read the heavenly signs aright. 
 My song is worthy of Olympian height 
 
 To speed its flight. Urania, arise! 
 The fickle power of man to me is known — 
 
 Such little grandeur I unworthy deem. 
 My thought upreaches to the 'star-girt throne. 
 
 I sing Copernicus — the world my theme ! 
 
 ii. 
 
 Free from earth's fetters, following on his track 
 I from unerring starry ways look back 
 And measure nature's breadth. In air upheld 
 These bodies by mysterious powers propelled 
 Roll on, ascend, attract, and then revolve, 
 The one grand end harmoniously to solve. 
 Shall I not reach at last where Deity 
 
 Himself, an august presence, guardeth space, 
 A.nd holds the countless worlds unweariedly 
 
 Within his bosom — their abiding place ! 
 
OSIŃSKI. 197 
 
 III. 
 
 Insolent man, and perishable race! 
 
 Dust raised by pride which called the heavens its own, 
 And deemed that nature's aim likewise was base — 
 
 To grasp all worlds, and rear to self a throne! 
 O Men, mistaken, and of judgment blind! 
 
 Hath not the world recorded age on age 
 
 To man unknown, where failed the clear-eyed sage 
 To fathom God's unfathomable mind! 
 
 iv. 
 
 " Must we for all high knowledge vainly pray 
 To Thee, O God, whose omnipotence lies 
 Veiled in these outspread heaven's immensities? 
 
 Rend thou from them the veiling clouds away! 
 Show us thy wonders! Man, though frail he be, 
 Moved by Thy spirit, grows more like to Thee!" 
 
 Thus spoke one man — not having any thought 
 Of what the envious night withheld from us. 
 
 Thus, after lapse of ages that had wrought 
 Their work in darkness — came Copernicus. 
 
 Even as the power of the creating word 
 
 To nature's shapeless germs gave life and force 
 While all the listening void of chaos stirred, 
 
 And moved to music in harmonious course, 
 So in the gloom by ages darkly shed, 
 
 Kindled by Thee, Copernicus, a spark 
 Of truth arose — by no illusion bred — 
 
 To overcome the world's abysmal dark! 
 
 vi. 
 
 'Twas night. The pale and queenly moon arose. 
 Man slept, forgetful of his troubled days. 
 
198 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND. 
 
 All earthly creatures breathed a calm repose 
 
 Save one alone, who watched with upturned gaze 
 From where the Baltic's welcoming shore outspread 
 The wondrous course of planets overhead. 
 Never had he beheld so grand a sight! 
 On him a sense of glory seemed to smite. 
 O hour supreme! O soul-inspiring thought! 
 To crush the error by the ages wrought. 
 
 sudden change! Is it but nature's power 
 
 Revealing all these mysteries to his sight, 
 Or changes order with the changing hour? 
 
 Does God unseal his eyes to read aright? 
 The eternal structure shines resplendently, 
 
 Its secret workings to his gaze revealed — 
 More wondrous in their grand simplicity 
 
 Than in their vast immensity of field. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 From the unending, in a moment's space 
 
 Nature to fairer form and stature grew. 
 Behold, ye shades immortal! from your place, 
 
 How man's exploring mind creates anew ! 
 O Mind, that sought creation's bound to span ! 
 
 What thoughts enchained thee — what emotions fired 
 When nature's triumph, joined to that of man, 
 
 Placed thee on heights to which thy soul aspired! 
 Science! thy power o'er nature reaches wide — 
 
 Brings close the worlds that distance separates — 
 And gives to dust the fashions that abide. 
 
 Strength and perfection on its presence waits, 
 And through thy skill, as by enchantment swayed, 
 
 The multitude of forms around us change. 
 Yet sought Copernicus of thee no aid — 
 
 His skill and vision took a higher range. 
 
 
OSIŃSKI. 199 
 
 His were the inner forces that unite 
 
 To break all fetters — his the power to soar 
 Beyond this world of sense in upward flight 
 
 To conquer all unconquerable lore ! 
 Higher he reached than any. of his race, 
 
 And the grand problems over which he wrought 
 Shall in all after ages take their place 
 
 But as the consummation of his thought. 
 
 ix. 
 
 As wreck and ruin leave their trace behind 
 
 When hurricanes, that sweep in fury blind, 
 Level and overthrow with fearful shock 
 Both fragile structure and unyielding rock, 
 So ruin marks the ages in their flight. 
 
 Races are born and perish from the earth. 
 Earth changes form before the wondering sight, 
 
 Her old achievements grown of little worth. 
 But thou, Copernicus! whose living fame 
 
 Becomes our glory — thou shalt conquer Time, 
 While the unnumbered ages bear thy name 
 
 Into eternities that roll sublime! 
 And while the Pole around which planets flame 
 
 Performs the ponderous task by thee foreseen, 
 Thine own remembered — fills the space between! 
 
200 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND. 
 
 JOSEPH WYBICKI. 
 
 " Poland is not yet lost" is the most celebrated 
 Polish historical song extant. After the third parti- 
 tion of Poland, in 1795, her enemies said: "There is 
 no Poland," but very soon after the sons of Poland, 
 who, under the command of the renowned General 
 Dombrowski fought in Italy, began to sing "Poland 
 is not yet lost," which was a strong protest against the 
 partition of our country. That patriotic song was com- 
 posed by Joseph Wybicki. General Dombrowski, the 
 organizer of the Polish legions in Italy (born 1755, 
 died 1818), actually entered Poland at the head of his 
 legion in 1807, and crossed the river Warta, and thus 
 the prediction of the song was verified. 
 
 This patriotic Polish song has been in bygone years, 
 and is up to this day, sung all over Europe, and we 
 may say in all parts of the habitable globe wherever a 
 Pole is found. It is always sung with a longing cheer- 
 fulness while hope is strengthening the realization of 
 the happy future in store for his suffering country. 
 
 Wybicki was born in 1747 near Dantzic. He took 
 an important part in the four-years Polish Diet, in the 
 revolution of Kościuszko, and in 1806-7. During the 
 existence of the Duchy of Warsaw he was a senator, 
 and in 1818 held the high office of the supreme judge. 
 He died in 1822. Wybicki left very interesting mem- 
 oirs, which were published by Raczyński in Posen, 
 1840. 
 
 Many years ago the editor of this work had the song 
 set to music and published in the city of Philadelphia. 
 
JOSEPH WYBICKI 201 
 
 POLAND IS NOT YET LOST. 
 (Jeszcze Polska nie zginęła.) 
 
 While we live she is existing, 
 
 Poland is not fallen; 
 We'll win with swords resisting, 
 
 What the foe has stolen. 
 
 March, march, Dombrowski, 
 
 From Italy's plain; 
 Our brethren shall meet us 
 
 In Poland again! 
 
 We'll cross where Warta's surging 
 
 Gloomily its waters, 
 With each blade from sheath emerging 
 
 Poland's foes to slaughter! 
 March, march, etc. 
 
 Hence unto the field of glory, 
 
 Where the life's blood's streaming; 
 
 Where with talons red and gory, 
 Poland's eagle's screaming! 
 March, march, etc. 
 
 Poland! shall the foe enslave thee 
 
 Sadly and forever; 
 And we hesitate to save thee? 
 
 Never, Poland, never! 
 
 March, march, Dombrowski, 
 
 From Italy's plain; 
 Our brethren shall meet us 
 
 In Poland again! 
 
MICKIEWICZ. 
 
 IN YOUNGER DAYS. 
 
 202 
 
MICKIEWICZ. 203 
 
 MICKIEWICZ. 
 
 Adam Mickiewicz, one of the greatest of Poland's 
 poets, and indeed considered by many the greatest of 
 all. Almost simultaneously with the daybreak of the 
 morning star in Polish literature, there appeared in 
 the firmament of poesy a pleiad of most extraordinary 
 poetic minds. New bards stepped forward, and their 
 songs in sounds of delightful harmony penetrated al- 
 most every corner of Poland with melodies full of feel 
 ing and ardent love of their country. 
 
 At that time, especially, circumstances surrounding 
 the nation were at once exciting and uncertain, furnish- 
 ing adequate elements, from the sources of which 
 countless inspiring themes were drawn and sung with 
 patriotic boldness throughout the land. And the peo- 
 ple looked at the bards with astonishment and pride, — 
 and well they might. They began to discover in these 
 new creations deep and philosophic truths, though 
 hidden in the imagery of poesy. They could see 
 better their past, and began to unveil their future. In- 
 deed, under these poetical figures, in perfect harmony 
 with the national spirit, were brought to light the na- 
 tion's genius and its future destiny. Thus a new and 
 fertile evolution of Polish poetry created new bards 
 of uncommon genius, who produced works of exalted 
 order which will be immortal as themselves. 
 
 Mickiewicz is one of those who is indebted to this 
 creative genius, in which he so prominently distin- 
 guishes himself, and he was fortunate enough to un- 
 derstand how to govern the elements of this peculiar 
 time. His poetic conceptions, supported by reasoning 
 
204 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND. 
 
 and proofs, balanced in the scales of extraordinary 
 genius, accomplished what he wished; and hence he 
 created a new epoch in his country's literature known as 
 " Pseudo-Komantic" It can be said of him what was 
 once said of Herder, " That he was the first to lift the 
 world of Poesy on his shoulder, and that he still car- 
 ries it." In their feelings of admiration the Polish 
 people had it at the time that Mickiewicz was " called " 
 to be the greatest creative genius of their nation, and 
 they were right — for he had lifted them higher than 
 they were ever before. In this respect Mickiewicz is 
 really the representative not only of the people but 
 also of their feelings. Happily, too, for him, that the 
 materials for the epoch had already been prepared for 
 him; and that he understood its spirit is shown in his 
 " Primrose." Being as it was, it is not to be wondered 
 at that his poetry permeated the hearts and souls of the 
 whole people, an occurrence seldom to be met with in 
 historical annals. 
 
 When Miekiewicz's poetry first appeared it created 
 an unprecedented furor. Poetic inspiration took com- 
 plete hold of the people. Everyone, and especially 
 those possessed of fine feelings and who could under- 
 stand him, read his verses with unusual enthusiasm, 
 and committed many striking pages to memory so as to 
 recite them to others. All felt as if they were inspired 
 and enchanted by his poetry. 
 
 Mickiewicz exceeds all the poets in the power of 
 phantasy and beauty of expression. It is true that he 
 frequently indulged in allegory and mysticism, which 
 at times are unintelligible, but it is the opinion of the 
 masses these things did not detract an iota from their 
 merits. His poetry is so multifarious and diverse, and 
 written under so many different circumstances, that it 
 
MICKIEWICZ. 205 
 
 may be said there is not a branch which he had not 
 touched and in which he did not excel. 
 
 "When Mickiewicz was creating such tremendous im- 
 pressions on the young men and women, there was, of 
 course, as it generally happens in similar cases, a feel- 
 ing of jealousy engendered among the amateurs of the 
 pseudo-classic school against this innovation in poetry. 
 The disaffected ones met at dinner circles, coffee-houses 
 and club-rooms, to discuss and decry this new state of 
 things gotten up without their advice and consent, but 
 their adverse deliberations were in vain and fell harm- 
 less by the way. Even some newspapers begun severe 
 criticisms, but the pulse of the public heart beat too 
 strong. They could neither .stifle the enthusiasm for 
 the young and gifted bard nor their admiration for his 
 splendid and inimitable poetic creations. But what is 
 equally interesting to note is that these gentlemen lit- 
 terateurs began themselves to wheel into the popular 
 ranks, and eventually became devotedly attached to 
 the new Pseudo-Romantic school. 
 
 Of all poetical creations of Mickiewicz as regards 
 themes and forms which present themselves to the 
 learned critic is a poem bearing the title ik The Ances- 
 tors.'' The intention of this poem is ostensibly the edu- 
 cation of philosophic thoughts in regard to man's rela- 
 tions to the world. His "Grażyna" is also a great 
 poem, but relating to the incidents of olden times. 
 44 Conrad Wallenrod" is a historical poem, the subject 
 of which is the crusade against Lithuania, exhibiting 
 great sacrifice and love of country. "Pan Tadeusz " 
 is a national epopee, in which Mickiewicz's genius as a 
 poet is fully shown. " Crimean Sonnets," written 
 under most pleasing impressions during his sojou-rn 
 in that charming peninsula. ''Erotic Sonnets" and 
 
206 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND. 
 
 "Farys" bear a stamp of foreign climes. Mickie- 
 wicz also translated Byron's "Giaiir." "The Book 
 of the Polish Nation and the Pilgrimage of Its Peo- 
 ple " is written in biblical style, and very beautifully, 
 too, because of its solemn and impressive eloquence. 
 That was the last and the crowning labor of the poet. 
 
 The entire groundwork of Mickiewicz's poetry is 
 feeling, which, if we may thus express ourselves, he 
 has communicated to his countrymen in a burning 
 state; letting them know their greatness as a people, 
 and their misfortunes, and pointing out to them a lesson. 
 In this Mickiewicz has done, perhaps, the greatest ser- 
 vice to his countrymen, because if a nation has no such 
 bards they cannot possibly have a full knowledge of 
 themselves. 
 
 Mickiewicz was born on the 24th of December, 
 1798, in a town called Zaosie, in Lithuania. He re- 
 ceived the first rudiments of education with the Order 
 of Dominicans at Nowogród (Newtown). In 1815 he 
 entered the University of Wilno, where he contracted 
 the most friendly and affectionate ties with Thomas 
 Zan, a young man of rare qualities of the heart and 
 mind. It was a happy circumstance in Mickiewicz's 
 life to have met young Zan (of whom we will speak 
 under the proper head), for this young man having dis- 
 covered great poetic genius, took him under a brother- 
 ly care and stimulated him to noble actions and to the 
 unfolding of his poetic powers. The editor of this 
 work remembers well reading in younger days this in- 
 teresting incident of friendly attachment, and the im- 
 pression lasted through life. 
 
 After finishing his studies in the university he was 
 obliged to accept the professorship of Polish and Latin 
 literature at Kowno; then he returned to Wilno again. 
 
MICKIEWICZ. 207 
 
 Even at this period (in 1822) Mickiewicz had already a 
 great reputation as a poet, gained by his ''Ballads," 
 tk Romances," k - Grażyna," and the fourth part of " The 
 Ancestors," which we mentioned above. About this 
 time the Russian Government suspected some political 
 irregularity among the prominent young men of Wilno, 
 and instituted an investigation. The consequence was 
 that over a dozen of the best and most intellectual 
 young men were arrested and sent into the depths of 
 Russia. Mickiewicz and Zan were among them. In 
 1824 he was carried to St. Petersburg, but on account 
 of his already great fame he was well received by the 
 educated Russians. Among many friendships con- 
 tracted in the capital of Russia was one of the renowned 
 Russian poet Puschkin. Here Mickiewicz wrote his 
 " Ode to Youth." After a while he was transported to 
 Odessa, and was employed in Prince Woronzow's 
 office. Prince Woronzow, being an enlightened and 
 polished gentleman, treated the poet with much kind- 
 ness. Here he commenced his u Conrad Wallenrod," 
 and " Crimean Sonnets." In the year 1825 he was sent 
 to Moscow, where he had a place in the office of the 
 military governor, Golibyn. Here it was where, through 
 the instrumentality of Princess Zeneicla Wołkońska, 
 the salons of the most distinguished families were 
 open to him ; the princess took him under her protec- 
 tion and procured for him from the Russian Govern- 
 ment permission to reside at Moscow. She nursed 
 him in sickness, and translated his poems into the 
 Russian language. In the year 1828 he was again 
 transferred to St. Petersburg, was well received there, 
 and became acquainted with Alexander Humboldt. On 
 account of his " Wallenrod " he was accused by the 
 government, but through the influence of Princess 
 
208 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND. 
 
 Zeneida received an unlimited passport to Italy, Ger- 
 many, and France. His friend Olenin facilitated his 
 journey to Cronstadt, from whence the poet sailed for 
 Lubeck. In a few days after his departure orders were 
 received for his arrest, but the government officials 
 were too late. 
 
 In his travels through foreign countries he was 
 accompanied by Odyniec, with whom he visited Ber- 
 lin, Dresden, Carlsbad, and Praga, and returning to 
 Germany he stopped at Weimar and made a visit to 
 Goethe, who received him with great hospitality, 
 respect and admiration. From Weimar through Rhen- 
 ish provinces he returned to Switzerland, whence, 
 through Splugen, Como, Milan, Yerona, Padua, Yen- 
 ice, and Florence, he arrived at Pome, where he 
 remained till May, 1830, and was received with marks 
 of great distinction by the highest society, and invited 
 to the "Tuesday Assemblies "at the house of Queen 
 Hortense (mother of Napoleon III). 
 
 From Pome he visited Naples, Messina, Palermo, 
 and lighted his cigars in the clefts of the Crater on 
 Mount Yesuvius; later, returning by way of Pome to 
 Switzerland, he stopped at Milan, and became 
 acquainted with the most celebrated -Italian poets, 
 Gross, Manzoni, and Fosti. Through Lago Maggiore 
 and Chamouni he went to Geneva, where for the first 
 time he learned of the "July Pevolution " at Paris, 
 which he had months before predicted. Here, too, 
 he made the acquaintance of Sigismund Krasiński, the 
 illustrious Polish poet. Parting at this place with 
 Odyniec, his personal friend and companion of his 
 travels, he started for Rome. It was here and at this 
 time that the most intimate and affectionate friendship 
 sprung up between him and Stephen Garczyński, a 
 
MICKIEWICZ. 209 
 
 young Polish poet of great genius. In 1831 lie left 
 Rome and journeyed through Switzerland to Paris, 
 from whence, in company of Anton Górecki, the poet, 
 he left for Dresden, and visited the Grand Duchy of 
 Posen. In the same year he returned to Dresden, 
 where he wrote his " Pan Tadeusz." In the following 
 year he went to Geneva, where he composed the third 
 part of "The Ancestors." It is from this place that 
 Mickiewicz took his friend Garczynski to Avignon, 
 where he closed his eyes in eternal sleep. He was so 
 overcome by his friend's death that he thought of going 
 to America and seek seclusion; but his friends dis- 
 suaded him from the idea, and he returned with them 
 to Paris. He shortly married Miss Celina Szymanowska, 
 a lady of great worth and many accomplishments. 
 This interesting event occurred in 1834. From this 
 time hence he became a husband and a father of a 
 family, but he never again touched the strings of his 
 lute, — at least his countrymen never heard its sounds. 
 In 1839 he was called to the professorship of Ancient 
 Literature at Lussanne, which in about a year he left 
 to accept a professorship of Slavonian Literature at the 
 College de France, in Paris, where he lectured for 
 about four years. 
 
 It was here and about this time that he became 
 acquainted with a certain Andrew Towiański, who 
 pretended to possess extraordinary powers of clairvoy- 
 ance, and who by strong magnetic powers exerted a 
 great influence over the poet, but fortunately it was but 
 for a short spell. In the early part of 1855 he lost his 
 wife, and in June was commissioned by the French 
 Government to proceed to Constantinople in order to 
 investigate the condition of the Slavonic races under 
 the Turkish Government. Armand Levy, a Hebrew, 
 14 
 
210 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND. 
 
 and Henry Shiżalski accompanied him on this mission. 
 After arriving at their destination they visited the camp 
 of Sadyk Pasha (Michael Czaykowski), but incon- 
 venient life and the prevailing cholera laid the poet on 
 his dying bed, from which he arose only to be 
 taken to his last resting place. His death occurred the 
 28th of November, 1855, in the presence of his two 
 faithful companions and friends, Służalski and Levy. 
 The mortal remains of the greatest poet were taken to 
 Paris and buried in the cemetery of Montmorency. 
 Through the endeavors and influence of Dr. Matecki, 
 of Posen, a monument was erected to the immortal 
 poet in 1859, executed by the artistic chisel of Stanis- 
 laus Oleszczysńki, the Polish sculptor. 
 
 There are many editions of his works issued at 
 different times and at different places, such as Wilno, 
 Moscow, Warsaw, St. Petersburg, Paris, Posen, Leip- 
 zig, Wadowice, Thorne, etc. The most complete edition 
 of Adam Mickiewicz' s works has been published in 
 several volumes by his children in Paris — 1869. 
 
 PRIMROSE. 
 
 (Pierwiosnek.) 
 
 Scarce had the happy lark begun 
 To sing of Spring with joyous burst, 
 
 When oped the primrose to the sun — 
 The golden petaled blossoms first. 
 
 I. 
 
 'Tis yet too soon, my little flower, 
 
 The north wind waits with chilly breath ; 
 
 Still capped by snow the mountains tower, 
 And wet the meadows lie beneath. 
 
MICKIEWICZ. 211 
 
 Hide yet awhile thy golden light, 
 Hide yet beneath thy mother's wing, 
 
 Ere chilly frosts that pierce and blight, 
 Unto thy fragile petals cling. 
 
 Primrose. 
 
 Like butterflies our moments are, 
 They pass, and death is all our gain ; 
 
 One April hour is sweeter far 
 
 Than all December's gloomy reign. 
 
 Dost seek a gift to give the gods? 
 
 Thy friend or thy beloved one? 
 Then weave a wreath wherein there nods 
 
 My blossoms — fairer there are none. 
 
 I. 
 
 'Mid common grass within the wood, 
 
 Beloved flower, thou hast grown, 
 So simple — few have understood 
 
 What gives the prestige all thy own. 
 
 Thou hast no hues of morning star, 
 Nor tulip's gaudy turban'd crest — 
 
 Nor clothed art thou as lilies are — 
 Nor in the rose's splendor drest. 
 
 When in a wreath thy colors blend, 
 When comes thy sweet confiding sense 
 
 That friends ; — and more beloved than friend, 
 Shall give thee kindly preference? 
 
 Primrose. 
 
 With pleasure friends my buds will greet, 
 They see Spring's angel in my face; 
 
 For friendship dwells not in the heat, 
 But loves with me the shady place. 
 
212 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND. 
 
 Whether of Marion, beloved one, 
 Worthy I am — can't tell before?. 
 
 If she but looks this bud upon, 
 I'll get a tear — if nothing more!. 
 
 ODE TO YOUTH. 
 
 (Oda do Młodości.) 
 
 Without soul-life but skeletons are we — 
 On me, Youth, bestow thy wings! 
 To soar about this hopeless world, 
 Into the regions fair to see, 
 Where mind-created imagery 
 
 Strews flowers with fancy's dew impearled, 
 Arraying hope anew in life's imaginings. 
 
 Let him bowed down by weight of years, 
 
 With brow that bears time's furrowing touch, 
 See only of the world as much 
 
 As to his dull, dim sight appears! 
 
 O Youth ! above this level send 
 
 The sunny glances of thine eye, 
 And penetrate from end to end 
 
 Humanity's immensity. 
 
 Now look below where the eternal mists unfold 
 The dark expanse that chaos does o'erwhelm ; 
 The earth behold! 
 Look where above its waters dead 
 A shell-clad reptile lifts its head, 
 Who is himself both ship and steersman at the helm, 
 Chasing the smaller elemental fry; 
 Once he ascends, then down again he sinks — 
 The waves cling not to him, and from their clasps he shrinks; 
 
 Then as a bubble bursts — collapsing suddenly. 
 None of his life knew aught, and neither is he missed — 
 It was an Egotist! 
 
MICKIEWICZ. 213 
 
 O Youth ! the nectared wine of life for thee 
 Is only sweet to taste when shared by others; 
 
 As heavenly joy unites the heart, and we 
 
 Are drawn by chords of love more closely to our brothers. 
 
 Together then unite, my friends! 
 The joy of one alike on all attends — 
 In union strong, and wise in frenzy's heat, 
 In one all our purpose blends. 
 
 And happy he who fails to win a name 
 
 If by the sacrifice of self he seat 
 
 Another on the topmost round of fame. | 
 
 Unite for nobler ends! 
 Though perilously steep the path, 
 And violence with weakness guard the gate, 
 Let violence contend alone with wrath, 
 With weakness youth may strive, and striving conquer fate! 
 
 He who in childhood crushed the hydra's head, 
 Will later on strike the centaurs down, 
 Will wrest from hell its dead; 
 
 Then soaring up, win laurels for his crown ! 
 
 Will strain his gaze beyond all human sight, 
 
 Crush barriers that reason cannot shake. 
 O Youth! thy course is as the eagle's flight, 
 
 Thy strength like thunderbolts that round him break! 
 
 Then shoulder to shoulder linked, as by one common chain, 
 This earthly globe we will surround, 
 And in one focus drawn of thought profound 
 
 One purpose and one end maintain! 
 Earth! move from thy foundations old, 
 To the progression of our thought, 
 And breaking through the crust that time has wrought, 
 
 Let germs of greener years unfold! 
 
 As in the region of chaotic night, 
 - Where warring elements contended, 
 
214 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND. 
 
 'Mid whirlwind's roar and torrent's thundering call, 
 To the " Be thou" of God's creating might, 
 A living world sprung up, and over all 
 Illuming stars ascended! 
 
 So darkness in the realm-soul prevails, 
 The elements of will are still at war; 
 But love's breath of living fire 
 Behold the spent life unveils! 
 
 Through which youth's heart conceiving shall aspire, 
 Joined by eternal bonds forever more! 
 
 The icy clod revivifies, 
 
 With light prejudice disappears, 
 Arise, O star of freedom, rise ! 
 
 The morning of Redemption's near! 
 
 NEW YEAR'S WISHES. 
 
 The old year is dead, and from its ashes blossoms bright 
 New Phcenix, spreading wings o'er the heavens far and near; 
 
 Full of hopes and wishes, earth salutes it with delight. 
 What should I for myself desire on this glad New Year? 
 
 Say, happy moments! ... I know these lightning flashes 
 swift, 
 
 When they the heavens open and gild the wide earth o'er, 
 We wait t'he assumption till the weary eyes we lift 
 
 Are darkened by a night sadder than e'er known before. 
 
 Say, 'tis love I wish ! . . . that youthful frenzy full of bliss 
 
 Bears one to spheres platonie — to joys divine I know. 
 Till the strong and gay are hurled down pain's profound 
 
 Hurled from the seventh heaven upon the rocks below. 
 
 I have dreamed and I have pined. I soared and then I fell. 
 Of a peerless rose I dreamed, and to gather it I thought, 
 
MICKIEWICZ. 215 
 
 When I awoke. Then vanished the rose with dream's bright 
 spell — 
 Thorns in my breast alone were left — Love I desire not! 
 
 Shall I ask for friendship? . . . that fair goddess who on earth 
 Youth creates? Ah! who is there who would not friend- 
 ship crave? 
 
 She is first to give imagination's daughter birth. 
 Ever to the uttermost she seeks its life to save. 
 
 Friends, how happy are ye all ! Ye live as one, and hence 
 Ever the self-same power has o'er ye all control, 
 
 Like Armida's palm whose leaves seemed separate elements 
 While the whole tree was nourished by one accursed soul. 
 
 But when the fierce and furious hail-storms strike the tree, 
 Or when venomous insects poison it with their bane, 
 
 In what sharp suffering each separate branch must be 
 For others and itself. ... I desire not friendship's pain ! 
 
 For what, then, shall I wish, on this New Year just begun? 
 
 Some lovely by-place — bed of oak — where sweet peace 
 descends, 
 From whence I could see never the brightness of the sun, 
 
 Hear the laugh of enemies, or see the tears of friends? 
 
 There until the world should end, and after that to stay 
 In sleep which all my senses against all power should bind, 
 
 Dreaming as I dreamt my golden youthful years away, 
 Love the world — wish it well — but away from human- 
 kind. 
 
 TO M . 
 
 "Precz z oczu moich — posłucham od razu." 
 
 Hence from my sight!— I'll obey at once. 
 
 Hence from my heart ! — I hear and understand. 
 But hence from memory? Nay, I answer, nay! 
 
 Our hearts won't listen to this last command! 
 
216 POETS AND POETEY OF POLAND. 
 
 As the dim shadows that precede the night 
 In deepening circles widen far and near, 
 
 So when your image passes from my sight 
 It leaves behind a mem'ry all too dear. 
 
 In every place — wherever we became 
 As one in joy and sorrow that bereft — 
 
 I will forever be by you the same, 
 For there a portion of my soul is left. 
 
 » 
 
 When pensively within some lonely room 
 
 You sit and touch your harp's melodious string, 
 You will, remembering, sigh in twilight's gloom 
 " I sang for him this song which now I sing." 
 
 Or when beside the chess-board — as }^ou stand 
 In danger of a checkmate — you will say, 
 
 " Thus stood the pieces underneath my hand 
 When ended our last game — that happy day! " 
 
 When in the quiet pauses at the ball 
 You, sitting, wait for music to begin, 
 
 A vacant place beside you will recall 
 How once I used to sit by you therein. 
 
 When on the page that tells how fate's decree 
 Parts happy lovers, you shall bend your eyes; 
 
 You'll close the volume, sighing wearily. 
 'Tis but -the record of our love likewise. 
 
 But if the author after weary years 
 
 Shall bid the current of their lives reblend, 
 
 You'll sit in darkness, whispering through your tears, 
 " Why does not thus our story find an end?" 
 
 When night's pale lightning darts with fitful flash 
 O'er the old pear tree, rustling withered leaves 
 
 The while, the screech-owl strikes your window-sash, 
 You'll think it is my baffled soul that grieves. 
 
MICKIEWICZ. 217 
 
 In every place — in all remembered ways 
 
 Where we have shared together bliss or dole — 
 
 Still will I haunt you through the lonely days. 
 For there I left a portion of my soul. 
 
 (From the " Improvisation.") 
 A MOMENT AND A SPARKLE. 
 
 What is my life? 
 Ah ! but a moment short as a sigh ! 
 
 What is my feeling? 
 Ah ! but a sparkle soon to die ! 
 Whence comes the little man that plays such mighty part? 
 
 From a sparkle! 
 What'll be the time that'll crush my thoughts and my heart? 
 
 But a moment! 
 And those thunders that shall to morrow roar 
 To-day what are they? But a sparkle! 
 What are the world's events of years, and my lore? 
 
 But a moment ! 
 What was He then when in his bosom held this world? 
 
 But a sparkle ! 
 What'll be the time when all will crash and be hurled 
 Into the abyss of forgetfulness? 
 
 But a moment! 
 
 (From the "Ancestors.") 
 She is fair as a spirit of light 
 
 That floats in the ether on high, 
 And her eye beams as kindly and bright, 
 
 As the sun in the azure-tinged sky. 
 The lips of her lover join hers 
 
 Like the meeting of flame with flame, 
 And as sweet as the voice of two lutes, 
 
 Which one harmony weds the same. 
 
218 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND. 
 
 (From u Faris.") 
 
 No palms are seen with their green hair, 
 Nor white-crested desert tents are there; 
 But his brow is shaded by the sky- 
 That flingeth aloft its canopy; 
 The mighty rocks lay now at rest, 
 And the stars move slowly on heaven's breast. 
 
 (From the same.) 
 
 My Arab steed is black — 
 
 Black as the tempest cloud that flies 
 Across the dark and mutt'ring skies, 
 
 And leaves a gloomy track. 
 
 His hoofs are shod with lightning's glare, 
 
 I give the winds his flowing mane, 
 And spur him smoking o'er the plain, 
 
 And none from earth or heaven dare, 
 My path to chase in vain. 
 
 And as my barb like lightning flies, 
 
 I gaze upon the moonlit skies, 
 
 And see the stars with golden eyes, 
 Look down upon the plain. 
 
 FATHER'S RETURN. (A BALLAD.) 
 
 (Powrót Taty.) 
 
 Go, children, all of you together, 
 
 To the pillar upon the hill, 
 And there before the miraculous picture 
 
 Kneel and pray with a fervent will. 
 
 Father returns not. Mornings and evenings 
 
 I await him in tears, and fret. 
 The streams are swollen, the wild beasts prowling, 
 
 And the woods with robbers beset. 
 
MICKIEWICZ. 219 
 
 The children heard, and they ran together 
 
 To the pillar upon the hill; 
 And there before the miraculous picture 
 
 Knelt and prayed with a fervent will. 
 
 " Hear us, O Lord! Our father is absent, 
 
 Our father so tender and dear. 
 Protect him from all besetting danger! 
 
 Guide him home to us safely here! " 
 
 They kiss the earth in the name of the Father, 
 
 Again in the name of the Son. 
 Be praised the name of the Trinity holy, 
 
 And forever their will be done. 
 
 Then they said Our Father, the Ave and Credo, 
 
 The Commandments and Rosary too; 
 And after these prayers were all repeated, 
 
 A book from their pockets they drew. 
 
 And the Litany and the Holy "Mother 
 
 They sang while the eldest led — 
 " O Holy Mother," implored the children, 
 
 "Be thy sheltering arms outspread! " 
 
 Soon they heard the sound of wheels approaching, 
 
 And the foremost wagon espied. 
 Then jumped the children with joy together. 
 
 " Our father is coming! " they cried. 
 
 The father leaped down, his glad tears flowing, 
 
 Among them without delay. 
 "And how are you all, my dearest children? 
 
 Were you lonesome with me away? 
 
 "And is mother well — your aunt and the servants? 
 
 Here are grapes in the basket, boys." 
 Then the children jumped in their joy around him, 
 
 Till the air was rent with their noise. 
 
220 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND. 
 
 " Start on," the merchant said to the servants, 
 " With the children I will follow on; " 
 
 But while he spoke the robbers surround them, 
 A dozen, with sabers drawn. 
 
 Long beards had they, and curly moustache, 
 
 And soiled the clothes they wore, 
 Sharp knives in their belts and swords beside them, 
 
 While clubs in their hands they bore. 
 
 Then shrieked the children in fear and trembling, 
 
 And close to their father clung, 
 While helpless and pale in his consternation, 
 
 His hands he imploringly wrung. 
 
 " Take all I have! " he cried; "take my earnings, 
 
 But let us depart with life. 
 Make not of these little children orphans, 
 
 Or a widow of my young wife. 1 ' 
 
 But the gang, who have neither heard nor heeded, 
 
 Their search for the booty begin. 
 "Money! " they cry, and swinging their truncheons, 
 
 They threaten with curses and din. 
 
 Then a voice is heard from the robber captain, 
 " Hold! hold! with your plundering here! '.' 
 
 And releasing the father and frightened children, 
 He bids them go without fear. 
 
 To the merchant then the robber responded: 
 
 " No thanks — for I freely declare 
 A broken head you had hardly escaped with, 
 
 Were it not for the children's prayer. 
 
 " Your thanks belong to the children only; 
 
 To them alone your life you owe. 
 Now listen, while I relate to you briefly 
 
 How it came to happen, and go. 
 
MICKIEWICZ. 221 
 
 " I and my comrades had long heard rumors 
 
 Of a merchant coming this way; 
 And here in the woods that skirt the pillar 
 
 We were lying in wait to-day. 
 
 "And lying in wait behind the bushes, 
 
 The children at prayer I heard. 
 Though I listened at first with laugh derisive, 
 
 Soon to pity my heart was stirred. 
 
 " I listened, and thoughts of my home came to me; 
 
 From its purpose my heart was won. 
 I too have a wife who awaits my coming, 
 
 And with her is my little son. 
 
 " Merchant, depart — to the woods I hasten — 
 
 And children, come sometimes here, 
 And kneeling together beside this pillar 
 
 Give me a prayer and a tear! " 
 
222 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND. 
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S FAREWELL TO HIS NATIVE 
 LAND. 
 
 (FROM LORD BYRON.) 
 
 Adieu, adieu! my native shore' 
 
 Fades o'er the waters blue; 
 The night-winds sigh, the breakers roar, 
 
 And shrieks the wild sea-mew. 
 Yon sun that sets upon the sea 
 
 We follow in his flight: 
 Farewell awhile to him and thee, 
 
 My native land — good night ! 
 
 ii. 
 
 A few short hours and he will rise 
 
 To give the morrow birth; 
 And I shall hail the main and skies, 
 
 But not my mother earth. 
 Deserted is my own good hall, 
 
 Its hearth is desolate; 
 Wild weeds are gathering on the wall: 
 
 My dog howls at the gate. 
 
 in. 
 
 Come hither, hither, my little page, 
 
 Why dost thou weep and wail? 
 Or dost thou dread the billows' rage, 
 
 Or tremble at the gale? 
 But dash the tear-drop from thine eye; 
 
 Our ship is swift and strong; 
 Our fleetest falcon scarce can fly 
 
 More merrily along. 
 
MICKIEWICZ. 223 
 
 POŻEGNANIE CHILDE HAROLDA. 
 
 (Z LORDA BYRONA.) 
 
 Tłómaczył Adam Mickiewicz.* 
 
 Bywaj mi zdrowy, kraju kochany! 
 
 Juz w mglistej nikniesz pomroce; 
 Świsnęły wiatry, szumją bałwany 
 
 I morskie ptactwo swiegoce. 
 Dalej za słońcem gdzie jasną głowę 
 
 W zachodnie pogrąża piany — 
 Tym czasem słońce bywaj mi zdrowe 
 
 Bywa] zdrów kraju kochany! 
 
 u. 
 
 Za kilka godzin rozane zorze 
 
 Promieńmi błyśnie jasnemi: 
 Obaczę niebo, obaczę morze 
 
 Lecz niezobaczę mej ziemi. 
 Zamek, na którym brzmiało wesele, 
 
 Wieczna żałoba pokryje; 
 Na wałach dzikie porośnie ziele 
 
 U wrót pies wierny za wyje. 
 
 iii. 
 
 Pójdź tu mój paźiu-paźiu mój miły, 
 
 Co znaczą te łzy i żale? 
 Czyli cię wichrów zdąsane szały, 
 
 Czy morskie lękają fale? 
 Rozwesel oko, rozjaśnij czoło! 
 
 W dobrym okręcie, w pogodę — 
 Lotny nasz sokół nie tak wesoło 
 
 lak my polecim przez wodę. 
 
 * Translated by Adam Mickiewicz. 
 
224 * POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND. 
 
 IV. 
 
 " Let winds be shrill, let waves roll high, 
 
 I fear not wave nor wind; 
 Yet marvel not, Sir Childe, that I 
 
 Am sorrowful in mind; 
 For I have from my father gone, 
 
 A mother whom I love, 
 And have no friends save these alone, 
 
 But thee — and One above. 
 
 v. 
 
 "My father bless'd me fervently, 
 
 Yet did not much complain; 
 But sorely will my mother sigh 
 
 Till I come back again." 
 Enough, enough, my little lad, 
 
 Such tears become thine eye; 
 If I thy guileless bosom had, 
 
 Mine own would not be dry. 
 
 vi. 
 
 Gome hither, hither, my stanch yeoman, 
 
 Why dost thou look so pale? 
 Or dost thou dread a French foeman? 
 
 Or shiver at the gale? 
 " Deem'st thou I tremble for my life? 
 
 Sir Childe, I'm not so weak; 
 But thinking on an absent wife 
 
 Will blanch a faithful cheek. 
 
 " My spouse and boys dwell near thy hall, 
 
 Along the bordering lake, 
 And when they on their father call, 
 
 What answer shall she make?" — 
 
MICKIEWICZ. 225 
 
 IV. 
 
 " Niech fala szumi, niech wicher głuszy, 
 
 Niedbam pogoda czy słota: 
 Te łzy wyciska z głębi mej duszy 
 
 Nie bojaźń ale tęsknota. 
 Bo tam mój stary ojciec zostanie, 
 
 Tam matka zostanie droga, 
 Tam wszyscy moi prócz ciebie, panie 
 
 Prócz ciebie tylko i Boga. 
 
 Ojciec spokojnie mię błogosławił, 
 
 Nie płacze ańi narzeka; 
 Lecz matka którąm we łzach zostawił, 
 
 Z jakąż tęsknotą naz czeka? 1 ' 
 Dość. dość, mój paziu! te łzy dziecinne 
 
 Źrenicy twojej przystoją; 
 Gdybym miał równie serce niewinne, 
 
 Widziałbyś we łzach i moją. 
 
 vi. 
 
 Pójdź tu mój giermku, giermku mój młody! 
 
 Skąd ci ta bladość na twarzy? 
 Czy rozhukanej lękasz się wody, 
 
 Czyli francuzkich korsarzy? 
 "O nie Haroldzie! niedbam o życie, 
 
 Niedbam o losów igrzyska: 
 Alem zostawił zonę i dziecię 
 
 To mi łzy z oczu wyciska. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Zona na końcu twojego sioła, 
 
 W zielonej mieszka dąbrowie; 
 Gdy dziecię z płaczem ojca zawoła 
 Coź mu nieszczęsna odpowie?" 
 15 
 
226 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND. 
 
 Enough, enough, my yeoman good, 
 Thy grief let none gainsay; 
 
 But I, who am of lighter mood, 
 Will laugh to flee away. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 For who would trust the seeming sighs 
 
 Of wife or paramour? 
 Fresh feres will dry the bright blue eyes 
 
 We late saw streaming o'er. 
 For pleasures past I do not grieve, 
 
 Nor perils gathering near; 
 My greatest grief is that I leave 
 
 No thing that claims a tear. 
 
 ix. 
 
 And now I'm in the world alone, 
 
 Upon the wide, wide sea; 
 But why should I for others groan, 
 
 When none will sigh for me? 
 Perchance my dog will whine in vain, 
 
 Till fed by stranger's hands; 
 But long ere I come back again 
 
 He'd tear me where he stands. 
 
 x. 
 
 With thee, my bark, I'll swiftly go 
 
 Athwart the foaming brine; 
 Nor care what land thou bear'st me to, 
 
 So not again to mine. 
 Welcome, welcome, ye dark blue waves! 
 
 And when you fail my sight, 
 Welcome, ye deserts and ye caves! 
 
 My native land — good night ! 
 
MICKIEWICZ. 227 
 
 Dość, dość mój giermku ! słuszna twa żałość ; 
 
 la choć tej ganić niemogę. 
 Mniejszą mam czułość, czy większą stałość: 
 
 Śmiejąc się puszczam się w drogę! 
 
 Kochanki, zony płacz mię niewzruszy — 
 
 Bo nim zabtyśnie poranek, 
 Z błękitnych oczu te łzy osuszy 
 
 Nowy mąż, nowy kochanek — 
 Nieżal mi ziemi gdziem młodość strawił, 
 
 Nie straszne podróże wodne; 
 Żałuję tylko żem niezostawił 
 
 Nic coby było łez godne. 
 
 ix. 
 
 Teraz po świecie błądzę szerokim, 
 
 I pędzę życie tułacze; 
 Czegóż mam płakać zakim i pókim 
 
 Kiedy nikt pomnie nie płacze? — 
 Pies chyba tylko zawyje z rana, 
 
 Nim obcą karmiony ręką, 
 Kiedyś swojego dawnego pana 
 
 Wściekłą powita paszczęką. 
 
 Iuż okręt piersią kraje głębinę, 
 
 I żagle na wiatr rozwinął; 
 Niedbam ku jakim brzegom popłynę 
 
 Bylebym nazad niepłynął, 
 Gdy mnie twe jasne znudzą kryształy, 
 
 Ogromna modra płasczyzno, 
 Powitam lasy, pustynie, skały — 
 
 Bądź zdrowa luba Ojczyzno! 
 
228 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND. 
 
 BRODZIŃSKI. 
 
 Casimir Brodziński is one of the poets who appeared 
 on the stage at the outset of this period. He cast his 
 searching eye upon the just expiring century and felt 
 in his heart the voice calling for a new state of things. 
 His elaborate ideas, combined with deep reflections, 
 he transferred into a charming world of poesy. He 
 argued the whole thing out, and gave his feelings a 
 tangible and poetic form. His talent was not of the 
 flashy kind, but rather retiring and modest, resembling 
 the light of the morning star casting upon the world its 
 soft, sad, and longing rays; but this light was not seen 
 nor understood by all; he shared the common lot of all 
 creative minds, and of those who wished to implant new 
 ideas into the popular heart. The public admired him; 
 men of letters appreciated him for his artistic skill; 
 it was acknowledged that his dissertations were full of 
 rendition; but the masses were deaf to Brodzinski's 
 voice, — it failed to make any impression on their 
 minds. In a short time he was as it were completely 
 forsaken by them, and he became as a target to be fired 
 upon by the youth of Poland. A mistaken and ill- 
 advised impression was spread that in his works were 
 concealed dangerous elements. Thrust aside, found 
 fault with, he was almost forgotten. But the revolu- 
 tion of 1830 lifted him up at once. Heaven granted 
 him a gift of looking far into the future. Brodzinski's 
 poetic genius did not lift him into the empyrean spheres; 
 it did not carry him beyond the limits of the occasion; 
 but every one can see that his feelings are not con- 
 strained; that honesty of purpose and a yearning feeling 
 
BRODZIŃSKI. 229 
 
 knocks gently at the heart of others. His prepon- 
 derant ability was in his inquiring mind, which carefully 
 reveals the unknown road, working cautiously around, 
 consulting his own judgment, and profiting by the 
 experience of others. Being well acquainted with 
 German literature, he preferred to look there for 
 examples to cultivate his own talent; but above all, 
 w r hile fathoming the popular songs and the character- 
 istics of the Slavonian peoples to . correctly delineate 
 the national spirit of Slavonian poetry seemed to be 
 his chief aim. But this innovation caused in those days 
 great opposition, especially among the votaries of 
 Laharpe and Boileau, who considered themselves as 
 infallible judges of every unfolding talent. Brod- 
 ziński suffered patiently all sorts of personal taunts, 
 and while forgetting himself he did not cease defending 
 the cause. He published a highly interesting disser- 
 tation on Classicism and Romanticism, which was 
 printed at Warsaw. This dissertation proved to be 
 a species of watch-word for a subsequent stormy literary 
 war, which gave the contending parties two separate 
 names, to wit: Classicists and Romanticists. Brod- 
 ziński very modestly put himself on the neutral 
 ground, and would not participate in this polemic 
 struggle; but by occasional publication of his poetical 
 compositions in the ',' Review,' 1 and finally by pub- 
 lishing them in a volume (1821-2), 'subdued all 
 prejudiced minds, and favorably inclined them toward 
 his innovations in the literature of his country, at the 
 same time opening a way to a complete reform, not 
 only in the art of writing itself, but also in the concep- 
 tions necessary to the innovation. These innovations 
 and conceptions were taken up by another genius, and 
 very soon after put into practice. 
 
230 POETS AND POETEY OF POLAND. 
 
 Brodzinski's poetical compositions breathed like the 
 gentle breezes of the wind, which seemed to send into 
 the popular heart a new life; it was a genuine national 
 breath, awakening in poetry pure native feeling and 
 turning attention to the land of our birth — its inher- 
 ent qualities and its beauties; he chose for his images 
 simple and more accessible objects, — rural life and 
 scenery, and beautifully painted their simplicity, their 
 innocence and charms. 
 
 Thus is his "Wiesław " planned. It is like the first 
 flowers in the spring, which are not the prettiest in 
 outward appearance, — but then one of these is the 
 violet, and who plucked the first violet in our litera- 
 ture was the first to welcome the spiritual spring of the 
 nation. "Wiesław " is the most beautiful pastoral, — the 
 most charming rural epopee, — and after its publication 
 it created a sensation such as no other poem ever created 
 before. The youth of the country could repeat it by 
 heart, and even to this day the poem is known and 
 loved by all classes. It was welcomed at its first appear- 
 ance as a harbinger of a bright star of future poetry 
 which was to rise over the whole Polish nation. This 
 "Wiesław," singing forth with the accompaniment of 
 a country fiddler, the Cracovian dancers, the bride-men, 
 the para-nymphs, came out with charms unknown 
 before. If Brodziński had not written anything else 
 but that, it alone would have contributed greatly to the 
 Polish literature, and would have placed him in the 
 first ranks of Polish poets. He iufused into his poetry 
 all the gentleness of his nature, his feeling, and his 
 sincerity. 
 
 Brodziński was born on the 8th of March, 1791, in 
 Galicia. In consequence of the early death of his 
 mother, and neglected by his stepmother, he grew up 
 
BRODZIŃSKI. 231 
 
 amidst rural people and rural scenes. Later he was 
 sent to school at Lipnice. He finished the gymnasium 
 at Tarnów, from where he ran away with his brother 
 Andrew, and enlisted in the artillery in 1809. He 
 served in the campaign of 1812, and the year after 
 was wounded at the battle of Leipsic, and finally 
 taken prisoner by the Prussians. In 1814 he was 
 released, and returning to Warsaw he left the military 
 service, and gave himself up to learning. At that time 
 (1818) he wrote his dissertation "Of Classicism and 
 Romanticism," which called out, as before mentioned, 
 the celebrated literary war. Laboring on the commit- 
 tee of the department of the interior he, at the same 
 time, gave private lessons in Polish literature. In 
 1821 he taught at the Lyceum, and the succeeding year 
 was called to a professorship at the University of War- 
 saw. His failing health compelled him to seek milder 
 climes, and in 1826 he left for Italy, visiting Switzer- 
 land and France. Returning again to his country he 
 continued in his usual labors till 1829. In the follow- 
 ing year he published "The Latin Elegies" of John 
 Kochanowski. Falling sick again he went to the Bo- 
 hemian waters, and died at Dresden on the 10th day of 
 October, 1835. 
 
 The first collection of his poems, in two volumes, 
 was published at Warsaw, 1821. Afterward "The 
 Miscellaneous Writings," containing critical and ses- 
 thetical dissertations was also published at Warsaw, 
 1830. A complete edition of his works was published 
 in ten volumes at Wilno, 1842-4. Besides that the 
 translation of the tragedy of "Raynouard," Warsaw, 
 1819; "Latin Elegies," Warsaw, 1830; "Of Litera- 
 ture," in Turowski' s Library, at Sanok, 1856. 
 
232 POETS AND POETEY OF POLAND. 
 
 THE FATHER AND HIS SON. 
 
 My son, give me my spade and plow — 
 
 To labor is our lot, 
 And though a lonely being now, 
 
 I'll guard our little cot. 
 
 Within the valley of thy birth 
 
 Lies armor we will raise; 
 'Tis hid within our native earth; 
 
 Awaiting better days. 
 
 And when I see thee draw once more 
 Thy father's conquering sword, 
 
 I'll dream our night of slavery is o'er, 
 And freedom is restored. 
 
 And oh, my son, weep not for me; 
 
 These aged hands can toil 
 For our support — but 'tis for thee 
 
 To guard our native soil. 
 
 My hope on God and thee depends, 
 • And God will me reward; 
 My corn will grow to feed the friends 
 Whose swords our freedom guard. 
 
 See where yon trees their branches wave, 
 And shroud the church in gloom, 
 
 There, sooner than become a slave, 
 Thy aire will find a tomb. 
 
 And if returned from foes o'ercome, 
 To me be tear-drops given; 
 
 If not, thy arms must share my tomb, 
 And seek thy sire in heaven. 
 
BRODZIŃSKI. 233 
 
 THE OLD MAN. 
 
 Young Man. Old man, tell me where to get bread. 
 Old Man. In early morning leave your bed, 
 
 And as the way is long and steep, 
 
 'Tis best the ploughshare's path to keep. 
 
 It will be somewhat wearisome, 
 
 But thereby health and peace will come. 
 Young Man. Where are your recreations here? 
 Old Man. No road through six days brings them near ; 
 
 Through six days to your work attend ; 
 
 To make a home your mind must bend, 
 
 And boldly then when earned your pelf 
 
 On Sunday you enjoy yourself. 
 Young Man. Where are your schools and teachers here? 
 Old Man. Schools and wise teachers both are near; 
 
 But you'll lose time to go and ask, — 
 
 Be giddy-headed with the task. 
 
 But for beginners, full of worth, 
 
 Are charts of sky and charts of earth; 
 
 And there is, too, Dame Nature's book, 
 
 That children learn from as they look. 
 
 People there are who lose or gain, 
 
 Whose hearts are full of joy or pain; 
 
 And they each other teach in turn, 
 
 With pluck and spirit go and learn. 
 
 Search without idleness; refrain 
 
 From asking oft. The way is plain. 
 Young Man. Tell me where can I find a friend . 
 Old Man. That great boon none but Fate can send; 
 
 With golden nets he is not caught, 
 
 With skill nor flattery is bought. 
 
 He who has found, indeed, a friend. 
 
 Whose heart with his through life may blend, 
 
 Blessed is he beyond compare! 
 
 For as the body needs the air 
 
234 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND. 
 
 E'en so the true heart needs a friend, — 
 He who will a few words extend, 
 If they be kindly and sincere, 
 Though why, may not to you appear. 
 Time passes, and day follows day, 
 Year after year will slip away; 
 But still your heart will yearn for him, 
 He reigns o'er you in silence dim. 
 Will all your hidden troubles guess 
 In fancied luck or hopelessness. 
 Your friend rejoices or he grieves, 
 If your devotion he receives. 
 To state a truth there consequent 
 To your voice let your heart be lent, 
 Exclaiming; I a friend have found. 
 
 Young Man. Tell me where pleasure does abound? 
 
 Old Man. 'Tis long since from it I have heard, 
 Others can tell you scarce a word. 
 Something of it I knew in youth, 
 Its mother was good health and truth. 
 Innocence it had for a wife, 
 Possessed goods many of this life; 
 Except with children it is found 
 'Tis vanished now from sight and sound. 
 
 Young Man. Pray tell me where's Virtue now. 
 
 Old Man. It's lying ill and very low. 
 
 It prays for all most fervently, 
 Its own reward it used to be, 
 Quietly breathing its pure breath, 
 But now it weeps as if for death, 
 And terrible is its distress! 
 
 Young Man. Where then can I find happiness? 
 
 Old Man. In this direction it lies not, 
 
 By every one the way is sought, 
 But ah ! no one knows happiness, 
 And so, I think, all will confess; 
 
BRODZIŃSKI. 235 
 
 In search of it they still must roam. 
 You have left it in your sire's home; 
 Only in God you'll find it now, 
 Speak gently — teach your heart to bow. 
 Seek peace in many a noble task, 
 And last of all your conscience ask, 
 And that will the whole story tell. 
 
 Young M> an. Where does Faith about here dwell? 
 
 Old Man. If from your mother you learned not 
 By children you can best be taught. 
 The straightest path to it would be, — 
 Not to inquire of men you see, 
 Who happy seem, nor those world-wise, 
 Seek if in love for all it lies 
 In loving deeds and kindly thought, 
 And when all else has come to naught 
 It will, when troubles fast succeed, 
 Itself into your succor speed, 
 And to its home in safety lead. 
 
 SLANDER. 
 
 Unlucky he who stands in slander's power ! 
 Though great, — for worms a lion may devour. 
 
 FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 Like the morning sunbeam's shade, 
 Friendship with the evil made 
 Lessens every hour with time ; 
 As the shade of evening lengthens 
 Friendship with the virtuous strengthens, 
 Till the sun sinks down sublime. 
 
236 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND. 
 
 WIESŁAW.* 
 
 Old Stanisław came from his chamber-door, 
 
 His wife upon his arm, — two bags he bore; 
 
 Whence thrice a hundred florins he told o'er, 
 
 And said, " Take these, my Wiesław, and depart; 
 
 And bring a pair of steeds from Cracow's mart; — 
 
 A well- matched pair. — My son was slain in fight, 
 
 And grief and grievous age o'erpower me quite: 
 
 I've none to trust but thee, the prop, the stay 
 
 Of my old house. When I have pass'd away 
 
 Be thou its head; — and if (Heaven grant the prayer!) 
 
 My daughter e'er should win thy love, thy care, — 
 
 Twelve years — rare beauty — thou mayst wait; — -my tongue 
 
 Must not betray my heart; — but thou art young." 
 
 "Yes! yes!" cried Bronisława, "'tis for thee 
 
 I watch and train the maiden tenderly." 
 
 (She smoothed Bronika's cheeks while this she said; 
 
 And deeply blushed the young and simple maid.) 
 
 " I have no sweeter thoughts for her; — and this 
 
 Were the full spring-tide of a mother's bliss; 
 
 0! I was twice a mother. God above! 
 
 Can I weep out the memory of her love? 
 
 The fifth fruit scarce had blossom'd; — she was reft, 
 
 And not a solitary vestige left. 
 
 Twelve wintry winds have stripped the forest tree, 
 
 And still her visions haunt that memory. 
 
 When war had ravaged Poland, — when its brands 
 
 Fired our low cots, and razed our smiling lands, — 
 
 When even the forests perish'd in the blaze, 
 
 And terror like a whirlwind met the gaze, 
 
 As if all heaven were frowning; — overturn'd 
 
 * Pronounced Viesłav. 
 
BRODZIŃSKI. 237 
 
 Our houses; rooted up, and tore, and burn'd 
 
 Our sheltering woods; — 'twas as if judgment-day 
 
 Had gather'd all its terrors o'er our way. 
 
 Midst sobs and sighs and shrieks and wailings loud, 
 
 Through the wild tempest of the fiery cloud, 
 
 Our peasants rush'd to save us; while the foe 
 
 Fed upon plunder, scattering fear and woe. 
 
 Our father's cottage in the smoke-clouds fell, — 
 
 And that beloved child, — O horrible! 
 
 That sweet, soft maiden disappears; — no trace 
 
 Was left; — 'twas all a bare and blazing place: — 
 
 I sought her through the villages and woods: 
 
 There was no voice in all their solitudes. 
 
 No! she was lost forever! as a stone 
 
 Into th' unfathom'd trackless ocean thrown; 
 
 And I found nought but silence. Year by year 
 
 The harvest maidens wreath'd with flowers appear, — 
 
 But she appears not; — Oh! she is not there. 
 
 Heaven's will shall be Heaven's praise. — I fix'd on thee, 
 
 My son, her representative to be. 
 
 Thou wert an orphan, and of old 'twas said, 
 
 That he who housed a homeless orphan's head 
 
 Should ne'er want comfort; — and perchance my child 
 
 May yet have found a home, — and 'neath the mild 
 
 And holy smile of a maternal eye 
 
 May dwell with other children joyously. 
 
 So have I train'd thee, — so have I fulfill'd 
 
 A mother's duties, — and my grief was still'd 
 
 With thoughts that mercy should for mercy pay; 
 
 For Heaven's rewards flit o'er our earthly way 
 
 In strange and wandering light. Perchance the mound 
 
 Lies on her head o'er the dark grave profound, 
 
 While her freed spirit in the realms of rest . 
 
 Sits dove-like on the Heavenly Mother's* breast; 
 
 * The Virgin Mary. 
 
238 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND. 
 
 And thence by prayers and tears on our abode 
 
 Sends down the smiles of angels and of God." 
 
 She could no more; — her cheeks were drench'd in tears,- 
 
 Tears, — the prompt eloquence of hopes and fears; 
 
 Her daughter's heart seem'd bursting. Tears deny 
 
 Their soothing influence to man's sterner eye. 
 
 So Stanisław, whose soul was full as hers, 
 
 Cried, " God in heaven directs weak man's affairs, — 
 
 God, whose all-penetrating sight can rend 
 
 The curtains of all time and space; — a friend 
 
 And ever-present Father. None too mean 
 
 For his regards; — he rules o'er all unseen. 
 
 Let grief give way to pious confidence ! 
 
 Provide for Wiesław now, and speed him hence, 
 
 And give him counsel and thy blessing; — youth 
 
 Is ever hasty. Boy ! some pledge of truth 
 
 Thou'lt bring to thy betroth'd." — In reverence meet 
 
 He bow'd, and then embraced the old man's feet; 
 
 Then pass'd the threshold, grateful to high Heaven, 
 
 Who to the orphan such kind friends had given. 
 
 Sweet evening with its twilight bathed the earth, 
 And lo! the gladdening sounds of village mirth 
 Fell upon Wiesław's ear, as home he rode 
 Upon his new-bought steeds, — the shouts were loud, 
 And gay the music;— swift the horses speed: 
 He saw the bride-maids sporting in the mead, 
 All crown'd with myrtle garlands. Youths around 
 Stamp'd their steel heels upon the echoing ground,* 
 Then sprung to greet the stranger. First of all 
 The Starost f spoke: " Tis well to claim, and call 
 A stranger, friend: from Proszow welcome thou; 
 
 *To stamp with the feet is the accompaniment of the Cracowiak 
 dance. 
 
 \ The head of the wedding festival. 
 
BRODZIŃSKI. 239 
 
 Despise not the kind thoughts that hail thee now. 
 
 Come, share our joys, — the joys which time and toil, 
 
 And God's good blessing, and our flowery soil 
 
 Confer; — and thou Cracovia's maids shalt see, 
 
 Their dances, dresses, and festivity. 
 
 Come, join their sports; though thou art tired, perchance 
 
 Thy weariness may fly at beauty's glance, 
 
 For thou art young." The fair Halina, — fair 
 
 As morning, — she the queen, the day-star there, 
 
 Approach'd; — she blush'd, she blush'd, but nearer drew, 
 
 And proffer'd cakes and fruits of varied hue 
 
 From her own basket: — " Stranger, deign to share 
 
 Our fruits, our bread, our unpretending fare." 
 
 The stranger's vivid eye toward her turn'd, 
 
 And with a magic smiling brightness burn'd ; 
 
 Aye ! from that very moment eye and soul 
 
 Were spell-bound by that simple maid's control, 
 
 And joyous sped he to the dance. The band 
 
 Of youth, with wine-fill'd goblets in their hand, 
 
 Bid him a welcome; and the Starost's word 
 
 Thus order'd : — " Let precedence be conferr'd 
 
 Upon the stranger. Let him choose the song; 
 
 Be his to lead the mazy dance along. 
 
 Let him select a maiden, — courtesy 
 
 Must on the stranger wait, — and this is he 
 
 Wiesław had seized her hand whose eye had shed 
 
 On him a heavenly influence, and he led 
 
 Halina forth, — a long and laughing train 
 
 Of youths and maidens to the music's strain 
 
 Beat their responsive feet, — and heel on heel 
 
 Like flitting shadows on the water, steal. 
 
 His hands were on his belted girdle, while 
 He gaily danced in that bright maiden's smile: 
 Into the vial silver coins he threw, 
 And bowing to the seated sires, anew 
 
240 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND. 
 
 Struck with his foot the ground, and lower'd his head 
 And thus pour'd forth his music to the maid : 
 
 " Beautiful damsel! often I 
 Have seen what seem'd almost divine, 
 But never brightness like thine eye, 
 But never charms, sweet maid! like thine. 
 
 " Look on my face, and see, and see, 
 As my warm heart to Heaven is known, 
 How that fond heart would spring to thee, 
 And blend its passions with thine own." 
 
 Again he led the maiden forth, and danced 
 Like a young god by joy and love entranced; 
 Again the gladdening peals of music rang, 
 Again he stopp'd, and bow'd, and sweetly sang : 
 
 " O ! had I known thee in the plain 
 Where Proszow rears his forest shades, 
 I should have been most blest of men, 
 Thou happiest of Cracovian maids. 
 
 " The blood that flows within our veins 
 Can all our fond desires enthrall: 
 Man plants and waters, toils and pains, 
 But God in Heaven disposes all." 
 
 With dancing step before the youth she flew, 
 With joyous ecstasy his steps pursue. 
 Again he takes her hand, and smiles; — again 
 His thrilling lips resume the raptured strain : — 
 
 " O fly not, fly not, maid divine ! 
 My life, my chosen one, art thou: 
 My heart shall be thine own bright shrine, 
 And never lose thine image now. 
 
BRODZIŃSKI. 241 
 
 " So in the solitary wood 
 The little warbler finds its rest; 
 And consecrates its solitude, 
 And makes its own, its homely nest." 
 
 Now in his turn before the maid he flies, 
 And she to track his footstep gaily hies: 
 He stops, and laughs ; — again his lips repeat 
 Words of light eloquence to music sweet : — 
 
 " Gospodar* ! I have dearly bought 
 My steeds ; — my money all away ; — 
 Perplex'd and pain'd my rambling thought 
 And my poor heart is led astray. 
 
 11 But wake, O wake the song! — despair 
 And darkness gather o'er my mind: 
 I seek my home ; — my body there 
 I drag, — my soul remains behind." 
 
 She stretch'd her hand; — again he sings, — the throng 
 
 Of youth hangs raptured on his ardent song. 
 
 Strike up, musicians ! — 'Twas too late ; for they 
 
 Had sunk to rest beneath sleep's lulling sway. 
 
 And now Halina fled; — her blush to hide 
 
 She sought the village matrons' sheltering side. 
 
 And Wiesław to the Starost and to these 
 
 Made many a bow, and utter 'd courtesies; 
 
 And many a whisper fell ; and late and long 
 
 He linger'd midst the hospitable throng; 
 
 Linger'd until the bride-day whitening fell 
 
 In twilight on the hills, — then said farewell ! 
 
 His ears were full of music and of mirth, 
 
 His heart seem'd big with thoughts, yet void with dearth ; 
 
 One thought in varied imagery was there, 
 
 One all-possessing thought, — the thought of her. 
 
 * Landlord. 
 16 
 
242 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND. 
 
 III. 
 
 Wiesław o'er the field, the waste, the wood, 
 
 Sped swiftly; yet his bosom's solitude 
 
 And his love-grief were with him : — for when love 
 
 Is seated in the heart no thoughts can move, 
 
 No reason drive it thence. And now should he 
 
 Divulge his love, or fan it secretly? 
 
 He would tell all to Stanisław. He rode 
 
 To the court-yard, and to his loved abode 
 
 Was warmly welcomed by th' expectant crowd; 
 
 Sire, mother, daughter, — some with voices loud, 
 
 And some with silent smiles. They smooth'd his horse 
 
 And tied him to the hedge; and praised of course 
 
 His bargains and his quick return. The steeds 
 
 Old Stanisław with looks approving leads 
 
 To their appointed stall; — but first his care 
 
 Bids Bronisława homely feast prepare. 
 
 And Wiesław reach'd the cot, and seated him 
 
 Pensively. " Art thou ill? — thine eyes are dim! " 
 
 Inquired the anxious women. No word pass'd 
 
 His lips: he stretchM his hand, and gave at last 
 
 A present to Bronika: — still he kept 
 
 Silence. Just then a curious neighbor stept 
 
 Over the threshold, — it was John, the seer 
 
 Of all the village, and though learned — dear: 
 
 Prudent in council he; yet free and gay, 
 
 He sway'd the peasants, but with gentlest sway: 
 
 Honest and wise in thought, — in language wise. 
 
 Yet why does gloom hang thick on Wiesiaw's eyes? 
 
 The father came, and all were seated round 
 
 Their sober meal; — John's jests and jokes abound. 
 
 Yet Bronisława could only dream and guess 
 
 What Wiesław's silence meant. " O now confess, 
 
 Confess what clouds thy heart and stills thy tongue, 
 
 For gloom and silence ill become the young; 
 
BRODZIŃSKI. 243 
 
 Thou'rt brooding on some grief." The words pierced thro' 
 His heart; — his cheeks were stain'd with roseate hue; 
 
 O'erpower'd he fell at Bronislawa's feet. 
 "Yes! I will speak, — say all. Indeed 'tis meet 
 To veil no thoughts from aged friends; for they 
 May guide the wandering youth that walks astray, 
 With words of wisdom. Better I had ne'er 
 Left this kind home, your kindness and your care. 
 Content I walk'd behind your cheerful plow, 
 And never knew the war of grief — till now. 
 But man can only travel in the road, 
 Or smooth or rough, which is mark'd out by God. 
 His oracles are swift as rays of light, — 
 Unseen as spirit, — unopposed in might, — 
 I pass'd a village, where a maiden sto^ 
 My heart, and charm'd my senses and my soul, 
 And holds them now. My parents rest in heaven; 
 You to the orphan a kind home have given — 
 A shelter to the orphan's misery: 
 Yes ! you unbarr'd your friendly gates to me ; — 
 Repent not now your kindness and your love. 
 Ye taught me toil, and fear of God above; 
 And gave your only daughter, a wreath'd * bride 
 To hang with fondness on the orphan's side. 
 Even when I rock'd her in her cradle, ye 
 Have often said, ' That babe thy wife shall be!' — 
 And am I then ungrateful? Is my heart, 
 My obdurate heart, of stone, that thus would part, 
 Your hopes, my dreams? Nay! let me, let me speak, 
 For love is strong, and language is but weak. 
 Why must I grieve ye? — why my shame declare? 
 No longer can I claim your fostering care; 
 For I must dwell with strangers. Come what may, 
 I cannot live where that fair maid's away; — 
 
 ♦Wreath'd, affianced. A wreath is synonymous with a dower. 
 
244 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND. 
 
 I hate myself; I'm useless to mankind; — 
 
 Give me your blessing. Let me leave behind 
 
 Eternal gratitude. Your blessing give; 
 
 For who beneath a patron's curse could live? 
 
 Farewell! and God shall judge us." Tears of woe 
 
 Good Bronisiawa's aged eyes o'erflow. 
 
 The old man bends his head, — but not t' approve, — 
 
 And utters these sad words of solemn love : 
 
 " 'Twas on thy father's death-bed that he gave 
 
 Thee to my care, — and then he sought his grave; 
 
 And from that hour I loved thee tenderly: 
 
 Yes! nothing was more dear than thou to me. 
 
 Know'st thou old age is on me; and canst thou 
 
 Leave me to struggle with its miseries now, 
 
 And rush upon life's perils? — quit the cot 
 
 Where sorrow and unkindness enter not, — 
 
 Quit every future hope? — Oh, if thou go, 
 
 Thou shalt bear with thee shame and tears and woe! 
 
 Thine is a dangerous course: — I cannot say 
 
 'God bless thee!' Stay, my best-loved Wiesław, stay!" 
 
 All wept, except the village seer. His head 
 
 He wisely shook, and thus he gaily said: 
 
 "How can the old man understand the young? 
 
 Freedom is in their heart, and on their tongue 
 
 Sweet change; tempt them with love, with riches' cares, 
 
 Still they look further, — for the world is theirs: 
 
 For them restraint is weariness and woe; 
 
 And as the spring-bird scours the meadows, so 
 
 Proud, free and gay, rejoicing in his might, 
 
 O'er rivers, woods, and cliffs he takes his flight, 
 
 Until attracted by some gentle strain 
 
 He seeks the green and leafy woods again, 
 
 And by his mate reposes. Such the laws 
 
 Which nature round the star of youth-time draws. 
 
 In vain you stop his course, — and why should he 
 
 Be check'd, when God and nature made him free! 
 
BRODZIŃSKI. 245 
 
 He holds no influence o'er Bronika's doom; 
 
 'Tis mutual love makes happy wedlock bloom: 
 
 She is a lovely floweret, to be placed 
 
 On some fair stranger's bosom. Father, haste 
 
 And give thy blessing to thy son; — for each 
 
 Should seize the bliss that grows within his reach." 
 
 To whom old Stanisław, — '"'Not so! not so! 
 
 I cannot let my son, my Wiesław, go: 
 
 Thou'rt full of knowledge; but thou canst not know 
 
 A father's fondness, and a father's woe, 
 
 When the dear object of his grief, his cares, — 
 
 With whom he lived, and loved, and labor'd, — tears 
 
 His heart away, and leaves a dark abode 
 
 The once love-lighted dwelling where he trod; — 
 
 Forgetting all — all, e'en the tears they pour'd 
 
 In solitude, — while at a stranger's board 
 
 The daughter sits. O no ! I long had dream'd 
 
 Of bliss to come, — and sweet and bright it seem'd 
 
 To think her mother, when death's curtain fell 
 
 Upon my silent grave, in peace should dwell 
 
 In her own cottage; — but 'twas vain to build 
 
 Such visions ; — Be the will of Heaven fulfill'd ! 
 
 Go — with my blessing, Wiesław — go; let John 
 
 Escort thee, counsel thee; — Heaven's will be done! 
 
 Go to thy loved one's dwelling. If the maid 
 
 And the maid's friends consent love's wreaths to braid, 
 
 Then bring her hither; — John thy guide shall be,* 
 
 And she be welcomed when betroth'd to thee." 
 
 So John and Wiesław left their home at length: 
 And Wiesław, sped by love and youthful strength, 
 Flew o'er the mountains, through the fields and dells, 
 
 * Among the peasantry it is the custom in Poland for the young 
 man who asks a maid in marriage to take the most venerable of his 
 friends to plead for him. He is called the Swat. The ceremony of 
 betrothing follows, and rings are pledged in exchange. 
 
246 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND. 
 
 And reach'd the dwelling where the maiden dwells; 
 While thus beneath her window, where they stood, 
 Their strains of music on her ear intrude: 
 
 " The beds are cover'd with flowerets sweet, 
 And rue and rosemary bloom in pride; 
 
 A garland lies in the window-seat, 
 And a maid walks forth to be a bride. 
 
 "A youth from a distant land will come, 
 And soon to the maiden's parents speak; 
 
 The daughter will pluck the flowers that bloom, 
 And swiftly another mother seek. 
 
 " O rosemary ! wear thy gems of blue, 
 
 And garland once more the maiden's brow; 
 
 And wake again, thou emerald rue, 
 
 For none shall water thy springing now. 
 
 " The cottage is neat, though poor it be, 
 The blessing of God beams bright on care, 
 
 The magpie cries on the old elm tree, 
 
 And the maid in her morning robes is there. 
 
 "Awake, and open! — the guests draw nigh, 
 
 O welcome them in a day like this; 
 Eeceive the strangers cordially, 
 
 They come to shed and to share in bliss." 
 
 The mother from her spindle rose, and drew 
 The bolt, — the creaking door wide open flew; 
 Old John and youthful Wiesław entered then, — 
 Wiesław of giant height and noble mien, 
 Whose head reach'd e'en the ceiling. Jadwicz said, 
 " Welcome, our guests! Sit down and rest, and spread 
 The news ye bring." Next came the bright-eyed maid, 
 Blushing, yet bending like a flower that's weigh'd 
 
BRODZIŃSKI. 247 
 
 By heavy dews. John hail'd her: "Maiden, stay! 
 Those rosy cheeks an old man's toils shall pay." 
 Then she blush 'd deeper, and from Wiesław took 
 His traveling-basket, and his traveling-crook 
 From the good sire; — she drew the settle near, 
 And bid them rest; while whispering in her ear 
 Jadwicz gave speedy orders: " Light the hearth, 
 Prepare the meal." While with a smile of mirth 
 The old man said, " I would not now transgress 
 The customs of our fathers, — I confess 
 I love old usages; — so with your leave, 
 An ye will lend your goblets, and receive 
 A draught from our own flagon, I will pledge 
 My landlady, for wine gives wit its edge; 
 It cheers and it emboldens; tears the veil 
 That hides the heart, and bids us see and feel: 
 And, as when children in the crystal brook 
 Upon their own, their very image look, — 
 So the red wine's the mirror where we see 
 Our very souls. The honey-gathering bee 
 Is a bright emblem of our cares ; he goes 
 Busy o'er all-providing earth, and shows 
 What order, care and zeal can do; — in spring, 
 From fragrant flowers and orchards blossoming 
 To his hive brothers bears the gather'd stores: 
 So in his maiden's lap the fond youth pours 
 His passions, his affections. How sincere 
 Is the pure offering of a villager, 
 Who offers honest, ardent love ! The bee 
 Its emblem, — labor, — concord, — purity." 
 The mother reach'd the goblets. John's discourse 
 Delighted all; for in it shone the force 
 Of a clear intellect, which God had given. 
 He had bound many ties, and had made even 
 Many strange odds ; — at every wedding feast 
 He was the Starost, and of course the guest: 
 
248 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND. 
 
 And hundred children call'd him "Father 1 "; he 
 
 Call'd every happy home his family; — 
 
 And he was always welcome. Now he took 
 
 The goblet in his hand, and o'er it shook 
 
 The liquid honey.* " Take it, gentle maid! 
 
 It grew in distant fields," he smiling said: 
 
 11 Take it, for thou deservest all that's sweet 
 
 And beautiful in life." Her glances meet 
 
 Her mother's eye, and with averted look 
 
 'Neath her white apron hid,t the maiden took 
 
 One solitary drop. The rest old John 
 
 Drank to the dregs; — while like a summer dawn 
 
 That brightens into light with blushing hue, 
 
 The maiden stood; and the old man anew 
 
 Thus said: "The maiden's silence speaks; and now 
 
 I'll turn me to her mother: — Wayward youth, 
 
 Both blind and passionate, wants our guide: in truth 
 
 It cannot penetrate futurity, 
 
 But hangs on love, and trusts to destiny. 
 
 Let's lead them then, — they wander far astray ; 
 
 We'll take their hands, and guide them on their way, 
 
 And watch their happiness, — foresee, control 
 
 Their path; and God, who watches o'er the whole, 
 
 Will turn all ill to good. — You see the son 
 
 Of honest sires, — though they, alas! are gone, 
 
 And sleep beneath the turf; — yet other sires 
 
 Have, pity-touch'd, fann'd all affection's fires, 
 
 And taught him virtue. They have given him food; 
 
 Trained him, an orphan, to be wise and good: 
 
 * Mead is a national beverage of the Poles, and has been so for 
 many centuries. The best is made in the month of July, when the 
 lime trees are in flower, at which period the honey is called Lipiec. 
 Kowno, on the banks of the Niemen, is particularly renowned for its 
 honey. 
 
 t The Polish peasants, as a general thing, always turn away and 
 cover their faces when they drink in the presence of others. 
 
BRODZIŃSKI. 249 
 
 To labor, to obey them, — in the fear 
 
 Of God and duty. He became so dear, 
 
 They call'd him 'Son'; they made him jointly heir; 
 
 And well he has repaid their pious care. 
 
 Their harvests go not from the scythe to seek 
 
 The tavern; — Sunday wastes not what the week 
 
 Has earn'd; — God's blessing smiles upon their way. 
 
 Rich wheat is gather'd from their cultured clay; 
 
 Their fields are white with sheep, and full their stall. 
 
 They have four steeds that bear to Cracow all 
 
 The produce of their land. — From them I come. 
 
 And ask yon maid to decorate their home 
 
 Her Wiesław saw, and seeing, flew and pray'd 
 
 Their sanction to espouse that blushing maid. 
 
 And Stanisław has sent me to demand 
 
 From thee, from her, the lovely damsel's hand. 
 
 He said: ' Go bring her here; his guide be thou; 
 
 She shall be welcome if she love him now.' 
 
 Now, mother, thou hast heard me. Give the maid, 
 
 And heaven shall blessings with new blessing braid 
 
 I'll praise the youth, though he be here, — though praise 
 
 Too oft beguiles us, and too oft betrays. 
 
 They deem too easily to win their end; 
 
 And counsel hurts, and kind reproofs offend. 
 
 Wiesław was modest and laborious; still 
 
 He sometimes was a Szpak* and had his will; 
 
 He once stopp'd even the Wojewodę: his delight 
 
 Has been to revel in an inn at night; 
 
 And he has driven (0 sin !) th' imperial troops, 
 
 Cesarskie Woiaki f thence ; and at the loops 
 
 And sandals of the wandering highlanders X 
 
 He grinn'd and laugh'd till his mouth reach'd his ears. 
 
 He was a sad wild fellow, but he grew 
 
 * Starling, a bold, noisy fellow 
 
 f Austrian soldiers. 
 
 % Górale, the mountaineers of Carpatia. 
 
250 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND. 
 
 With time both wiser and sedater too: 
 For as in spring the swelling stream rolls by, 
 Foams, dashes o'er its borders furiously, 
 Then flowing further glides serenely on, 
 So youth is gay and wild till youth is gone; 
 Till, taught by thick anxieties and years, 
 It sheds the excess of blossoms which it bears, 
 And, shaken by the winds of want and woe, 
 Its flowers drop off upon the sod below. 
 And he has known the smiles and frowns of Heaven; 
 To him has sorrow all its lessons given; 
 And now, to crown his blessings, he requires 
 A good and steady wife; and his desires 
 Upon Halina dwell. With her the rest 
 ^Of life shall all be tranquillized and bless'd. 
 My mission is discharged. — Behold my son! 
 Give a kind ear to Wiesław; — I have done." 
 The observant maiden stood aside, and traced 
 Each shadowing thought and secret jest that pass'd 
 Across the good man's mind and countenance. 
 He could not, would not, wound her; for his glance 
 Had watch'd the influence of each playful word. 
 But Wiesław bow'd in silence, an he pour'd 
 A stream of suppliant tears, that said " Forbear! " 
 Then there was silence, — silence everywhere, — 
 Till a full torrent o'er Halina's cheeks 
 Pour'd, as when many a pregnant spring-cloud breaks 
 Over the Vistula, and flowers are dew'd 
 With freshen'd joy; while the bright sun renew'd, 
 Towers glorious o'er the mountains. So the eyes 
 Of the fond children sparkled. With surprise 
 And with delight the mother watch'd them, — proud 
 And joyful. But some gloomy memories crowd 
 Upon her thoughts. Halina, she had naught; 
 Nor dower, nor parents, nor parental cot, 
 Nor hope of wealth. So Jadwicz heaved her breast, 
 
BRODZIŃSKI. 251 
 
 And thus spoke frankly to her listening guest: 
 
 " There is a God in heaven who judges all; 
 
 He tries us when we rise and when we fall: 
 
 And, raising or depressing, his decrees 
 
 Follow our deeds and guide us as they please. 
 
 Halina is an orphan! at my side 
 
 E'en from her childhood wonted to abide. 
 
 The sun has risen on our abode; its fire 
 
 Is far too bright; for how should she aspire, — 
 
 She a poor maid, — to wed the wealthy son 
 
 Of a rich peasant ! Father she has none, — 
 
 No friends, — not one, — to counsel or to care. 
 
 O noble youth! May God reward thee here. 
 
 Thy generous heart, — this kind design; — yet tell 
 
 This story of Halina, — and farewell ! 
 
 When Poland's crown was by disasters rent, 
 
 My husband and my brothers swiftly went, 
 
 Though arm'd with scythes alone, our land to save ; 
 
 But they return'd not, — they but found a grave. 
 
 The cruel stranger all our country razed, 
 
 Our palaces destroy'd, our village blazed. 
 
 How dreadful is the memory of that day. 
 
 E'en now the thought is death ! We fled away, — 
 
 Old men, young mothers, — to the blazing woods, 
 
 That scared us from their frightful solitudes. . 
 
 0! 'twas a hideous, — 'twas a hideous sight; 
 
 When life's last beam went out and all was night; 
 
 Till blazed for leagues the horrid flames again, 
 
 Children and mothers straggled o'er the plain. 
 
 T saw them, and I wept, — I look'd, and wept 
 
 Till tears had dimm'd my sight. A child had crept 
 
 Tremulous to my side. I seized it. Press'd 
 
 The trembling little orphan to my breast, 
 
 And ask'd its name, its parentage, its home. 
 
 It answer'd not; it knew not; it had come 
 
 (So said the sobbing child) from fire and flame, 
 
252 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND. 
 
 But it knew not its nation, nor its name. 
 Strangers had led it thither: — and no more 
 The infant said. I seized the child. Though poor, — 
 I was a mother once; — I thought of God, 
 And led the orphan to my mean abode, 
 And watch'd it; and her smiles, her toils repaid, 
 Ten-fold repaid, the sacrifice I made. 
 She grew, — industrious, healthy, prudent, fair, 
 And we have toil'd together many a year, 
 With self-same wants and with the self-same care. 
 We bore our mutual poverty, and smiled, 
 Though to a stranger's borrow'd cot exiled, — 
 Nothing possessing. Soon our wealth increased; 
 Two cows, one heifer, and six sheep at least 
 Were our own store. At last, by care and toil, 
 We won an interest in our country's soil. 
 We sow'd our land with flax; at night we span 
 For raiment, and the remnants soon began 
 A little pile for age. And so we pass 
 Our life away. We have our morning mass, 
 • Our joyous evening sports, and once a year 
 Our merry carnival; but not for her, — 
 The rings are bought, the wreaths are wov'n for them 
 Whom fortune crowns with her own diadem, — 
 But not for her! An orphan, — how should she 
 Attract the wealthy, or enchain the free? 
 She has no parent, has no dower. If Heaven 
 Shed down its light, Oh, be its blessings given 
 To no unthankful bosom ! — but while I 
 Shall live, Halina may not, cannot fly." 
 Hot tears broke forth, and show'd the pangs she felt, 
 While the fair maid before her mother knelt, 
 And clasp'd her knees: — " Dear mother! mother, thou- 
 Thou art my dower, my wreath, my all things now ! 
 Though mines of gold were mine, though castles fair, 
 And silken wardrobes; yet wert thou not there 
 
BRODZIŃSKI. 253 
 
 All would be naught; — without thee, all appears 
 A blank, and life's bright charms a scene of tears." 
 
 And so in silence they embraced. A gleam 
 Pass'd through the old man's mind as in a dream, 
 Then fix'd itself in light. His raptured soul 
 Look'd through the future's maze, and saw the whole 
 Future in glory. Struggling thoughts broke through 
 His changed regards, betraying half he knew; — 
 And Wiesław fain would speak; but John imposed 
 Peace, and thus spoke: — " The Almighty has disclosed 
 His purpose, and inspires me. Now I see 
 His brightness beaming through the mystery. 
 Mother, confide in my advice, — sincere, 
 And from the soul. Go, summon swiftly here 
 A carriage and two steeds; we will repay 
 The service nobly, — for we must away. 
 We must away, — the hour of joy is come; — 
 Halina shall be welcomed to our home." 
 
 And swiftly, white with foam, the horses fly, 
 And forests, meadows, bridges, plains, run by. 
 But all are sad and pensive — all but John, — 
 The proverbs, jokes, and tales are his alone. 
 The maiden veil'd her eyes in doubt and dread ; 
 He fann'd his growing joy though hid, and said 
 To his own heart, " How blest, how sweet to bring 
 Bliss to two houses! " Now the lime-trees fling 
 Their lengthen'd shadows o'er the road, — the ridge 
 Of the brown forest, like a heavenly bridge, 
 Shines with pure light. The breezes blew like balm, 
 And the fair morning dawns serene and calm. 
 
 They hasten'd toward the village ; — but awhile 
 They tarried, — marshy pools for many a mile 
 The path impeded; — those on foot may make 
 
254 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND. 
 
 In one short hour their way; equestrians take 
 
 Three hours at least. On foot they gaily bound; 
 
 The carriage raised the dust, and hurried round. 
 
 What joy, what gladness lights Halina's eye! 
 
 Why talks she now so gay and sportively? 
 
 They cross the planks, — the brushwood maze they thread, 
 
 The sheep and shepherds play upon the mead: 
 
 She listen'd to the artless pipe; her ear 
 
 Appear'd enchanted. Was it that her dear, 
 
 And now far dearer Wiesław had portray'd 
 
 This scene, when singing to the enamor'd maid? 
 
 John watch'd her looks intensely. Was the scene 
 One where her early infant steps had been? 
 Now rose the village steeple to the view; 
 The vesper-bells peal'd loudly o'er the dew; * 
 They fell upon their knees in that sweet place; 
 The sunset rays glanced on Halina's face. 
 And she look'd like an angel. Every vein 
 Thrill'd with the awaken'd thoughts of youth again, 
 And longings which could find no words. The bell 
 Had burst the long-lock'd portals of the cell 
 Of memory; and mysterious visitings, 
 And melancholy joy, and shadowy things 
 Flitted across her soul, and flush'd her cheek, 
 Where tear-drops gather'd. To a mountain peak 
 They came; — the village burst upon their view. 
 They saw the shepherds lead their cattle through 
 The narrow bridge; the ploughmen gaily sped 
 From labor's cares to labor's cheerful bed. 
 The village like a garden rear'd its head, 
 Where many a cottage-sheltering orchard spread; 
 The smoke rose 'midst the trees; the village spire 
 Tower'd meekly, yet in seeming reverence, higher 
 
 * The Poles, in some localities, believe that the bells peal more 
 loudly while the dew is falling. 
 
BEODZIŃSKI. 255 
 
 Than the high trees. The yew-trees in their gloom 
 
 Hung pensive over many a peasant's tomb; 
 
 And still the bells were pealing, which had toll'd 
 
 O'er generations mouldering and enroll'd 
 
 In death's long records. While they look'd, old John 
 
 Bent on his stick, and said " Look, maiden, on 
 
 Our village: — doth it please thee? Wieslaw's cot 
 
 Is nigh at hand." She heard, but answer'd not: 
 
 Her looks were fix'd upon one only spot; — 
 
 Her bosom heaved, her lips were dried, her eye 
 
 Spoke the deep reverie's intensity. 
 
 Remembrance of some joy had bound her soul: 
 
 She breathed not, but moved on; — a cottage wall 
 
 Soon caught her eye, and near a cross appear'd: 
 
 'Twas ivy-clad and crumbling; — for 'twas rear'd 
 
 In the old time;— a willow- tree, a sod, 
 
 Where the gay children of the village trod 
 
 On holidays, were there. She could no more: 
 
 She dropp'd o'erpowered upon the grassy floor, 
 
 And cried, " O God! O God! — 'twas here, 'twas here 
 
 I lived! Where is my mother? Tell me, where? 
 
 If she be dead, I'll seek her grave, and weep 
 
 My orphan soul away to rouse from sleep 
 
 Her blessed form. — 'Twas here I play'd of old; — 
 
 'Twas here I gather'd flowers: — but I behold 
 
 My mother's cot no longer, — thought flies o'er 
 
 Its memory; — but that cot exists no more! " 
 
 John answer'd thus: " The God who shelter'd thee, 
 Shelter'd thy parents; — when the misery 
 Of that fierce war was over, they return'd, 
 And joy beam'd o'er the fields where they had mourn'd. 
 They lost their cot, they lost their child ; but Heaven 
 Their dwelling and their daughter now hath given; 
 And they shall take thee to their longing arms. 
 Thank God, who saved thee from all hurts and harms, 
 
256 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND. 
 
 Who, when thy helplessness had lost a mother 
 
 Gave thee with generous tenderness another, 
 
 And now restores thee to thine own." She knelt, 
 
 And clasp'd his knees, while luxury's tear-drops melt 
 
 Into the light of joy. And one by one 
 
 They enter'd the court-yard; but all were gone 
 
 Forth to the fruitful fields. Halina's eye 
 
 Wander'd some old memorials to descry, 
 
 And grew impatient. Soon the sire appears 
 
 With his sharp scythe; and next his wife, who bears 
 
 A truss of clover for the stall. Before 
 
 Ran young Bronika, gaily turning o'er 
 
 A basket of blue corn-flowers; with her hand 
 
 Beckoning, she bid her parents understand 
 
 That guests were come. " Go," said old John, " my boy, 
 
 And tell your happy parents all your joy." 
 
 And what fond welcome sprung from breast to breast; 
 
 How oft they kiss'd each other ; how they prest 
 
 Bosom to bosom, heart to heart; what greeting, 
 
 What questions, answers, thanks, engaged that meeting; 
 
 And how the laughing neighbors gather'd round, 
 
 And how Bronika, full of rapture, bound 
 
 Her sister to her soul, — for though she ne'er 
 
 Had known her loss, her gain she felt, — I fear 
 
 No words of mine can compass. Could I speak, 
 
 Your hearts in sympathy would almost break 
 
 With the bright joy: — but ye have souls to feel, 
 
 And they will vibrate to love's proud appeal. 
 
 Yes ! ye have hearts, with which ye may confer, 
 
 And they shall be my best interpreter. 
 
KRASIŃSKI. 257 
 
 KRASIŃSKI. 
 
 Sigismund Krasiński is the zenith of Polish poetry 
 in Poland's land. It is not only a loving heart, an in- 
 spired soul, not only a fantasy or art — it is the spirit 
 of the Pole — the spirit of true manhood; yes, it is the 
 spirit of poetry changed into the spirit of an 'angel and 
 entered into the soul of the inspired poet-prophet. 
 While writing he thought of ages, and ages alone can 
 judge him. The most prominent stamp of Sigismund's 
 writings, distinguishing him from other poets contem- 
 poraneous with him, is the true prophetic spirit, not 
 under the influence of any play or fantasy, or any com- 
 bination, but the expression of apocalyptic visions; 
 hence he is an uncommon phenomenon not only with 
 us but in the history of the universal spirit. He pos- 
 sesses such qualities and gifts as God seldom grants 
 even to poets. From the times of antiquity he took 
 what Plato had. Prom the law of Moses and the 
 Jewish history he took the harp of David. From the 
 new law he took the apocalyptic visions of the future. 
 With such strange elements, living in the midst of 
 Europe, amidst our people, and in the middle of the 
 nineteenth century, he transformed all these into orig- 
 inal poetic creations. Krasiński was second after 
 Mickiewicz who restored the high poetic type of the 
 poetic priesthood in literature where frequently are 
 found thoughtless leaders, carrying with them the 
 doubting and feverish community into the regions of 
 chimera, bad examples and deceitful prophecies. It 
 was he who took those who leaned toward egotism, 
 17 
 
258 POETS AND POETEY OF POLAND. 
 
 plunging about in the evanescent pleasures of reality, 
 and carried them into the beautiful world of love and 
 self-sacrifice. " The Un divine Comedy " is, as it were, 
 a thunderbolt sent to crush the doctrine of egotism 
 and human pride, which renounces allegiance and obe- 
 dience to God. The time, place and persons of the 
 comedy are all created by the buoyant imagination of 
 the poet. This fantastic comedy occasionally breaks 
 off and snatches at moments which are expected but 
 have not yet arrived. Krasiński was the first who 
 ventured to compose a prophetic drama to represent 
 persons and incidents that were to come to pass at 
 some future time. The scenes, however, are enacted 
 in Poland, and the time is not very far distant from us, 
 because persons there introduced speak as we do, have 
 our prejudices and our customs; we can recognize 
 them as belonging to our generation and to the Polish 
 people, although the author does not stamp them with 
 any nationality, neither does he introduce anything 
 indicating locality. Krasiński comprehended and 
 grappled the current of stormy conceptions which, in 
 but a few years later, ran through the whole of Eu- 
 rope, and in which were found phases and figures 
 drawn by the hand of the immortal poet. This re- 
 markable production, planned on the broad back- 
 ground of modern social times, takes the point of argu- 
 ment that the causes of evil arise from social perverse- 
 ness which permeates the different grades of society, 
 and from which humanity is yet to suffer for a long 
 time; and that the possible union of so many contra- 
 dictory elements can only be effected by the influences 
 of Christianity. 
 
 The soaring imagination of Krasiński had at its call 
 beautiful and brilliant language, breaking out in new 
 
KRASIŃSKI. 259 
 
 turns and harmonious words. His christian feeling 
 was very pure and deep. The poet loves the whole of 
 humanity, and he reminds them of the holy truths of 
 faith, and that the world can only be regenerated by 
 love. 
 
 The " Day-Break" is an ethereal lyric composition 
 replete with transcendent beauties. A woman (Beat- 
 rice) is introduced in the poem to quicken into life the 
 whole creation of exalted order, and above all the in- 
 dividuality of the poet. There beams the pure and 
 powerful inspiration of truth, which spreads its thou- 
 sand poetic colors as the morning star of the day which 
 the poet represents to his people. "The Dream of 
 Cesara " is classed with prophetic writings, and is not 
 indispensably a poetic creation, but rather a descrip- 
 tion of the poet's vision, yet it is plainly seen that it 
 bears the stamp of truthfulness and can claim preemi- 
 nence over all writings of that class. 
 
 "Irydion" is a magnificent poem representing 
 olden times, when Rome was in its decline — its great 
 power being undermined by the light of Christianity. 
 The incidents are drawn from the epoch of Helio- 
 gabalus, and the persecutions of the first Christians. 
 The author tries to work out the idea that Christianity 
 neither accepts nor condemns feelings of national re- 
 venge for intentionally inflicted wrongs. In his 
 "Psalms" the author explains to the world the mys- 
 teries of resurrection. He reveals his beautiful, 
 though perhaps illusive, dreams of the destiny of his 
 suffering Fatherland; he praises heroism and volun- 
 tary devotedness and self-sacrifice. Here we can im- 
 agine that he anticipated the sad events which took 
 place in Galicia in 1846 (see Ujejski' s biography). 
 
 "The Unfinished Poem" is connected with "Undi' 
 
260 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND. 
 
 vine Comedy," and, according to the plan' of the au- 
 thor, was to constitute the first part of the trilogy, of 
 which only the second part was elaborated. This 
 poem consists of five grand episodes, which are not 
 connected with one another very closely, but yet are 
 put together so as to form a sufficiently prominent 
 whole, and, although unfinished, it is nevertheless 
 replete with resplendent imagery and sublime thoughts, 
 shining forth with unequaled hue of style. The princi- 
 pal purpose of the poem is to show the tendency of 
 humanity toward truth and perfection, and the unceas- 
 ing attempts and conspiracies against the power of 
 truth and the spirit of God in this world. 
 
 u The Present Day " is a fantastic expose of society 
 going astray from the true path, but warned and en- 
 lightened by the words of the angel from ^Heaven. 
 The poem, being a creation of youthful imagination, is 
 an historical' romance, yet having the color of the sub- 
 limest poesy. 
 
 "Agaj Han" is taken from the history of Marina 
 Mnich, and Demitry the pretender. Although there 
 is much poetic fire in the poem, yet it is pronounced 
 by the critics as occasionally offending with exaggera- 
 tion. 
 
 Krasiński was one of the greatest moral philoso- 
 phers of the nineteenth century, as well as the most 
 inspired poet, whose prophetic vision comprehends not 
 only the past and future ages, but also the present 
 century. He is clearly a poet of humanity, who wholly 
 understood all the relations of society; he was more 
 than others; it is perhaps for that reason that he has 
 invented a language of his own to express pain and 
 inspiration which he saw in the sufferings of humanity. 
 The power of Krasinski's poetic genius is so immense 
 
KRASIŃSKI. 261 
 
 that we have no scale in our literature to weigh it. 
 The characteristics of his poetry are deep religious 
 feelings; they in reality constitute the background of 
 the manner in which he viewed the past and the future; 
 the suiferings of a people as well as of individuals he 
 considered as mediums through which come cleansing 
 and merit. 
 
 Krasiński was a stately and ethereal form of a 
 recluse, or an anchorite, doing penance for the trans- 
 gression of his ancestors, blessing the people, teaching 
 them, and showing unto them signs for the future. 
 Plunging into prayerful spirit, and looking toward the 
 stars, he viewed the earth not with the eye of a man, 
 but with the one of an inspired prophet. Pleasures 
 and amusements of this world had no charms for him. 
 Having passed through purgatory of life, he was free 
 from the prejudices of his people; but after deep and 
 silent suffering, which was plainly seen on his marble 
 face, he tried to conceal from the human eye the many 
 wounds from which he so intensely suffered that he 
 often threw a veil of mystery over himself, desiring 
 only to appear to the people as their brother mortal, 
 who was at all times burning offerings at the altar of 
 his country, and held in his heart her sufferings and 
 her hopes. He was indeed a guardian angel of the 
 national spirit, and a physician of hearts torn to pieces 
 by misfortune and sufferings, and he poured upon the 
 wounds of the Polish national body the balm of faith, 
 love, and hope. 
 
 Krasiński was born on the 19th of February, 1812, 
 of a rich and influential family. His father, Yincent, 
 was aide-de-camp to. Napoleon the Great, and after- 
 ward the general of the Polish army. Up to the thir- 
 teenth year of his life Sigismund's cultivation was 
 
262 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND. 
 
 under the immediate supervision of his parents, and 
 under the guidance of the poet Joseph Korzeniowski, 
 and other distinguished teachers. In 1825 he entered 
 the Lyceum at Warsaw, where Linde, the lexicographer, 
 was the rector. Even at that early period of his life 
 he wrote a composition, "The Grave of Reichstall's 
 Family," from which it was inferred that he possessed 
 a natural inclination for dramatic imagery; then he 
 wrote " Ladislas Herman, "in imitaton of Walter Scott's 
 style. In this very fine romance he painted the Past 
 in a truly masterly manner. From the Lyceum he 
 went to the University; but on account of certain 
 unpleasant circumstances he thought it best to quit it. 
 He went then to Geneva, in Switzerland, where he 
 wrote his " Black Zawisza," but it was lost in its trans- 
 mission to Warsaw. It was there that he became per- 
 sonally acquainted with Mickiewicz and Odyniec, two 
 Polish poets, and in their company visited the moun- 
 tains of Switzerland. In 1830 he again met Adam 
 Mickiewicz at Rome. In 1832 he was compelled to 
 answer personally a call at Warsaw, although his state 
 of health could hardly permit of so long a journey. 
 From Warsaw he was sent to St. Petersburg, where he 
 was kept all winter, although very ill. He was suffer- 
 ing so badly from a disease of the eyes that they at 
 last permitted him to go to Graifenberg, from whence, 
 after getting quite well, he went to Vienna. Here he 
 wrote " Agaj-Han," and had it published at Breslau. 
 He left Vienna in 1836 and went to Italy and Rome; 
 here he became acquainted with Julius Słowacki, and 
 wrote "Irydion." In 1838 he went to Warsaw, but on 
 account of illness was again obliged to return to Italy. 
 In 1843 he was married to Countess Elizabeth Branicka 
 at Dresden, whence they visited the places of their 
 
KRASIŃSKI. 263 
 
 birth, and then again went to Warsaw. In 1845 he 
 went to Xice, where he wrote one of the most beautiful 
 poems, '* The Psalms," in consequence of which a con- 
 troversy ensued between himself and the poet S'owacki. 
 In 1847 he once more visited Rome, and there again 
 met Mickiewicz. In the following year he resided at 
 Heidelberg, Paris, and Baden, when he again was 
 called to Warsaw in 1849; but the eye disease coming 
 upon him with greater severity than ever, he once 
 more, with the permission of the Government, returned 
 to Heidelberg, and then to Baden. Toward the last of 
 that year he was very assiduously occupied with the 
 antiquities dug out by the Appian Way, and the follow- 
 ing year he spent some time on the picturesque banks 
 of the river Rhine, from whence for the third time he 
 was ordered by the Government to return to Warsaw. 
 When his health began to fail and the eye disease 
 grew worse, he went once more to Heidelberg, and on 
 the death of Czar Nicholas, having received a permis- 
 sion to reside in foreign countries, he stopped at Baden, 
 and in 1856 at Kissingen. Later he journeyed to 
 Paris, and from there visited his father at Potok; but 
 soon after he went to Plombieres and Ems to try the 
 water-cure. In the same year he returned to Paris; 
 there he learned of the death of his father, which had 
 so great an effect upon him that he fell hopelessly ill, 
 and died on the 14th of February, 1859. 
 
 Krasinski's works were published at Warsaw, Paris, 
 Breslau, Leszno, Leipsic, and Posen. 
 
264 POETS AND POETKY OF POLAND. 
 
 PRAY FOR ME. 
 
 Pray for me — when I mourn in sore depression 
 Sins of my fathers, and my own transgression; 
 Pray for me that when death at last shall doom me, 
 Regrets for thee arise not to consume me. 
 
 Pray for me — that when with my God in Heaven, 
 
 After long ages passed, it shall be given 
 
 My weary soul to rest with thee forever, 
 
 For here much sorrow mars its high endeavor. 
 
 Pray for me — vain my life if, worst of changes, 
 Thy heart grown cold from mine itself estranges; 
 Oh, pray for me, for I through years have treasured 
 Thy name with love unfathomed and unmeasured. 
 
 Pray for me — for my life is dry and scentless, 
 My heart is faithful though my fate relentless; 
 Pray for me — let thy words breathe healing thro' me, 
 Though thou canst only be a sister to me. 
 
 Pray for me — other prayers are unavailing, 
 Thine only calm my heart in its bewailing; 
 All other prayers save thine the pang would double; 
 Pray for me — for I cling to thee in trouble. 
 
 On earth without thee I am lost and lonely; 
 My thoughts are thine, I dream upon thee only; 
 Dream that in far eternities now hidden, 
 My soul with thine shall mingle unforbidden. 
 
 EVER AND EVERYWHERE. 
 
 Say not of me when I am in my grave, 
 I only wounded where I should forbear; 
 'Twas that I drank from sorrow's bitter wave, 
 Ever and everywhere. 
 
KRASIŃSKI. 265 
 
 Say not of me calm-voiced when I am gone 
 That I have marred your life that else was fair; 
 I walked with sunshine from my own withdrawn, 
 Ever and everywhere. 
 
 Say not of me as colder hearts would sa}' 
 When I am dead, that life had proved a snare 
 Because misfortune followed on my way, 
 Ever and everywhere. 
 
 When I am gone, then kindly speak of me, 
 Say that my heart was frenzied by despair; 
 I loved thee from my soul, if bitterly, 
 Ever and everywhere. 
 
 TO A LADY. 
 
 Hearts you may lure to you with ardent glances, 
 
 Or crush beneath unsympathetic swa}^; 
 Yet will you fall below the fair ideal 
 
 Of womanhood, for which we wait and pray. 
 
 Eyes downward cast, and cheek whose roseate glowing 
 Tells not of knowledge, are to-day as nought ; 
 
 Attain to womanhood through slow ascension, 
 
 Through scenes of sorrow rise to heights of thought. 
 
 And when through tears and pains of aspiration 
 
 A ray of Deity outflowing warm 
 Shall touch your soul with its living splendor, 
 
 And buds that blossom in the day of storm 
 Unfold to crown your pale and thoughtful forehead, 
 
 Then will your beauty take ideal form. 
 
266 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND. 
 
 ONCE I ASKED THE DAY. 
 
 (Never before included in Krasinski's Collections.) 
 
 Once I asked the day why it was so bright, 
 
 I asked the thought why it soared so free, 
 
 And the heart why the world should so narrow be, 
 
 And the stars why they shone with such lustrous light. 
 
 I am son of the sun, replied Day, so am bright; 
 
 Being children of spirit, Thought answered, we soar; 
 
 The world is narrow, said Heart, since perverse evermore; 
 
 We shine, the Stars answered, as the great King of light. 
 
 I asked a gentle maiden's beaming eyes 
 Whence came such marvelous outlines of her face, 
 And whence to her soul such beauty and such grace, 
 Whence the rays of light and fires of feeling rise. 
 No word she spoke — her beauteous face alone 
 With the expression of her sweet spirit shone, 
 Her eyes' light touched her face with crimson rays, 
 And played in her feelings; pure spring displays 
 The sunlight in depths of the clear summer rill, 
 We can only solve feelings with feelings still, 
 And the works of God with the Heaven-sent mind; 
 But if 'tis not understood by humankind, 
 Oh, do not their dull comprehension resent. 
 The world should never chill your feeling from Heaven sent; 
 Let not earthiness a shade on thy soul's glory cast. 
 And when my sad star has removed me far from thee, 
 Remember it to thee could never permitted be. 
 By mem'ry of the dear hours we have together passed, 
 And by the memory of all feeling most divine, 
 Of all my inspirations holiest and most bright. 
 To cast aside the rays of radiant, sacred light, 
 Which even in the lowliest grave will o'er me shine 
 As it shone in the glad morning of my life's fair day, 
 On the threshold of eternity 'twill shed its ray; 
 
KRASIŃSKI. 267 
 
 And though on the earth it parts us with stern behest, 
 'Twill surely in God once more unite us, ever blessed! 
 
 RESURECTURIS. 
 
 The world's a graveyard, kneaded with tears and gore, 
 Where none his Golgotha avoids. Evermore — 
 Vain is the spirit's strife 
 
 When sorrow's shaft descends; 
 Against the storms of life 
 No refuge here defends. 
 Abysses dark ingulf the brave, 
 
 At every step fate mocks at us, 
 The pure, the loved, sink in the grave, 
 The hated live, — 'tis ever thus. 
 All is tangling in a maze which naught divines, 
 And death is near and far away: 
 O'er waves of future ages shines 
 Resurrection's Day. 
 
 Heartless and insensible, then, must we be, 
 Murder with murderers setting passion free, 
 
 'Mid the vile grow viler, and though conscience yearn, 
 Make it's soft voice be still, 
 Lie, hate, blaspheme, and kill, 
 
 And evil for evil to this world return. 
 
 In this alone must all our power consist; — 
 
 Let us eat and drink, and sate the body well, 
 
 Chasing from the brain each noble thought, and swell 
 Of fortunate and fools the length'ning list. 
 
 Oh ! no, that must not be. 
 Oh! pause, my soul, for we 
 
 Can never in that way 
 At humanity's head 
 
 Stand. No force can hold at bay 
 But sacrifice the dread 
 
268 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND. 
 
 And unrelenting fate 
 
 That crushes us to naught. 
 That is the lion great 
 
 Of history ; — all pride 
 And servility are; 
 But idle straws that caught 
 By passing breath may glide 
 To nothingness afar. 
 
 Oh! learn thyself to know; 
 Seek not omnipotent, 
 
 Like Him in heaven, to grow, 
 And to bend thee like a brute, ne'er give consent, 
 Knowing no good save some fat pasture-land on 
 This side the tomb; e'er breaks the radiant dawn 
 Of Resurrection. Oh! be thou constant still, 
 Though worlds should crash unmoved with dauntless will. 
 Be tireless. Patience, which 'mid every ill 
 Slowly rears from naught the edifice complete, 
 And which e'er prepares, unshaken by defeat, 
 The future, certain, and final victory. 
 Oh ! amid the storm be thou tranquillity, 
 Order in chaos, in discord harmony; 
 Amid this life's combat, that no respite hath, 
 Be thou the eternal Beauty, calm and bright. 
 
 For cowards and for Pharisees be wrath, 
 And menace or silent contempt, pure as light, 
 
 Angelic inspiration for all men be. 
 The rich nourishment that nourishes the heart, 
 
 A sister's tear when suffering thou dost see, 
 A manly voice when courage, long tried, forsakes, 
 
 Home, birthplace, wandering exiles find in thee. 
 Be hope for the despairing, — thunder that wakes 
 The drowsy souls lulled in corpse-like repose. 
 
KEASIŃSKI. 269 
 
 Be thou the force, always and everywhere, 
 
 That reconciles, — force of self, — devotion rare, 
 
 Stronger than death, and in the strife that no end knows, — 
 
 Against the mad world's abyss of hate, Oh! be 
 
 Abyss of love, pure and free. 
 
 Ne'er cease to give 
 Thyself unto thy brethren in form sublime 
 
 Of teaching and example; in acts that live 
 Still multiply thyself; thus for all time 
 
 Thousands of men shall be outweighed by thee. 
 
 Even in irons performing acts that bless, 
 
 Learn to bear pain and bitterest agony; 
 
 Thy whole nation living in thy breast shall be, — 
 
 Be the miracle joins heaven to earth, — naught less, — ' 
 
 In slavery, — holiness. 
 
 Seek not death till, like the buried seed that starts, 
 Thy grand thoughts be sown and germing in the hearts 
 Of thy compatriots, — till martyrdom alone 
 A pledge of certain victory shall be known. 
 
 Strive not with others' goodness, but thine own, 
 Shun martyrdom's renown, 
 And false vain-glory's crown 
 Leave to fools; for in this, 
 
 Danger's dreadful abyss, 
 Plunge only heroes brave. 
 Loftiest souls ne'er gave 
 
 Heed to siren's voice of bliss. 
 
 When the tocsin of events at last shall swell, — 
 Signal for thy final holocaust, — a knell 
 Both sad and wild, from thy native land, then 
 Kneel down on eternity's threshold; — When, 
 So deep within thy humble and contrite soul, 
 
 Thou hear'st the voice that only comes from God above, 
 Rise, like a strong athlete who wins the goal. 
 
270 POETS AND POETEY OF POLAND. 
 
 Shake off thy feet earth's dust. With infinite love 
 • Stretch forth thy arms to Heaven, which still will bless. 
 Without complaint, wail, inward bitterness, 
 Bravely to meet thy executioners advance, 
 Saluting them with inmost pitying glance 
 Of high immortality, which glorifies. 
 
 Thus for the future thy sacrifice shall be" 
 The most fruitful witness. From thy death shall rise 
 
 The germ of life, for all men glorious, free. 
 
 The hopes the world deems idle dreams, 
 
 Oh! make them real, — 
 In justice, faith, — 
 
 To see and feel; 
 Which, like a probe that deeply darts, 
 
 Sink in men's hearts, 
 
 And dwell forever there. 
 Be its touch light as air, 
 A breath, a sigh's soft thrill. 
 The world, thy murderer, will 
 Kneel to thee in remorse, 
 Confessing brutal force; 
 Is impotent to strike 
 Country and God alike 
 From the conscience and care 
 Of nations everywhere. 
 
 When the blood which thy wounds shall spill 
 Sanctifies thy thought, that thought will 
 Draw the light of God's judgment strong 
 On the impious throng. 
 Troops and bayonets are vain, 
 
 Kings, lies, corruption, — aught; 
 No people shall attain 
 
 Power against that thought. 
 
KRASIŃSKI. 271 
 
 When the third day shall dawn 
 O'er thy agony, on 
 Thy martyrdom's white tomb, — 
 At last the boon shall bloom 
 For nations, — undefiled- 
 Justice, — God's own fair child. 
 
SŁOWACKTS MONUMENT IN PARIS (FRANCE). 
 
SŁOWAUKŁ 273 
 
 SŁOWACKI. 
 
 Julius SIowacki tried liis strength at all kinds of 
 poetry. There are beautiful lyrics of his; others again 
 are epics, and also dramas. In each and every one of 
 these his creative mind shines with a resplendent lus- 
 ter. Everywhere he is new, fresh, and poetic; always 
 exhibiting extraordinary strength, always soaring high. 
 
 For a long time Słowacki was not understood, al- 
 though he was a poet belonging to all humanity; but 
 some of his poems were not understood, and others did 
 not come into general use. Almost thirty years had 
 elapsed before the people could look into them and 
 fully comprehend them. But as everything of the 
 highest order will ultimately find its vindication with 
 the people, so it was with Slowacki's writings; they at 
 last found their deserved acknowledgment and justifi- 
 cation. 
 
 Of all the poets from Krasicki to Krasiński, no one 
 possessed greater power of fantasy than Słowacki. 
 This was shown in a volume of poems written at the 
 time of the Polish Revolution (1831), and since its fall. 
 Another poem, "Zmija" (the Yiper), is also a fan- 
 tastic production. But there is much higher and truer 
 poetic merit in his "John Bielecki." The subject is 
 taken from the Polish Chronicles, partly oral, of a cer- 
 tain occurrence having taken place in eastern Galicia. 
 Here the portraitures of the Polish nobility are strik- 
 ing, and scattered throughout the poem very happily, 
 showing the greatest force, and with it the character- 
 istics of his own individuality as a man of uncommon 
 genius. " The father of the stricken with the plague," 
 18 
 
274 POETS AND POETEY OF POLAND. 
 
 in El-Arish, contains in it a power likening to the suf- 
 fering of the Laocoon not carved in wood nor chiseled 
 in marble, but in the painting of poetic genius. 
 Among all the creations of Słowacki, nor in the whole 
 Polish literature, is there anything that could equal it 
 in finish, conciseness, power and truth, and finally the 
 incomparable mastery in the diversification of the par- 
 ticulars of this awe-inspiring poem. What the statue 
 of Laocoon or the groups of Mobe is in sculpture, 
 "The father of the plague-stricken" is in Słowacki's 
 poetry. If it concerned the vivid representation of 
 accumulated strokes of misfortune heaping thunder-, 
 bolts upon the head of a doomed human being, weep- 
 ing till its tears are dry, and moaning under the weight 
 of misery until the last vestige of human feeling is 
 gone; when it becomes a lifeless statue, unable to 
 weep or feel more — to reflect over its unutterable mis- 
 ery — then surely Slowacki's design is fully accom- 
 plished. 
 
 Then comes "Hugo," tales of the Crusades, fol- 
 lowed by "Balladyna," and "Lilla Weneda." The 
 first one a beautiful epopee, not exactly in the Ho- 
 meric style, but somewhat in the manner of Ariosto; 
 prehistoric account of Poland is the subject. "In 
 Switzerland " is a charming idyllic intermixed with 
 tragic incidents, so abstruse and yet so truthful that it 
 is not possible to find any such love-dream in any for- 
 eign tongue. Truth a*nd fiction, reality and poetry, 
 man's love and genius of the artist, all here strike 
 hands to produce a poetic creation, and one knows not 
 which to admire the most. In "Wacław" is a full 
 confession of beautiful motives, such as are seldom to 
 be found. This poem is equal to any of Lord Byron's 
 in the masterly carving out of each particular. "The 
 
SŁOWACKI. 275 
 
 Arab" and "The Monk" are also wrought in an ar- 
 tistic manner. "The Silver Dream of Salomeą" 
 seems to be only a dramatized tale concerning two dif- 
 ferent pairs of married people, who, in order to accom- 
 plish the desired end of being united in marriage, 
 have to wade through a sea of misfortunes and fears 
 caused by national troubles, which so ruthlessly passed 
 over their devoted heads. It is for that reason that 
 the poet called it "The Romantic Drama." The 
 tragedy " Mindowe " is one of the latest of the poet's 
 productions. In this tragedy the incidents relate to 
 the times when Lithuania had not yet the light of 
 Christianity. In represents the renegacy and the re- 
 turn to the faith of his sires of Prince Menclog. The 
 tragedy "Mazeppa" is full of tragic incidents, and of 
 vivid and passionate poetry; where the most delicate 
 shades of human nature are wrought up to perfection. 
 The background of " Kordyan " is the age, which, 
 from the very beginning, the poet reproaches and chas- 
 tises for its dwarfishness, condemned to pass away as 
 unworthy of mention. The poet here creates a charac- 
 ter which is too exalted, and outgrew the littleness of 
 the spirit of the present generation. He feels keenly 
 the misery of this life, and desires to fill it with some- 
 thing more noble, and hence throws himself about, 
 here and there, to attain the desired object. Sło- 
 wacki's "Kordyan" unites almost all the character- 
 istics of greatness and the contempt of life — ready for 
 all sacrifices, desire for fame, bravery and noble pride. 
 In the historical drama "Maria Stuart" the frame 
 of the picture is tolerably narrow. It was not the in- 
 tention of Słowacki, as it was of Schiller, in the trag- 
 edy of the same name, to draw within the confines, of 
 it the whole history of the given epoch, but for all 
 
276 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND. 
 
 that there are in it splendid passages that enchant the 
 reader. The verse is flowery and masterly, and his 
 language sparkles with diamonds of the first water. 
 The epopee " Sambro " proves Stowacki's great power 
 of fancy and a great gift of poetical invention. The 
 subject is taken from Greek history, that is to say from 
 the last part of it of last century. He tries to repre- 
 sent a hero endowed with every necessary condition, 
 and to excite for him the wonder and admiration of 
 the reader, whereas it is discovered that from under 
 these artificial coverings appears a man full of moral 
 corruption — the more unpleasant to the eye since it is 
 plainly seen that he comes out with gigantic preten- 
 sions which nothing can justify. 
 
 It being impossible for our poet to travel all the 
 time in the realms of poetic fantasy of the past, and 
 hearing the subterranean moanings and weeping of the 
 people, he created, with a power at once charming and 
 genial, "Anhellim," where the infernal regions of Siberia 
 take a shape of strange illusion which makes it beau- 
 tiful and fearful, dismal and at the same time enticing. 
 In this production the poet gives a portraiture of 
 the fate of the whole people, and a review of their 
 relations which we suffer for the guilt of others, as 
 also of transgression of which we ourselves are guilty. 
 It was the poet's fancy to call a Siberia the whole of 
 our social condition. The doctrine advanced in 
 " Anhellim " is turbid and fantastic, — it loses itself in 
 the unfathomable depth of mysticism, and is written in 
 biblical style. In ' c Bieniowski " one is reminded from 
 its construction of Byron's " Don Juan," but in spirit 
 it resembles the creations of Ariosto. The poem 
 uncovers to the reader the bloody wars toward the end 
 of the last century, in which Poland has manifested 
 
SŁOWACKI. 277 
 
 her patriotism, which are shown by various drifts in 
 the poem. Here, in imitation of an English bard, 
 Słowacki marks strongly his own individuality. Be- 
 sides the strophes marked by deep moral feeling, 
 colored mostly by the poet's fancy, we find others in 
 which is seen a most extraordinary power of language 
 in form, and unlimited bitterness of feeling. This 
 powerful poem by turns causes tears to flow, aston- 
 ishes, cheers up the public, and moves their passions. 
 Being deeply engaged in the investigation of questions 
 beyond the comprehension of human understanding, 
 brought about by Towiaaski (a votary of whose doc- 
 trines Słowacki became), it engrossed his mind to such 
 a degree that in his last composition their influence is 
 obvious. It is plainly seen in his " Priest-Mark," a 
 drama in which the character and stamping of the 
 Jewess Judith answers exactly the conception of Tow- 
 ianski's sect as regards the mission of the Jewish 
 people. From the plot and characters introduced it is 
 evident that the poet was intent upon the conquering of 
 the evils of the world, and the erecting upon their ruins 
 of a great epoch of the future for the people and for 
 humanity itself. 
 
 "The Spirit King" was the first great national epopee 
 in song wherein the author puts aside the veil and pre- 
 sents to view his grand philosophical thoughts in regard 
 to his country; and in order to legitimize it the author 
 gives us to understand that he thoroughly comprehends 
 the long sufferings of his nation; and we further infer 
 that the poet knew the way to solve the problem of the 
 nation's future destiny. The author makes this pro- 
 duction an offering upon the altar of art for humanity, 
 but not for the real interest of a perishable generation. 
 " The Spirit King " displaces but does not divide the 
 
278 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND. 
 
 vital parts of his country. His plan comprehends the 
 eternal future, history corroborates it; the present bears 
 witness to it, and the future will demonstrate its truth. 
 All of Slowacki's works possess a powerful feeling, 
 exalted thoughts, and stormy passions. Oftentimes he 
 pours out to the world the bitterness of his heart; but 
 above all his fancy is so active that his mind and feel- 
 ing can hardly keep pace with it. 
 
 It is not tobe wondered at, then, that he reaches with 
 so much tenderness the hearts of the Polish youth. He 
 was their songster and their spiritual leader. The spirit 
 of youth, like the gentle breezes of spring, breathes 
 from every one of his songs. The age of dreams, the 
 inward emotions of the soul, and sudden but noble 
 impulses, permeate each of his creations. 
 
 Słowacki was born in 1809 at Krzemieniec, where 
 his father, Euzebius, was a professor of the Polish 
 language. He received the rudiments of education at 
 Wilno, and after finishing the course there, in 1824 
 entered the University. In 1826 he went to Odessa, 
 and after completing his academic studies he entered in 
 1828 as assistant in the treasury department in War- 
 saw. Here he wrote " The Mother of God, "and the 
 tragedy "Mindowe." Owing to the revolution of 
 1831, and adhering to the moderate party, he left for 
 Dresden, from whence he was made a member of the 
 diplomatic mission going to Paris. Then he went to 
 London, and after the taking of Warsaw, being for- 
 bidden to return to Poland, he went again to Paris and 
 lived in seclusion, but ardently engaged in the cause of 
 Polish emigration. In 1832 he left for G-eneva, where 
 he took up his abode on the shores of Lake Geneva, 
 and wrote the poem " Lambro," "The Hour of 
 Thought," " Duma Wacław Kzewuski," and " Paris." 
 
SŁOWACKI. 279 
 
 He then went to Greece, the East, and Italy. At 
 Rome he met Sigismimd Krasiński, returned to Greece 
 again, and in 1856 went to Egypt. From Cairo, on a 
 camel, he travels to Gaza, through the desert, and 
 reaches Jerusalem, and from there he visits Palestine, 
 Mount Lebanon, Damascus, and the ruins of Balbek. 
 At Beyrout he wrote the celebrated poem w ' The Father 
 of the Plague-Stricken," founded upon facts of sad 
 adventure, in which he, with his associates, took a 
 prominent part during two weeks' quarantine at 
 El-Arish. At Beyrout he went in a sail- vessel in 1837 
 to Livorno. In the following year he resided at 
 Florence, where he published his 4t Anhelli." In 1839 
 he returned to Paris, where he resided till his death; 
 and though amidst many members of the Polish 
 emigration, he lived most of the time in seclusion. He 
 looked with somewhat envious eye upon Mickiewicz's 
 reputation, between whom and himself there was ap- 
 parent coolness, — Mickiewicz in his lectures on Litera- 
 ture having his name mentioned but once, and that, 
 too, rather indifferently. This year he published his 
 "Balladyna," and in the following year "Lillia 
 Weneda " and " Mazeppa " were also brought out. 
 Under the influence of a morbid feeling he published 
 " Bieniowski," in 1841, where he bitterly complains of 
 the indifference of some people, — Mickiewicz and the 
 critics receiving their share. In the same year he 
 joined Towianski's sect, and a happy reconciliation 
 took place between himself and Mickiewicz; but shortly 
 after the proud and independent feeling of Słowacki 
 caused him to leave the Towiański Union, and the poet 
 himself became the head of a separate sect, small in 
 number, but surpassing even Towiański in mysticism. 
 Under the deep impression of the doctrines of this sect 
 
280 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND. 
 
 he wrote u Priest-Mark, " and also the drama "The 
 Silver Dream of Salomeą." 
 
 The occurrences of 1848 reanimated him once more; 
 so much so that he left Paris for Posen, but did not 
 remain long. While returning through Breslau to 
 Paris, after the wandering of years, he saw and pressed 
 to his heart his beloved mother. Returning to Paris 
 he fell into a dangerous illness and never recovered 
 from it. Seeing that he was about to end his earthly 
 career he united himself with God, and expired the 
 3d of April, 1849. 
 
 His poems were published at different times and dif- 
 ferent places, but the most complete edition of his 
 works, in four volumes, was published in a library of the 
 Polish writers in 1861. In 1866-7 Professor Małecki 
 published at Lemberg, with an addition of a biographical 
 studium, several literary productions of Słowacki hith- 
 erto unknown. The following are the titles: "Wal- 
 lace," a tragedy; "Krakus," and "Beatrice di Cenci "; 
 "Wallenrod," a drama; "The Black Zawisza," a 
 drama; "John Casimir," a drama; "The Incorrigi- 
 bles," whilom entitled the "New Dezanira," a drama; 
 " The Golden Cup," a drama; "The Poet and the In- 
 spiration," a fragment liry co-dramatic; " Samuel Zbor- 
 owski," a fantastic poem; " Journey to the East," con- 
 tinuation of " Bieniowski"; "Conversations with 
 Mother Makryna," a poem; and " The Genesis of the 
 Spirit," a prayer in prose. 
 
 I AM SO SAD, GOD! 
 
 I am so sad, God ! Thou hast before me 
 Spread a bright rainbow in the western skies, 
 
 But hast quenched in darkness cold and stormy 
 The brighter stars that rise; 
 
SŁOWACKI. 281 
 
 Clear grows the heaven 'neath thy transforming rod, 
 Still I am sad, O God! 
 
 Like empty ears of grain with heads erected 
 Have I delighted stood amid the crowd, 
 
 My face the while to stranger eyes reflected 
 The calm of summer's cloud; 
 
 But Thou dost know the ways that I have trod, 
 And why I grieve, O God! 
 
 I am like to a weary infant fretting 
 
 Whene'er its mother leaves it for a while, 
 
 And grieving watch the sun, whose light in setting 
 Throws back a parting smile; 
 
 Though it will bathe anew the morning sod, 
 Still lam sad, O God! 
 
 To-day o'er the wide waste of ocean sweeping 
 Hundreds of miles away from shore or rock, 
 
 I saw the cranes fly on, together keeping 
 In one unbroken flock; 
 
 Their feet with soil from Poland's hills were shod, 
 And I was sad, O God ! 
 
 Often by strangers' tombs I've lingered weary, 
 Since grown a stranger to my native ways, 
 
 I walk a pilgrim through a desert dreary, 
 Lit but by lightning's blaze, 
 
 Knowing not where shall fall the burial clod 
 Upon my bier, O God! 
 
 Sometime hereafter will my bones lie whitened, 
 Somewhere on strangers' soil, I know not where; 
 
 I envy those whose dying hours are lightened, 
 
 Fanned by their native air; m 
 
 But flowers of some strange land will spring and nod 
 Above my grave, O God! 
 
282 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND. 
 
 When but a guileless child at home they bade me 
 To pray each day for home restored, I found 
 
 My bark was steering — how the thought dismayed me- 
 The whole wide world around! 
 
 Those prayers unanswered, wearily I plod 
 Through rugged ways, O God! 
 
 Upon the rainbow, whose resplendent rafter 
 
 Thy angels rear above us in the sky, 
 Others will look a hundred years hereafter, 
 
 And pass away as I; 
 Exiled and hopeless 'neath thy chastening rod, 
 
 And sad as I, O God! 
 
 EXTRACTS FROM SŁOWACKFS TRAGEDY OF MIN- 
 DOWE,* OR LEGATE'S REVENGE. 
 
 Mindowe, King of Litwania, having embraced the Christian 
 religion, his mother, who is blind, together with his 
 nephew Troinace, conspire to effect his death. Mindowe 
 has banished Ławski, the Prince of Nalzhaski, and es- 
 sayed to win the affections of his wife. Ławski, not being 
 heard of for some time, is supposed to be dead. The scene 
 opens just after the baptismal rites of the monarch. 
 
 ACTI. 
 
 Scene II. — The royal presence-chamber.. 
 
 Enter Casimir and Basil, from different sides. 
 Basil. Saw you the rites to-day, my Casimir? 
 Casimir. I saw what may I never see again, 
 The altars of our ancient faith torn down, 
 Our king a base apostate, groveling 
 " Beneath a — 
 
 * Pronounce Mindoveh. 
 
SŁOWACKI. 283 
 
 Basil {interrupting him). Hold! knowest thou not 
 The ancient saw that " palace walls have ears! " 
 The priests throng round us like intruding flies, 
 And latitude of speech is fatal. 
 
 Casimir. True — 
 I should speak cautiously — But hast seen 
 The Prince? 
 
 Basil. Who? Troinace? 
 Casimir. The same. 
 Ha! here he comes, and with the queen-mother — 
 It is not safe to parley in their presence. Hence 
 Along with me, I've secrets for thine ear. 
 
 [Exit Casimir and Basil. 
 Ronelva enters, leaning upon the arm of Troinace, and 
 engaged with him in conversation. 
 Troinace. Thou hast a son, Ronelva, crowned a king ! 
 Ronelva. Is he alive? with sight my memory fails. 
 Once I beheld the world, but now 'tis dark — 
 My soul is locked in sleep — O God! O God! 
 My son! hast seen my royal son? The king, 
 Thy uncle, Troinace? How is he arrayed? 
 
 Troinace. In regal robes, and with a jeweled cross 
 Sparkling upon his breast. 
 
 Ronelva. A cross ! — what cross ? 
 'Tis not a symbol of his sovereignty — 
 
 Troinace. It is a gift made by his new ally, 
 The Pope. 
 
 Ronelva. The Pope! — The Pope! I know none such! 
 Who is this Pope ! — Is't he who sends new gods 
 To old Litwania? Yes — I've heard of him — (A pause) 
 Enter Mindowe, crowned, and arrayed in purple, with a dia- 
 mond cross upon his breast, and accompanied by Heidenric, 
 the Pope's Legate. Herman precedes them bearing a golden 
 cross. Ławski, disguised as a Teutonic knight, with a rose 
 upon his helmet and his visor down, bearing a casket. 
 Lutuver attending the king. Ławski stands apart. 
 
284 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND. 
 
 Ronelva. I feel that kindred blood is near, Mindowe! 
 Thy mother speaks ! approach ! [He approaches. 
 
 Hast thou returned 
 From some new expedition? Is thy brow 
 Covered with laurels, and thy stores 
 Replete with plunder? Do I hear the shouts, 
 Th 1 applause of the Litwanians, hailing thee 
 As conqueror. Returnest thou from Zmudzie, 
 From Dwina's shores triumphant? Has the Russian Bear 
 Trembled before thy sword? Does Halicz fear 
 Thy angry frown? Speak! with a mother's tears 
 I'll hail thee conqueror. 
 
 Mindowe. My mother! why 
 These tones and words sarcastic? knowest thou not 
 That victory perches on another's helm? 
 I am at peace, and am — a Christian king. 
 
 Ronelva. Foul shame on thee, blasphemer T 
 Hast thou fallen 
 As low as this? Where is thy bold ambition! 
 To what base use hast placed thy ancient fame? 
 Is't cast aside like to some foolish toy 
 No longer worth the hoarding? Shame upon 
 Thy craven spirit! Canst thou live without 
 That glorious food, which e'en a peasant craves, 
 Holding it worthless as thy mother's love. 
 And thy brave father's faith? 
 
 Mindowe. Nay, mother, nay! 
 Dismiss these foolish fancies from thy brain. 
 Behold! my jeweled brow is bent before thee. 
 Oh, bless thy son! 
 
 Ronelva. Thou vile apostate! Thou 
 Dare ask for approbation? Thou! — I curse thee! 
 Sorrow and hate pursue thy faltering steps. 
 Still may thy foes prove victors; subjects false; 
 Thy drink be venom, and thy joy be woe. 
 Thy mind filled with remorse, still mayst thou live. 
 
SŁOWACKI. 285 
 
 Seeking for death, but wooing it in vain; 
 
 A foul, detested, blasted renegade — 
 
 I have bestowed to earth a viper, but 
 
 From thee shall vipers spring, who like their sire 
 
 Shall traitors be unto their native land, 
 
 And eager plunge them into ruin's stream! 
 
 Depart! and bear thy mother's curse! 
 
 Mindowe. Mother, 
 My mother — 
 
 Ronelva. Call me not mother, viper! 
 I do disclaim thee: — thee, — and all thy seed! 
 
 [Exit Ronelva, leaning on Troinace. 
 Mindowe {speaking as though awe-stricken)*. 
 Heard ye that curse? 
 
 Heidenric. What are the frantic words 
 Of a revengeful woman? Empty air — 
 Mindowe. A mother's curse ! It carries pestilence, 
 Blight, misery and sorrow in its train. 
 No matter ! It is, as the Legate says, 
 
 But " empty air." (To Heidenric.) What message do you bear? 
 Heidenric. Thus to the great Litwanian king, Pope Innocent 
 (Fourth of the name who've worn the papal crown) 
 Sends greeting: Thou whose power extends 
 From fartherest Baltic to the shores of Crim, 
 Go on, and prosper. Though unto thy creed 
 He thinks thy heart is true, still would he prove — 
 
 (Mindowe starts, and exclaims " Ha!") 
 Send thou to him as neighboring monarchs do 
 An annual tribute. So he'll bless thy arms 
 That ere another year elapses Russ' shall yield, 
 And Halicz fall before thy conquering sword. 
 
 Mindowe. Thanks to the Pope. I'll profit by his leave; 
 I'll throw my troops in Muscovy, and scourge 
 The hordes of Halicz, move in every place 
 Like an avenging brand, and say: The Pope 
 Hath giv'n me power. But, hark ye ! Legate, 
 
286 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND. 
 
 What needs so great a priest as he of Rome 
 With my red gold to buy him corn and oil? 
 Explain ! I do not understand the riddle. 
 
 Heidenric. He merely asks it as a pledge of friendship, 
 But nothing more. The proudest kings of Europe 
 Yield him such tribute. 
 
 Mindowe. Tribute! base priest! 
 Whene'er thy master asks for tribute, this — 
 
 {Striking his sword.) 
 Is my reply. What hast thou there? 
 
 Heidenric. A gift — 
 A precious relic of most potent virtue. 
 Thou'st heard of St. Sebastian? holy man! 
 He died a martyr. This which brought him death 
 Is sent unto thee by his holiness — 
 
 {Presents a rusty spear-head.) 
 Mindowe. Fie on such relics ! I could give thy Pope 
 A thousand such! This dagger by my side 
 Has hung from childhood. It has drank the blood 
 Of many a foe that vexed my wrath ; and oft 
 Among them there were men, and holy men, 
 As holy, sir, as e'er was St. Sebastian. 
 Heidenric. Peace, thou blasphemer! 
 Mindowe {angrily). How! dost wish thy head 
 To stand in safety on thy shoulders? 
 What means this insolence, sir Legate? 
 Think'st thou that I shall kneel, and bow, and fawn, 
 And put thy master's iron yoke upon me? 
 They act not freely whom the fetters bind, 
 And none shall forge such galling chains for me! 
 There's not one more Mindowe in the world, 
 Nor is your Pope a crowned Litwanian king. 
 
 Heidenric. I speak but as the representative 
 Of power, supreme o'er earthly monarchs 
 
 Mindowe. Thou doest well to shelter thus thyself 
 Under the shield of thy legation. Hast 
 
SŁOWACKI. 287 
 
 Aught more to utter of thy master's words, 
 Aught more to give? 
 
 Heidenric. I have a gift to make 
 Unto thy queen. 
 
 Mindoive. The queen hath lain, sir prince, 
 In cold corruption for a twelvemonth back. 
 What means this mockery? 
 
 Heidenric. Pardon, my lord! 
 It was not known unto his holiness. 
 The forests of Litwania are so dark 
 They shut her doings from her neighbor's ken. 
 If then the queen be dead who shall receive 
 This goodly gift? 
 
 Mindoive. My mother — 
 
 Heidenric. If I may judge 
 By what I heard e'en now, she'd not accept 
 Our offering. ; 
 
 Mindowe. Then give the gorgeous gaw 
 To Lawski's widow — she who soon will be 
 My crowned queen. Summon her hither, page. 
 
 [Exit Page. 
 Attendants, take from hence these costly gifts, 
 And give them in the royal treasurer's care — 
 
 [Exit Attendants, as Aldona enters. 
 Here comes my spotless pearl, the fair Aldona, 
 The choicest flower of the Litwanian vales. 
 Address thy speech to her. 
 
 Heidenric. Beauteous maid, 
 Accept these golden flowers from Tiber's banks, 
 Where they have grown, nursed by the beams of faith. 
 Nor deem less in value that they are 
 By the bright luster of thine eyes eclipsed. 
 
 Aldona. These costly jewels and the glare of gold, 
 Albeit they suit not my mourning weeds 
 May serve as dying ornaments. As such 
 I will accept them. 
 
288 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND. 
 
 Heidenric (aside). Ay! I warrant me. 
 Like to most women she accepts the gift. 
 No farther questions. Gold is always — gold. 
 (Motions to Ławski to approach Aldona. He does so, trem- 
 blingly.) 
 
 Mindowe (to Ławski). Thou tremblest, Teuton ! 
 (Ławski raises his visor as he approaches Aldona. She recog- 
 nizes his features, shrieks, and falls. Exit Ławski.) 
 
 Mindowe. Help here, she swoons. 
 Without there. 
 
 (Enter Attendants.) 
 Bear her hence. Pursue that knight. 
 
 [Exit Attendants with Aldona. 
 (To Heidenric.) What means this mystery? 
 
 Heidenric. I know not, sire. 
 He said that he had vowed whilst in our train 
 For certain time to keep his visor down. 
 He's taciturn. This with his saddened air, 
 Together with the rose upon his helm, 
 The emblem of the factious house of York, 
 Bespeak him English. To my thought, at least. 
 
 Mindowe. Think ye such poor devices can deceive? 
 He is a spy — a base, deceitful spy. 
 Begone! for by my father's sepulcher 
 I see a dagger in my path. Begone ! 
 
 [Exit Heidenric and Herman. 
 Approach Lutuver. Didst thou see that knight 
 Who left so suddenly? 
 
 Lutuver. I did so, sire, 
 But 'f all the group I least suspected him 
 Of treasonable practices. He's silent, 
 For no one understands his language here; 
 He keeps aloof from men, because he's sad; 
 He's sad, because he's poor; so ends that knight. 
 
 Mindowe (not heeding him). 
 I tell thee that my very soul's pulse throbbed, 
 
SŁOWACKI. 289 
 
 And my heart cast with quicker flow my blood, 
 
 When that young knight approached Aldona. (Muses.) 
 
 Now, by the gods, I do believe 'tis he — 
 
 The banished Ławski, here to dog my steps — 
 
 What thinkst thou, Lutuver? 
 
 Lutuver. Slay him, sire! 
 If it be he, he's taken from thy path, 
 If not — to slay a Teuton is no crime. 
 
 Mindowe. Thou counselest zealously. But still, thy words 
 Fall not upon an ear which thinks them good. 
 I tell thee that this Ławski is my bane, 
 A living poison rankling 'fore mine eyes. 
 
 Men prate about the virtues of the man. 
 And if a timorous leaning to the right 
 From fear to follow where the wrong directs 
 Be virtue, then is he a paragon. 
 No wonder we are deadly foes. To me 
 The brightness which is shed o'er all his deeds 
 When placed in contact with my smothered hate 
 Seems as the splendor of the noonday sun 
 Glancing upon some idol's horrid form, 
 Making its rude appearance ruder still. 
 
 One word of mine, Lutuver, might destroy 
 This abject snail, who crawling near my hope 
 Hath scared it off. But I would have him live, 
 And when he meets his adorable wife, 
 When in th' excess of 'raptured happiness 
 Each fiber fills with plenitude of joy 
 And naught of bliss is left to hope for — then 
 At fair Aldona's feet shall he expire, 
 And the full heart just beating 'gainst her own 
 Shall yield its living current for revenge. 
 And she — his wife — to whom I knelt in vain, 
 Who oft has said she courted my dislike, 
 And wished I'd hate her: — she shall have her wish. 
 
 [Exeunt Mindowe and Lutuver, as the curtain falls. 
 19 
 
290 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND. 
 
 GARCZYNSKI. 
 
 Stephen Garczynski, the imitator and a great per- 
 sonal friend of Adam Mickiewicz, was gifted with 
 marked poetical abilities, but a long residence in for- 
 eign countries had a great influence over them. His 
 poetry when not considered from a national, artistic 
 standpoint, possesses unusual merits. His fantasy 
 being full of feeling, and his imagery of the richest 
 spirit, are the two greatest characteristics of his poet- 
 ical creations; but their German mysticism and other 
 outlines, tinged with foreign literature, are their weak 
 points. Mickiewicz, in his lectures on Slavonic Liter- 
 ature, places Garczynski in the front ranks of Polish 
 poets; but it is doubtful whether he could maintain the 
 place now, because he died too young to compete for 
 so high a place on the Polish Parnassus; and yet, as a 
 poet, he stands high. His beautiful poem "Waclaw's 
 History " is an extensive philosophical creation, but 
 founded upon ideas of which he drank deeply while in 
 Germany. It is a description of an individual life in 
 many phases and changes of all sorts, all of which 
 seem to exert a great influence upon his moral condi- 
 tion; this constitutes about the whole theme of the 
 poem. Here Garczynski reminds one of Byron's 
 heroes. It is an unhappy young man for whom the 
 world has no longer any charms, — who amidst riches 
 and amusements, dying from grief, looks for relief and 
 diversion in learning. We see in him something akin 
 to "Faust" or "Manfred," but neither the unlimited 
 desire for knowledge nor passions consumes him. He 
 does not chase about the world as " Lara " or 4 ' Cor- 
 
GARCZYŃSKI. 291 
 
 sair,"in search of prey, lust, or booty. He is unhappy 
 only because he is a Pole; he is unhappy because he 
 does not see any moral cause for the existence of his 
 country; because in philosophy only he could find the 
 apotheosis of the powers which destroyed his country. 
 Besides that, he wrote war sonnets and lyrics, most of 
 which are replete with a devoted love to his country. 
 
 Garczyński was born in 1806, in Great Poland, re- 
 ceived his first education at Trzemeszno, and at a 
 Lyceum at Warsaw; then he attended the University 
 at Berlin, where having imbibed the philosophical doc- 
 trines of Hegel he drowned in them the remnants of 
 the faith of his sires, which he carried away with him 
 on leaving the home of his youth. Traveling in Italy 
 in 1829 he met Mickiewicz, the poet, at Rome, and 
 here were formed between them ties of the closest and 
 most sincere friendship. Mickiewicz warmed up Gar- 
 czyński' s faith, and awakened within him the great 
 inborn powers which up to this time were misdirected. 
 During the revolution of 1831 he took an active part 
 in national movements. He was aid-de-camp of Gen- 
 eral Umiński, fought in several battles, and received 
 a golden cross for bravery and meritorious conduct. 
 After the unfortunate result of the revolution he went 
 to Paris, France, and from there to Rome, where he 
 again met his beloved friend Adam Mickiewicz. In 
 his company he went to Geneva, Switzerland. His 
 health beginning to fail he sought relief at Avignon, 
 where he was taken by Mickiewicz in person. Here, 
 after a month's illness, he died — 1833, Mickiewicz 
 closing his eyes. 
 
 Garczynski's works were published in Paris by Mar- 
 tinet in 1860, in Posen by Mertzbach, and by Brock- 
 house in Leipsic; also in the " Library of the Polish 
 Authors "in 1860. 
 
292 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND. 
 
 MILITARY SONNET. 
 
 With signal of attack each separate line 
 Like two black clouds ere bursts the thunder peal 
 Advance, — each moment closer yet they steal, 
 
 Thirsty for blood, the battle's crimson wine. 
 
 With manes outshaken at the second sign 
 The horses snort, glance proudly, — bold with ire, 
 Strike with their hoofs, — raise dust with sparks of fire, 
 
 As though the coming victory they divine. 
 March! march! the third sign giv'n; what billows rise ! 
 The sea itself is not more tempest-tost 
 With horse and rider;— earth in smoke is lost. 
 
 A clash of arms ! friends mingle in the host 
 With foes. Who conquers? from the turmoil fled, 
 The vanquished leave the victors with the dead! 
 
 CONVERSATION. 
 
 Come here my girl ; and then she ran to me. 
 
 Do you love me? Oh yes, indeed I do. 
 
 As mother? — brother? far more fond and true; 
 
 To you a help I ever wish to be. 
 
 All that I have, or will have, fain would I 
 
 Divide with you and for you make all light. 
 
 Ah! when I hear the rustling trees at night, 
 
 And windows rattling as the breeze sweeps by, 
 
 'Tis dark, and I alone sad vigil keep; 
 
 I think you are not with me — then I weep. 
 
 'Tis very wrong, my child, — it is a sin. 
 Sin, did you say ? Ah ! that is never true, 
 For when at morn I do not mention you 
 In prayer, no heavenly joy do I win 
 At eve. I think of words you spoke to me, 
 And to myself give them a meaning strange. 
 
GARCZYŃSKI. 293 
 
 I weep, but am so happy I would change 
 That moment — time into eternity, 
 And weep forever with a blissful sense 
 Of happiness most pure and most intense. 
 
 'Tis wrong, my child ; — your thoughts had better rest 
 
 On some one else — more fitting it would seem 
 
 God so ordains. Ah ! no ; whene'er I dream 
 
 Of Heaven, you are there among the blest. 
 
 Once said I to myself that it was wrong, 
 
 But sweet and clear as chime of silver bell 
 
 Kind voices spoke to me: — Love! love! 'Tis well. 
 
 Long as you have a heart — Oh love so long ; 
 
 And to my soul came joy unknown before, 
 
 And doubt can never cloud its sunshine more. 
 
 Then I was silent; — sank the sun and fell 
 Calm ev'ning dim with shades of coming night. 
 My heart was timid, but a new delight, 
 With some strange change about it, wove a spell 
 When I repeated " it is wrong," I prest 
 With fervent kiss the maiden's lip and hand; 
 The rapture, none save lovers understand, 
 Kindl'd a warmth divine within my breast, 
 For as our lips in that warm pressure met 
 A star rose in my sky that ne'er can set. 
 
ZALESKI. 
 
 294 
 
ZALESKI. 295 
 
 ZALESKI. 
 
 Joseph Bohdan Zaleski, at first the worshiper and 
 a scholar of Brodziński, and whom he also tried to 
 imitate, at least in the external construction of his 
 verse, became in the end an original poet in the true 
 sense of the word. Ukraine, the province of his na- 
 tivity, is almost the sole theme of his song. It is from 
 her heroic deeds that he takes all his subjects, and from 
 her natural wealth all the embellishments and charms 
 of his poetry. Naturalness, feeling, and grandeur of 
 imagery constitute the inborn music of his song. Za- 
 leski is one of the greatest lyric poets; he possesses an 
 unusual gift of poetic vision of every thought and 
 every feeling, which he skilfully shapes, tunes, and 
 transforms at his will. The unrest of the soul, touch- 
 ing meditations, and the clothing of his thoughts with 
 peculiarly deep mystery, are the chief characteristics 
 of his creations. Occasionally he rises above the 
 bounds of the natural world and soars in the ideal; 
 then again he descends into the inflate qualities of 
 nature, and surrounding himself with the light of 
 reality he seems to remain with himself only in 
 thoughtfulness and longing as if awakened from a 
 temporary illusion or a broken spell. His manner of 
 writing is solely his own, bearing the stamp of an 
 incomparable artist. Liveliness of imagery, sincerity 
 of feeling, and the outward form of expression, are 
 blended in him in delightful harmony, so that it is 
 difficult to determine whether he is a greater poet or a 
 greater musical artist. 
 
 Zaleski was born on the 14th of February, 1802, at 
 
296 POETS AKD POETEY OF POLAND. 
 
 a place called Bohaterka, in Ukraine. His youth was 
 spent on the steppes (prairies) amidst the people of 
 that region. He attended school in the city of Humań 
 from 1815 to 1819. Humań is situated within but a 
 short distance from the most beautiful garden in Europe, 
 from which the poet Trembecki drew his inspiration 
 when he wrote his famous poem " Sofiowka." The 
 garden is so named, and one would not go much amiss 
 to infer that the resplendent beauties of the garden 
 might have first awakened Zaleski' s poetic genius. It 
 is not an unpleasant fact for the editor of this work to 
 here record that he, too, rubbed his back against the 
 walls of that famous institution, and remembers well 
 the severity of its rules. He knows not whether the 
 institution is still in existence, but at the time when he 
 was a student there the professors' chairs were filled 
 by the most learned and ablest men of the order of 
 Basilians. 
 
 In 1820 Zaleski went with Severyn Goszczyński to 
 Switzerland, and thence to the University of Warsaw. 
 Later he was a private teacher with a Mr. Górski and 
 the son of General Shembeck, until 1830. In that 
 year he left Poland and went to Paris, then to Italy. 
 Returning to Paris he filled the office of the Superin- 
 tendent of the Polish School at Batignolle, where we 
 believe he still resides. 
 
 His work "Poetry" was published by Edward 
 Iełowicki in 1841; "Dumy and Dumki," published by 
 Raczyński in Posen; "Poetry," at St. Petersburg in 
 1851. The Poet's Oratorium in "Dumy and Dumki " 
 was dedicated to his wife, — published at Posen, 1866. 
 No nation had a sweeter and more feeling poet than 
 Zaleski — not even excepting Petrarch. 
 
ZALESKI, 297 
 
 THE POET'S SONO. 
 
 When Spring unfolds her foliage green, 
 And birds their songs begin to breathe, 
 My strain, like theirs, is free from care; 
 I fly above,— descend beneath! 
 
 I fly and haunt the vanished past, 
 
 'Mid tempests' low and wavering moan; — 
 
 I gaze upon the regions vast, 
 
 And listen to the whirlwind's tone! 
 
 I feel the world's bright aspect 'round, 
 From flowers sweet I take my life; 
 I list to angels' prfising sound, 
 And soon forget all earthly strife. 
 
 And if my heart at times complains, 
 In spite of all its earthly joys, 
 I try to soothe its bitter pains, 
 As children do with pleasing toys. 
 
 If for a while my bosom beats, 
 Arid trembles, filled with pain and fear, 
 My mind to Heaven then retreats, 
 And there dispels each bitter tear. 
 
 Thus then I pass away my time, 
 In joy my moments quickly glide; 
 Not fond of solving mysteries, 
 I smile at human thoughtless pride. 
 
 But when I end life's short career, 
 And bid this world a last adieu, 
 Another world again will cheer 
 The heart that seldom sorrow knew. 
 
 Although the body pass from hence, 
 The soul immortal shall not die; 
 A few remaining thoughts on earth 
 May tell I soared beyond the sky. 
 
298 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND. 
 
 'TIS DIFFERENT WITH US. 
 
 "U nas inaczej." 
 
 'Tis sad, brethren, sad, beyond the Danube's tide, 
 Moist are our eyes, but our feelings we must hide; 
 Irksome is the world, the people weary me; 
 How strange 'mid bustling crowds look all things I see ! 
 
 Here the Kozak's * spirit must pleasureless roam ; 
 
 'Tis so different all from our own loved home! 
 
 'Tis different with us! ah, the Polish land 
 Is our mighty queen — 'tis a Slavonic band ; 
 At a sign from her, brethren, death we will dare, 
 And ever we'll dream of Ukraine the fair. 
 
 Here the Kozak's spirit must pleasureless roam; 
 
 'Tis so different all from our loved home ! 
 
 'Tis different with us! blithe and buoyant instead, 
 Away with mounds sepulchral whose shadows outspread ; 
 The eagle eye desires ev'ry thing to see, 
 Bathing in wild grasses contented and free ! 
 
 Here the Kozak's spirit must pleasureless roam; 
 
 'Tis so different all from our loved home! 
 
 'Tis different with us! 'neath the dark blue skies 
 O'erhanging Ukraine plaintive songs arise 
 From many sweet singers wand'ring far and near; 
 O God, their sad strains ever deafen the ear! 
 
 Here the Kozak's spirit must pleasureless roam; 
 
 'Tis so different all from our loved home! 
 
 *See annotations to Malczewski. We can only add here that 
 the word " Kozak" applies figuratively especially to those w 7 ho were 
 born in Ukraine ; hence when one says he comes from " Kozaczyzna," 
 it means that he comes from the land of the " Kozaks," that is to say, 
 from " Ukraine." Here the poet, though a nobleman calls himself a 
 Kozak, being born and brought up in Ukraine. 
 
ZALESKI. 299 
 
 U NAS INACZEJ. 
 
 (Bohdana Zaleskiego.) 
 
 Smutnoz tu — smutno, bracia, za Dunajem, 
 I w oczach mokro, bo sercami tajem; 
 Ludzie nas nudzą — i świat cały nudzi; 
 Cudzo — och pusto — śród świata i ludzi! 
 
 Nie ma bo rady dla duszy kozaczej ; 
 
 U nas inaczej — inaczej — inaczej ! 
 
 U nas inaczej Och! Ojczyzna Lasza, 
 To wszech słowiańska i królowa nasza, 
 Bracia, zginiemy za nią., kiedy skinie, 
 Ale śnić będziem o swej Ukrainie. 
 
 Nie ma bo rady dla duszy kozaczej ; 
 
 U nas inaczej — inaczej — inaczej ! 
 
 U nas inaczej ! I bujnie i miło, 
 Hej ! nie zastępuj na drodze mogiło ! 
 Nie ściel się cieniem! niech sokole oko 
 Kąpie w burzanach lubo a szeroko! 
 
 Nie ma bo rady dla duszy kozaczej ; 
 
 U nas inaczej — inaczej — inaczej ! 
 
 U nas inaczej ! Po nad Ukrainą, 
 Wskroś okolicą jarzącą się, siną, 
 Boże śpiewaki ciągną w w różne strony; 
 Az w uszach klaszcze, taki gwar zmącony! 
 
 Nie ma bo rady dla duszy kozaczej ; 
 
 U nas inaczej — inaczej — inaczej ! 
 
300 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND. 
 
 'Tis different with us ! what I've secretly planned, 
 Or in Duma sing, my horse can understand; 
 He neighs in his way; of his tabun* thinks he? 
 Ah, he and I are twins, both yearning to be free! 
 
 Here the Kozak's spirit must pleasureless roam; 
 
 'Tis so different all from our own loved home! 
 
 'Tis different with us! sad notes e'er are sung, 
 Because 'tis sepulchral, and the graves among; 
 They breathe the spirit of our great sires and praise 
 Glories and victories of their olden days ! 
 
 Here the Kozak's spirit must pleasureless roam; 
 
 'Tis so different all from our own loved home ! 
 
 'Tis different with us ! far more glad and gay, 
 Lively beats the heart; pour out no wine I pray! 
 Intoxication seems the air itself to fill ; 
 When I wish to carouse I shall with a will! 
 
 Here the Kozak's spirit must pleasureless roam; 
 
 'Tis so different all from our own loved home! 
 
 'Tis different with us! love and longing here 
 As two strands of the thread of this life appear. 
 With tears, O God, I entreat a boon of Thee, 
 That in Heaven Thou'll give Ukraine to me ! 
 
 Here the Kozak's spirit must pleasureless roam; 
 
 'Tis so different all from our own loved home! 
 
 * A herd of wild horses. 
 
ZALESKI. 301 
 
 U nas inaczej Co zaśpiewam w dumie, 
 Co w głowie knowam — brat koń mój rozumie ; 
 Rzy po swojemu: — czy tabun pamięta? 
 Och! za wolnością, tęsknimy bliźnięta! 
 
 Nie ma bo rady dla duszy kozaczej ; 
 
 U nas inaczej — inaczej — inaczej ! 
 
 U nas inaczej ! Wciąż nuta żałoby, 
 Bo namogilna, bo pomiędzy groby 
 Ku duchom ojców przygrywa wspaniale 
 O ich minionych i bojach i chwale: 
 
 Nie ma bo rady dla duszy kozaczej ; 
 
 U nas inaczej — inaczej — inaczej ! 
 
 U nas inaczej ! Jakoś lżej weselej, 
 Krew gra burzliwiej : — oj wina mi nie lej ! 
 Samem powietrzem po pianemu żyję; 
 A kiedy hulam — to na łeb, na szyję! 
 
 Nie ma bo rady dla duszy kozaczej ; 
 
 U nas inaczej — inaczej — inaczej ! 
 
 U nas inaczej ! Miłość i tęsknota, 
 To jak dwie prządki naszego żywota. 
 Bozez mój, Boże! łzami modlę Ciebie! 
 Jak umrę, daj mi Ukrainę — w niebie! 
 
 Nie ma bo rady dla duszy kozaczej ; 
 
 U nas inaczej — inaczej — inaczej ! 
 
302 POETS AND POETRY OE POLAND. 
 
 TO MY GUITAR. . 
 
 Thou dear companion of my spring, 
 My soul confides its grief to thee ; — 
 
 Let the sad plainings of each string 
 Drown all my sighs melodiously. 
 
 And let thy murmurs, joined with mine, 
 A soothing as of dreams impart, 
 
 While from these walls at day's decline, 
 Their notes rebounding thrill my heart. 
 
 Sweetly intoxicate each sense, 
 
 Chase from my eyes this mist of pain; — ■ 
 From earth's cold desert bear me hence, 
 
 My only solace! on thy strain. 
 
 Through all my sad and vanished years 
 Few happy hours to me were known ; 
 
 Hope's longing only joined to fears 
 And disappointment were my own. 
 
 One moment comes, — another goes, 
 
 My years like autumn leaves grow dry;- 
 
 When will this pilgrim journey close — 
 This exile and an end draw nigh? 
 
 I do not dread Eternity; 
 
 Death in my soul awakes no fear : — 
 There wait the golden days for me, 
 
 Which I have sought so vainly here. 
 
 Companion of my life's sad spring, 
 My soul confides it's grief to thee; — 
 
 Let the low plaining from thy string 
 Drown all my sighs melodiously. 
 
JACHOWICZ. 303 
 
 JACHOWICZ 
 
 Stanislaus Jachowicz was burn at Dzików, in Ga- 
 licia. lTtli of April. 1796. His father (who was a 
 plenipotentiary of Count Tarnowski | died when Stan- 
 islaus was but a child; but his pious mother took great 
 eare in his education. The boy exhibited excellent 
 qualities of heart and mind from his very childhood; 
 no punishment was ever resorted to in bringing up the 
 lad: an appeal from the mother to her son's heart 
 sufficed in every instance. He went to the gymnasium 
 at Stanisławów, where he was always the first among 
 the scholars in learning and deportment, and afterward 
 attended the Faculty of Philosophy in the University 
 of Lemberg from 1815 to 1818. The celebrated Pro- 
 fessor Maas prized him very highly, and corresponded 
 with him. In the latter part of 1818 he went to War- 
 saw, where he entered in an official capacity the depart- 
 ment of Procurator-General of the Kingdom of Poland. 
 It was here that he became acquainted with the poet 
 Brodziński. But the duties of an official life had no 
 charms for him; the bent of his mind led him alto- 
 gether in a different direction: he soon gave himself up 
 to the occupation of a private teacher. His first fables 
 were published at Płock in 1824. Five of his smaller 
 works passed through two editions; one passed through 
 three, and his tables through six. different editions. 
 Then came the publication of " Thoughts in Kegard 
 How to Gain a Correct Knowledge of the Foundations of 
 the Polish Language " — ATarsaw, 1828. Jachowicz left 
 in manuscript ** Sketches of Polish History." in verse; 
 also a spelling-book, copiously ill ustrated with wood-cuts. 
 
304 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND. 
 
 All who knew lachowicz personally testify to the 
 nobleness of his nature, and to his great friendship of 
 children; and so long as the little rising generation will 
 speak the language of their grandmothers they will 
 carry his name to the remotest posterity. His fables 
 and proverbs can be found in almost every house in 
 Poland. The last edition of his works was published 
 in Warsaw in four volumes — 1848. Besides these he 
 published a new collection entitled c ' A Hundred New 
 Stories " — Warsaw, 1853. The substance of his fables 
 is an invention adapted for the understanding and the 
 necessities of children. In these little stories we find 
 the children's world dramatized; their subjects do not 
 touch the concerns of grown people, or any intricate- 
 relations of life; they simply concern the relations of 
 children, their little adventures, contacts, and relations 
 with their parents, society, etc. The author endeavors 
 to imbue the little folks with virtues of religion and 
 pleasing shadings of their every-day situations. He 
 pursues their little shortcomings and their little foibles 
 in the same good-natured way and degree of childish- 
 ness; the form, too, in which they are written possesses 
 also its peculiarly interesting manner. Jachowicz 
 understood that the essence of a fable is not an alle- 
 gory, but an example, and that allegorical examples 
 are not practical for children; for a child there is no 
 better example than to show it the doings of another 
 child. Jachowicz also comprehended the truth that the 
 heroes of his stories were not animals or trees, but 
 children. His manner of telling things is so easy and 
 lucid that every child can understand him without any 
 trouble, although sometimes he moralizes too long. 
 He died in Warsaw the 24th of December, 1857. 
 
Jachowicz. 305 
 
 SUNSET. 
 
 The sun went down, with it one more day has passed away; — 
 
 The church-bell heralded its death through the twilight grey; 
 
 To-morrow, at the same time and hour, with bell-tones clear, 
 Another day shall disappear; 
 And after that a third, and so 
 Our whole life day by day shall go 
 
 An old man thought, — up and down he paced with feeble tread. 
 
 What does the old man mutter ? the thoughtless children said. 
 
 The Old Man. 
 
 Gaily with your pastimes you amuse yourselves to-day, 
 But your life is fleeting imperceptibly away. 
 See you the sunset, children fair? 
 Only look! see over there: 
 The clouds with red and gold inwrought,^- 
 Their play a moment was forgot. 
 And while they looked with earnestness 
 The old man spoke of sinfulness 
 , Repentance and a saving grace, 
 How swiftly day to day gives place ; 
 And of the vanities of earth, 
 They understood not then its worth. 
 In riper years alone their might 
 The sunset shone upon their sight. 
 
 They thought of what the old man said many years ago, 
 And finer feelings filled their hearts all with a holy glow. 
 The world's snares deceived them no more, 
 Love of wealth and glory was o'er; 
 Flown away as if with the wind, 
 And if for earthly joys they pined 
 The old man's sunset crossed their mind. 
 
306 POETS AKD POETKY OF POLAND. 
 
 THE LITTLE ORPHAN. 
 
 Mother! but speak, dispel my dread, — 
 'Tis your own daughter, hear her plea; 
 
 I kneel and weep beside your bed, — 
 Awake and say a word to me! 
 
 Mother! the hands my lips have pressed 
 Are cold as ice. Oh, for God's sake 
 
 No longer in this coffin rest; 
 Open your eyes, mother, awake ! 
 
 I cannot think you will not rise, 
 They say you will waken never; 
 
 mamma dear, open your eyes, 
 Don't you love me well as ever? 
 
 Arise, arise, from that white bed, 
 
 It looks as if it were a tomb, 
 And press me to your breast instead, 
 
 My heart will break within this gloom! 
 
 Ah, you keep still, my mother dear, 
 You wish me all alone to stay; 
 
 Must I be left an orphan here, 
 
 Torn from my mother's arms for aye? 
 
 1 have never been away from you, 
 
 Oh, may I never, never be ; 
 But to the grave let me go, too, 
 Can you seek Heaven without me? 
 
 You are so good, mother, I plead 
 That you will look on me with love, 
 
 And with the good Lord intercede 
 To join us in his home above! 
 
JACHOWICZ. 307 
 
 MOTHER'S WARNING. 
 
 My son, said a mother, if you would be my delight, 
 
 From thy soul's depths love truth and right; 
 Teach your heart to loathe deeply every form of wrong, 
 
 Shun evil when alone as when 'mid a watchful throng. 
 The youth promised his mother, and in his eye shone clear 
 
 The light of truth — she knew that his promise was sincere. 
 In a few days thereafter it happened on his way 
 
 The youth passed a neighbor's garden filled with blossoms 
 gay 
 Just at that time of summer when fragrant buds disclose 
 
 In its charming beauty the queen of flowers, the rose, 
 To reach and pluck the fairest the eager youth essayed, 
 
 When something whispered him of the promise he had 
 made. 
 His hand dropped — he paused to think — he listened to the 
 voice, 
 
 A future life of right or wrong waited on his choice. 
 But another voice said: what does one rose signify? 
 
 The owner will forgive it, no harm therein can lie, 
 If you leave them as they are their hours of bloom are few; 
 
 Reach and pluck one, you shall take a sweet rose home with 
 you. 
 No one will reprove you; there are plenty, take your choice; 
 
 And he almost believed for a time that evil voice. 
 Your promise to your mother, — 'twas his heart's voice he heard, 
 
 He who is good and honest will never break his word. 
 He resisted the temptation, the flowers untouched remained, 
 
 He heard his mother's warning, and a victory was gained ! 
 
 THE LITTLE JEWESS. 
 
 A little Jewish girl, pale and thin, in humble guise, 
 Was walking, with her hands covering her eyes, 
 When a lady from her window marked her feeble tread, 
 And sent her maid to her with a piece of bread. 
 
308 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND. 
 
 Thus having done her duty she felt much happiness. 
 What is more pleasant than easing the distress 
 Of the poor orphan? But out of breath the maid came back. 
 "Do you know," she said, "my mistress dear, — alack! 
 That is a Jewish girl; — who e'er thought to help a Jew?' 1 
 
 The good lady was offended. " Shame on you! 
 
 She is poor, and therefore she deserves our aid," she said; 
 " Go forthwith, I bid you, give to her the bread. 
 
 She is a fellow creature; — the creeds don't signify; — 
 
 The sun shines upon us all, — impartially." 
 
 THE WIDOW'S MITE. 
 
 A money-box was fastened up in a public place, 
 
 And many with indiff'rence as they passed apace 
 
 Read "Offering for the Poor;" thereon they turned away 
 
 Without putting in a penny for many a day. 
 
 It stood quite empty, till at last 
 
 A poor woman dropped her mite, a penny, as she passed. 
 
 Next, seeing her, a rich man stopped, 
 
 Who some ducats dropped. 
 
 The less wealthy, moved by the sight, added to the store 
 
 Each a florin more. 
 
 Another one, who had seen the widow give her mite, 
 
 Dropped a dollar bright. 
 
 Whence comes this liberality, — this golden shower? 
 
 'Tis the example of the good. It is virtue's power 
 
 That brings the penny shining gold. 
 
 Perhaps to this hour time had rolled, 
 And the money-box, now burdened, remained empty quite 
 Had not the poor and humble widow given her mite. 
 Good example works wonders for the right' 
 
KORZENIOWSKI. 309 
 
 KORZENIOWSKI. 
 
 Joseph Korzeniowski, at the beginning of his career, 
 was a poet of purely classic character, but when the 
 inspiration of new ideas came upon him he was regen- 
 erated in the spirit. Still this awakening was not spon- 
 taneous, but was caused by side influences, and it was 
 doubtless for this reason that his own influence on the 
 Polish literature, at the beginning of this change, was 
 so inconsiderable. He was one of the young poets 
 who began to write originally for the stage. He shifted, 
 however, from classic tragedy to a new style of dramas, 
 in which he imitated Shakspeare. His classic trag- 
 edy bears the name of "Pelopids," but his "Clara" 
 and "Angelique," written in measured rhyme, are of a 
 different cut. "The Carpathian Mountaineers" is a 
 drama which is considered a masterpiece in Polish lit- 
 erature. The same merit claims " The Monk," telling 
 of a life of temptation and the death of Boleslas the 
 Bold. But perhaps still greater is his historical drama, 
 "Andrew Batory," where, for the first time, Korzen- 
 iowski endeavored to awaken the remote past and en- 
 rich the literature of his country with an historical play, 
 and in this difficult task he came out victorious. He 
 delineated in a masterly manner all the characters of 
 the drama with great historical truth, with which he 
 embellished this remarkable production. 
 
 In the comedy "The Jew r s " the poet shows unmis- 
 takably that he is well experienced in the ways of the 
 w r orld and a superior judge of the human heart. He is 
 the first, too, who showed what significance comedy 
 had in a social point of view T . In his comedy "The 
 
310 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND. 
 
 Moustache and the Wig" old Polish types stand in 
 bold relief alongside of Frenchified ways of the times 
 of Stanislaus Augustus. 
 
 Although Korzeniowski is a perfect master of the 
 language in all his pieces, he evinces great carelessness 
 in interesting his reader or spectator. In the old dia- 
 logues of the prologue it was announced at the begin- 
 ning what the subject of the play would be; so it is 
 with Korzeniowski. He tells us in advance what will 
 be the text of the drama, weakening thereby the inter- 
 est of the play; and unmindful about carrying out the 
 intrigue he loses the power of the comic. On that ac- 
 count he is placed below Fredro,* but his lyric poetry 
 belongs to the first class. 
 
 Korzeniowski was born in 1797, in Galicia, and was 
 educated at Czernovitz, and then at Krzemieniec. 
 After finishing his studies he went to Warsaw, where 
 he accepted a situation as a private teacher, offered him 
 by Gen. Vincent Krasiński, and later he obtained a 
 position as librarian in the great library of Count 
 Zamoyski. In 1823 he was called to the professorship 
 of Polish literature at Krzemieniec, where he lectured 
 till 1830. The year after he entered the cathedra of 
 literature and Roman antiquities at the University of 
 Kiev, and in 1836 of Polish literature, where he lec- 
 tured only a few months, the cathedra being abolished. 
 In 1837 he was one of the directors of the University 
 of Charków, and in 1846 was appointed the director of 
 the state gymnasium at Warsaw. He then was hon- 
 ored with the dignity of the office of Yisitator of schools 
 and colleges, and still later was made a commissioner 
 of creeds and instruction. While occupying this im- 
 portant office he was greatly influential in the arrange- 
 *A distinguished Polish dramatist. 
 
KORZENIOWSKI. 311 
 
 ment of plans for the chief school at Warsaw. In 1862, 
 suffering from ill health, he journeyed to a Bohemian 
 water-cure, but that availed him not, and he died at 
 Dresden in 1863. 
 
 His dramas were for the first time published at Poc- 
 zajow, in 1826; "The Carpathian Mountaineers" at 
 Wilno, 1843; "The Monk" at Warsaw, 1830; it was 
 translated into Hebrew by Julian Klaczko; "Andrew 
 Batory," Warsaw, 1846; "The Jews," Wilno, 1843. 
 
 THE LAST LABOR. 
 
 (DUMA.) 
 
 Through thicket and through brush and -field 
 Traveled a man whose form revealed 
 The weight of years. His eyes anon 
 Fell on the staff he leaned upon. 
 Slowly he walked — his native strength 
 Trouble and age had sapped at length 
 With many deep and cruel wounds 
 Gained on forgotten battle-grounds. 
 
 Every day he this path would trace, 
 On his shoulder bearing a spade. 
 In the graveyard, resting a space, 
 To dig a grave he then assayed. 
 Till, weary with his work, at length 
 Again he rested in the shade 
 And at his feet he placed the spade. 
 Once refreshing his wasted strength, 
 He thus reposed with his dim eyes 
 Resting heavenward on the skies, 
 As if he sought throughout the space 
 The bright shades of his past to trace, 
 The pleasures of his by-gone days 
 That never more shall meet his gaze. 
 
312 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND. 
 
 Filled with emotion as lie thought, 
 His faint and trembling voice awoke, 
 Called back the past with mem'ry fraught, 
 And thus unto himself he spoke: 
 
 Evening's hush the valleys keep, 
 The sun descends behind the hill; 
 O'er the grass the dew-drops creep, 
 The fragrant wind sighs soft and still, 
 While utter silence reigns alone. 
 No stir about; all life seems past 
 Save that my heart, so weary grown, 
 Beats, oh! so loudly, and so fast! 
 The spell of utter silence round 
 Most grave and solemn thoughts recall. 
 Here is the inevitable bound! 
 This is the heritage of all ! 
 For all the roads are leading here, 
 And wafted on their wings we come. 
 Every earthly hope and fear 
 Endeth here their weary sum. 
 Entrance 'tis to the spirit home, 
 Welcome resting place for mortals, 
 I would gladly pass its portals, 
 Never more to toil and -roam. 
 
 Willingly would I meet the change — 
 
 Happily lie upon thy breast, 
 
 Not feeling that the land is strange, 
 
 But as I were at home and rest. 
 
 I have lived through many a year, 
 
 Have seen on earth much change and gloom; 
 
 Relations, brothers, friends so dear, 
 
 Are sleeping in the silent tomb. 
 
 My voice, that sleep can never wake, 
 
 But through the gloom this thought steals o'er, 
 
 Life's billows bearing me shall break, 
 

 KORZENIOWSKI. 313 
 
 And cast me on the unknown shore. 
 My hold upon the earth is weak, 
 My sunset rays so dimly blend, 
 A few more tears upon my cheek, 
 A few more sighs, and then the — end! 
 
 All the phantoms of younger days, 
 And all delusions of the heart, 
 Pleasures of glory, love's sweet ways, 
 Like sounds of yesterday depart. 
 Long lines of years have disappeared 
 Like a cloud scattered by the blast, 
 Troubles that vexed, pleasures that cheered, 
 All come to nothing at the last. 
 Few the memories that we gain 
 From such a harvest large and full — 
 From the abundance there remain 
 Few roses mid the thorns to pull. 
 
 All was silent. He ceased so speak, 
 And with tears on his pallid cheek 
 Rose to his feet, and tremblingly 
 Began to dig his grave once more, 
 Till, growing weary as before, 
 Reposed again beneath the tree, 
 With the spade lying at his feet. 
 Thus toiled and rested he each day, 
 When shades of night the sunset meet, 
 And o'er the world in darkness lay 
 His last rude shelter in the land 
 He dug with his own trembling hand. 
 Thus in the graveyard he was found, 
 His head uplifted from the ground, 
 His eyes in his last sleep composed 
 And his blue lips were tightly closed. 
 Still was his voice — at rest each limb — 
 And his grave was — ready for him. 
 
314 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND. 
 
 WASILEWSKI. 
 
 Edmund Wasilewski was a poet of the heart. He 
 seemed to prefer being shut up within himself to ex- 
 ternal glistening. He appeared to suffer mental pain, 
 and whenever he smiled his smile seemed to mingle 
 with yearning and grief. His faith and his prophetic 
 ken seemed wavering and uncertain. Edmund's world 
 and life were painted in dark and somber colors. 
 Although his poetry sprung from the purest sources, 
 yet it was oftentimes permeated with bitterness. Per- 
 sonal disappointments made him at times cold and 
 indifferent as to his fate. He began to doubt about 
 any happiness being in this world, so that even if he 
 saw a bright beam of it to him it was but a piece of 
 rotten wood glistening in the dark, without possessing 
 any real light or warmth. 
 
 The collection^ of his poetry represents three differ- 
 ent turns or kinds — egotistic, popular, and social, — with 
 an occasional touch of historical coloring. His burn- 
 ing soul loved to pour out, in short lyrics and in son- 
 nets, all his dreamings, his reveries, and his frenzy. 
 "The Child of Frenzy "is his confession before the 
 world, where in painful strains he sings the history of 
 his life. Pure but unhappy love is the reigning theme 
 extending throughout many tropes. Now and then it' 
 connects itself with observations about the world and 
 peoples, and then again he complains with Werther, — 
 then philosophizing in the Childe-Harold style. 
 Such erotic feeling needs a highly creative individual- 
 ism to express in the usual way the feelings of an 
 enamored heart, and at the same time to impart to them 
 
WASILEWSKI. 315 
 
 the witching tone of poesy. Such is his " Dream! O 
 My Soul, Dream!" 
 
 Wasilewski is altogether a different man when he 
 forgets his troubles and looks upon the surrounding 
 objects with a pleasant eye and good humor, when he 
 seeks a subject to which he could grow with his heart. 
 Such a subject he found in the Cracovian people. The 
 poet looked into their life, their customs, and their 
 manners, and their native character; he heard their 
 songs and was permeated with them through and 
 through, began to love them and wrought a beautful 
 wreath for them in his collections — "The Cracovians." 
 Far from his own personal fancy, which other poets 
 would have tried to put into the people's conceits, he 
 was on the contrary not only a faithful but also an 
 ideal interpreter of their feelings in their different and 
 most minute shades. His " Cracovians " are so purely 
 natural that you can see them in their huts and houses 
 just as they are, only the description is embellished by 
 a beautiful diction. "The Mariner's Song" depicts 
 different phases of life with uncommon tenderness. 
 His " Cathedral on the Wawel " is truly worthy of the 
 author. This mountain, around which are collected so 
 many recollections of the past and so many souvenirs 
 of national life, is to our poet an Olympus or a Hebron; 
 — in a word the central point of the world; he turns to 
 it continually, for there he sees every foot-path, every 
 bush, every relic, brings to his mind a thousand pleas- 
 ing visions, and as Wasilewski is on the field of pop- 
 ular poetry so is he here a true poet. He exercised but 
 little care as to the outward smoothness of his verse; 
 being driven by the warmest current of feeling he 
 wrote whatever came to his mind without stopping, 
 giving slight heed to minor objects. In his u Cathe- 
 
316 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND. 
 
 dral on Wawel " no art is visible but the ardent feeling 
 of truthfulness. Thoughts that led him on in this 
 poem pervade all other of his labors, for they were his 
 inseparable domestic idols. He worshiped them with 
 a faith and devotedness that cost him his life. 
 
 Wasilewski was born on the 16th day of November, 
 1814. While a child he came with his parents to Cra- 
 cow, and it was here that he was brought up and edu- 
 cated. After finishing his collegiate education he 
 accepted the situation as a librarian offered him by 
 Wielkopolski in the Kingdom of Poland; but after a 
 lapse of one year he returned to Cracow, where he 
 seems to have been persecuted by a relentless fate, and 
 had to labor hard to support those dependent upon 
 him. In 1844 he was married to his beloved and 
 much sung " Ilelka " (Helen). God had given them 
 a son, but he soon took the child away from them. 
 Edmund was twice attacked by mortal sickness, but on 
 the third attack he succumbed and gave his -spirit up 
 to God, November 14, 1846. 
 
 A collection of his poems was published at Cracow, 
 1839; at Posen, 1849; again at Cracow, 1849, and at 
 Warsaw, 1859. "Cathedral on Wawel" was pub- 
 lished separately in 1840. 
 
 UPON THE ROCKY SHORE. 
 
 Upon the lonely, rocky shore 
 An old man walketh to and fro, 
 
 His head is bent 'neath tresses hoar, 
 His heart is heavy with its woe. 
 
 With eyes uplifted to the sky 
 
 And gray locks to the breezes tossed, 
 
WASILEWSKI. 817 
 
 He calls his children. None reply 
 To him; they are forever lost! 
 
 O lonely is the castle old, 
 
 And lonelier still his aged breast, 
 
 For life is drear to him, and cold, 
 
 Spent thus from those he loveth .best. 
 
 Upon their names he fondly calls; 
 
 For them he weeps, alas! in vain; 
 Brave children ! to their father's halls 
 
 They never more return again ! 
 
 MEMORY'S TEAR. 
 
 Do you know the tear, lady, — the sweetest tear on earth, 
 Which remembrance e'er forces from the heart into view, 
 Which one pours out in silence or deeply hides at birth, 
 For memory of native land or friends tried and true, 
 Which tenderness must shed be we bashful or severe, 
 'Tis the tear above all others — it is memory's tear. 
 
 Do you know the reveries, — the meditations sad 
 Which carry us at will to the future or the past? 
 Do you know the power that makes that sorrow glad, 
 As your thoughts flow backward or coming time forecast? 
 Like the faithful ivy-green winding the ruins 'round 
 'Mid thoughts of future time and past these memories' dreams 
 are found. 
 
318 POETS AND POETRY OE POLAND. 
 
 JASKOWSKI. 
 
 John Nepomucen Jaskowski. We regret that we 
 cannot furnish to our readers anything definite about 
 this poet's life. We only know that he was an elegant 
 writer of ballads, elegies, and dithyrambics. One of 
 his ballads, which is given below, is a specimen of the 
 naturalness of his style; as to its application to our 
 own times, the reader may form his own conception. 
 
 A TALE. 
 
 One Sunday, at eventide, 
 
 The old village church beside, 
 An old man stood and slowly tolled the bell, 
 
 When a man, young and unknown, 
 
 With grey dust all his clothes o'erblown, 
 In wonder list'ning to the solemn knell, 
 
 Paused to bashfully inquire: 
 
 " From this village, agśd sire, 
 Who takes thus solemnly his last adieu?" 
 
 " Though the circumstance is sad, 
 
 Since you are curious, lad, 
 Listen, and I'll tell the tale to you. 
 
 " There lived with us, years ago, 
 
 In this village, you must know, 
 A peasant. Wealth he'd honestly acquired; 
 
 His board was amply spread, 
 
 Never lacking salt nor bread; 
 He was happy, much beloved, and admired. 
 
 " In the household three there were: 
 His good wife and himself, sir, 
 
JAŚKO WSKI. 319 
 
 Were two; an only son made up the three, — 
 
 A bright, rosy, cheerful lad, 
 
 He was always finely clad, 
 As wealthy farmers' sons are wont to be. 
 
 " One eve the father came 
 From a house of noble name, 
 And said to his wife, as deeply he sighed: 
 1 My God ! what a change is this 
 From the mansion's stateliness; 
 A peasant's hut is pitiful beside. 
 
 " 'A commoner among those 
 
 Of whom each one something knows, 
 
 Am I here. It does nothing signify. 
 God has given us a son; 
 Why, then, may he not be one, 
 
 I ask you, of the nobles, great and high. 
 
 " ' For two oxen we can sell. — 
 
 He shall go to school, learn well; 
 And who can say what he may be in time? 
 
 He might even get a place 
 
 At the manor, by his grace, 
 Or to a preacher's office he might climb.' 
 
 "And they did accordingly; 
 
 But they erred most terribly, 
 For happiness from farm life may outgrow. 
 
 Learning in itself is good, 
 
 But whoever seeks it should 
 Seek it not from pride, sir. Is that not so? 
 
 " Every year more and more 
 
 Lessened still the farmer's store; 
 The grain went, and the stock its number lacked. 
 
 While the son in learning grew 
 
 His false pride was growing too, 
 And this was for his parents a sad fact. 
 
320 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND. 
 
 " So year after year was gone, 
 
 And no one, as time went on, 
 Saw him in his old home ; and they began 
 
 'Round to whisper, on the sly, 
 
 That he in a city nigh 
 Was playing the role of a gentleman. 
 
 " No priest; on the other side, 
 He was vain and puffed with pride, 
 
 Ashamed that his father's clothes homespun were. 
 God sends on him judgment dire 
 Who regards with scorn his sire. — 
 
 Is't not so? — What's the matter with you, sir? 
 
 " In the meantime, as they say, 
 Through the window and doorway 
 
 Into the cottage did poverty stare; 
 Taking wings, the riches flew, 
 While the old folks older grew, 
 
 And no assistance came from anywhere. 
 
 " Though the old man's fertile field 
 
 In his youth gave ample yield, 
 Through it since had the tares and cockles crept. 
 
 So his need was often great, 
 
 And, bewailing the sad fate 
 Of himself and son, oft the poor man wept. 
 
 " Till, unhappy, tired, and worn, 
 
 With affliction overborne, 
 He fell in the field, prostrate, by his plow, — 
 
 He fell, never more to rise; 
 
 There were none to close his eyes ; — 
 Why is this, young man? You are weeping now! 
 
 " But the tale is not yet told. 
 There was left the mother old, — 
 
JAŚKO WSKI. 321 
 
 Yes, she remained, entirely bereft, 
 
 Woe to ev'ry one thus thrown 
 
 On the dreary world alone, 
 And greatest woe when a woman is left. 
 
 " She requested one to write 
 To her son of her sad plight: 
 ' My son, your vain and empty dreams release. 
 Have respect for my gray hair! 
 The estate requires your care; 
 Come, and you will find competence and peace.' 
 
 " Vainly were her prayers consigned, 
 
 'Twas like preaching to the wind! 
 The poor old mother quit her native spot. 
 
 Old and penniless from home 
 
 She departed, thence to roam, 
 A wanderer, 'mong people she knew not. 
 
 " So this morn, at break of day, 
 Dead they found her, as she lay 
 On her native heath, with her home in view. 
 And it is for pity's sake 
 The bells this requiem make. — 
 For God's sake, sir, what is amiss with you? 11 
 
 As the tale closed the young man, 
 
 With expression wild, began, 
 While from his eyes the tears were flowing fast: 
 " The sole murderer am I 
 
 Of my parents; dead they lie 
 As lies my happiness while time shall last. 
 
 " Much I fancied, and I dreamed, — 
 Vain and empty visions beamed ; — 
 But the wind scattered them, and now I see, — 
 Having wakened to the truth, — 
 In the home of my lost youth 
 Utter desolation! Have pity on me! 
 21 
 
322 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND. 
 
 " In this village, on this day, 
 Full amends for all I'll pay, — 
 
 Repent in sackcloth, with ashes on my head! 
 I will eat the humble crust, 
 And will murmur not; 'tis just. — 
 
 Say, but say that my mother is not dead! " 
 
 Falling prostrate on the ground, 
 From the depths of grief profound 
 
 Rained bitter tears from suffering so great. 
 The old man withdrew apace, 
 In his hands he hid his face, 
 
 Saying "Alas! it is too late! too late! " 
 
ZAN. 323 
 
 ZAN. 
 
 Thomas Zan was one of the most exemplary and 
 high-minded young men who attended the University 
 of Wilno, 1820-3. After great political catastrophes 
 there always follows in our literature a review of his- 
 torical elements, social as well as literary. That very 
 thing occurred in the century preceding this and in the 
 first two decades of the present century. People 
 began to reflect upon the past, not only the nearest to 
 them, but also into the more remote periods of their 
 existence as a nation. The result of these reflections 
 was that all over the nation there began to form scien- 
 tific and literary societies. The learned and the littera- 
 teurs commenced establishing small circles, and though 
 they were scattered they worked together in the com- 
 mon cause of enlightenment. Thus, in this modest and 
 quiet manner, little societies were formed in Warsaw, 
 in Russia-Poland, in Lithuania, Ukraine, Podolia, Vol- 
 hynia, and in Lemberg (Galicia), and thus the progress 
 of knowledge spreading throughout the Polish nation 
 gave a great impetus and prestige to these associations. 
 For these there were extraneous causes, such as the 
 general movement in European literature, which about 
 this time, having shaken off the classic robes, began to 
 assume in the writings of several poets and writers 
 altogether a different direction. Another cause of the 
 impending change was the mental movement in the 
 universities. In Germany especially this feeling of 
 enthusiasm was created a few years before in order to 
 incite young men to join the ranks against Napoleon I, 
 and it was then, for the first time in the annals of the 
 
324 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND. 
 
 world, that young men became political factors or ex- 
 ponents. This spirit was brought home from the 
 French wars, and was spread almost over all universi- 
 ties of Europe; hence since that time there grew a sort 
 of self-reliance, independence, and we may say sponta- 
 neous manner and ways which the young men marked 
 out for themselves — a thing which in the preceding 
 ages had never occurred. This being begotten during 
 French wars was continued after their cessation. 
 
 This spirit of self-reliance took hold of the Polish 
 youth also, and was very palpable in the Kingdom of 
 Poland, in Russia-Poland, and formed a powerful bond 
 among the Polish youths in several prominent points. 
 Young men came there to stay at least a year to ac- 
 quire further knowledge, to be examined, and to receive 
 degrees of learning. The most important of these 
 places was the University of Wilno. Here, at the 
 head of all young men, was Thomas Zan, a young man 
 of rare virtues and the noblest qualities of the heart 
 and mind, his pure morals and extraordinary mental 
 capacities, and his eloquence, and withal being very 
 gentle and urbane in his manners, he attached to him- 
 self all the youths; he imparted lessons of wisdom and 
 general light to all around him. In this select circle 
 were established literary labors in almost all branches. 
 Some were studying natural sciences, some philosophy, 
 others again were deeply engaged in historical lore, 
 and those who possessed a talent for poetry composed 
 songs, verses on all subjects, tales, and moral essays. 
 From this famous circle came almost all celebrated 
 Polish authors, and it was from this circle appeared, as 
 it were, the patriarch of our epoch, Adam Mickiewicz. 
 
 In the galaxy of prominently unfolding talent 
 around him Zan perceived especially the extraordinary 
 
ZAN. 825 
 
 poetic genius in Mickiewicz.. An intimate and most 
 affectionate friendship sprang up between them. Be- 
 ing two years older than Adam, Zan, in a most deli- 
 cate and affectionate manner, assumed a careful guid- 
 ance over the future poet, stimulating him all the 
 while by the noblest examples from history, and by his 
 own ideas, reflections and suggestions. These efforts, 
 still further stimulated by a patriotic love of country, 
 burning within the breast of both, had the desired 
 effect, and Mickiewicz's poetic powers burst forth with 
 a resplendent luster. 
 
 Thomas Zan was born on the 21st of December, 
 1796, in the neighborhood of Mińsk. Shortly after the 
 taking of Praga by storm by the Russian army, his 
 father, Charles, then the mayor of Radoszkowice, was 
 compelled to conceal himself, while his mother had to 
 flee her home and seek protection at the homestead of 
 her husband's brother, called Miasota, where she 
 brought Thomas into the world. He was educated at 
 Mińsk and Mołodeczno. After finishing his collegiate 
 education he went, in 1815, to Wilno, where, at the 
 university, he pursued the study of natural sciences, 
 and where in a short time he obtained a degree of 
 master of arts. During a judicial inquiry against cer- 
 tain young men of the University, brought about by 
 Senator Kowosielcow, he was arrested in 1823, impris- 
 oned, and condemned in 1824 to be exiled; the order 
 was executed, and he was sent to Orenburg, in Russia, 
 where he devoted himself to the study of natural sci- 
 ences, and, by the order of Governor Perovski, estab- 
 lished a museum. In 1826, through the influence and 
 protection of Perovski, he obtained a position of libra- 
 rian in the mining corps at St. Petersburg. In the 
 year 1841 he returned to Lithuania, settled in a country 
 
326 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND. 
 
 village called Kochaczyri, in White Russia, and died 
 there the 7th of July, 1855. 
 
 Zan translated into the Polish language Washington 
 Irving' s "Life of Columbus," and published in the 
 Russian language "The Geographical Researches" of 
 travels in the Ural mountains and the steppes of 
 Kirghiz. He also wrote fugitive verses which were 
 published in different periodicals at Wilno. The most 
 noted of Zan's literary compositions is "The Kitten," 
 a tale in two parts. We could get only a few of Zan's 
 "Triolets," part of which Mickiewicz has included in 
 his poem "The Piper." 
 
 TRIOLETS. 
 
 For whom do you wreathe the nuptial wreath 
 
 Of roses, lilies, and thyme? 
 Whose radiant brow shall lie beneath 
 The blossoms wreathed in this nuptial wreath, 
 
 Woven in Love's warm clime? 
 Tears and blushes from them outbreathe. 
 For whom do you weave the nuptial wreath 
 
 Of roses, lilies, and thyme. 
 
 You can only bestow the wreath on one 
 
 Of roses, lilies, and thyme. 
 And what though another's heart be won? 
 You can only bestow the wreath on one, 
 Can only give tears to the heart undone 
 
 That will throb to your marriage chime 
 When the wreath is given to the happier one 
 
 Of roses, lilies, and thyme. 
 
Zan. 327 
 
 Tell me why did I fear 
 
 When my eyes beheld thee first? 
 Why so cowardly appear? 
 
 Tell me why did I fear? 
 No tyrant wert thou, dear, 
 
 Yet I, shrinking, feared the worst. 
 Tell me why did I fear 
 
 When my eyes beheld thee first? 
 
 in. 
 
 We can love but once in life, 
 
 Once only and sincerely; 
 And but once feel Love's sweet strife; 
 
 We can love but once in life. 
 No words with wisdom rife 
 
 Can change the matter; clearly 
 We can love but once in life, 
 
 Once only, and sincerely. 
 
328 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND. 
 
 GASZYŃSKI. 
 
 Constantine Gaszyński has not left any great poems 
 behind him, but in all his effusions there is a soul — 
 and with that he won the hearts of all his readers. 
 The chief quality of his composition is feeling. Of 
 those poetic effusions where he did not imitate anyone, 
 but let his heart take its natural inclination, we can 
 truly say that they are beautiful, and will never cease 
 to appeal to the finest feelings of our nature. Amidst 
 the changes of his life many a song flowed sponta- 
 neously from his heart. Some of his first compositions 
 remind us by their sweetness of Stephen Witwicki, and 
 are noted for their beautiful rhythmical form, "Three 
 Inspirations," "Soldier's Death," "Black Dress," 
 "Death of General Sowiński," and "The National 
 Air," will always reach the national feeling and be 
 repeated by all; indeed, they have already become 
 national songs. Albert Sowiński, and even Chopin, 
 composed airs to them. They coursed throughout the 
 whole nation, and the generation of those days held 
 them as household songs. Who is there among the 
 Poles who does not know "When by the Shores of 
 Your Beloved Land" and "Usque ad finem"? The 
 Polish youth committed them to memory and sung 
 them throughout the realm. 
 
 To the better poems of Gaszyński belong "Idyls of 
 Youth," "Cards and Card-players," "A Satire," 
 "Horse Races," etc. His translations from Beranger 
 and Heine are splendid, and are all distinguished by 
 polished and correct language. Sigismund Krasiński 
 had so high an opinion of Gaszynski's rhythmical 
 
GASZYŃSKI. 329 
 
 knowledge that he would not publish anything before 
 first reading the manuscript to him. Besides those ele- 
 gant poems he also wrote romances, tales and memoirs. 
 After the revolution of 1863 he grasped his pen once 
 more, but only with a feeble hand. He composed, 
 however, several songs. 
 
 Gaszyński was born in 1809 at leziorno, not far from 
 Kadom, and received his education at the Lyceum and 
 the University of Warsaw, and in the company of many 
 distinguished litterateurs often visited the salons of 
 Vincent Krasiński. From the year 1828 to 1830 he 
 edited with Zieńkowicz "A Keview for the Fair Sex." 
 With the outbreak of the revolution of 1831 he joined 
 the national ranks, and was through the whole cam- 
 paign; and after the downfall of the cause, with the 
 rank of first lieutenant, he emigrated with others into 
 foreign countries. The poet's health requiring south- 
 ern climate, he chose Provence as the place of his resi- 
 dence, and settled at Aix, where he passed many years, , 
 leaving the place only to meet his attached friend, the 
 poet Sigismund Krasiński, or to make occasional visits 
 to Italy. 
 
 The museums and the collections of arts at Aix en- 
 gaged most of his time. In 1852 he traveled exten- 
 sively through Italy, and his letters from that country 
 to a friend in Cracow formed a separate volume, which 
 was published at Leipzig in 1853. Speaking the French 
 language as well as the Polish, he, soon after he came 
 to reside at Aix, began to publish his literary labors in 
 the "Gazette du Midi" and u Le Memorial d' Aix," 
 and after a few years became the chief editor of the 
 last named. 
 
 Being broken down in health, and suffering other 
 strokes of ill fortune, he died on the 8th of October, 
 
330 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND. 
 
 1866, surrounded by many of his distinguished Polish 
 friends, as also by the first citizens of Aix, who truly 
 appreciated his genius and had the highest respect for 
 him personally as a high-minded and honorable man. 
 The first collection of his works was published in 
 Paris, 1833, entitled "Songs of a Polish Pilgrim;" 
 "Mr. Desiderius," also in Paris, 1846; "Other Me- 
 moirs," 1847; "A Chat Among the Olden-time Poles," 
 1851; "Idyl of Youth," 1855; " Horse Races at War- 
 saw," Paris, 1856; "Poems," Paris, 1856; "A Collec- 
 tion of Poems pro bono Publico," 1858; "Card-play- 
 ing and Card-players," Paris, 1858; translation of 
 Krasinski's poem into French, "Before Daybreak;" 
 "The Last," and " Resurecturis," Paris, 1862. He is 
 also the author of many works and dissertations writ- 
 ten originally by him in the French language, the most 
 noted of which is "The Monograph," " Les Cabinets 
 de Tableaux Artistiques de la Yille d' Aix." He left in 
 the manuscript ' ' Sigismund Krasiński and My Inter- 
 course with Him," but those interesting memoirs can- 
 not be published until a certain time after his death. 
 
 SHAKSPEARE (A SONNET). 
 
 Thou eagle! who with mind's audacious aim 
 
 Hast touched the stars where none have reached before* 
 
 And left us grand memorials in thy lore, 
 Hast known man's heart, as Phidias knew his frame. 
 Not Dante-like wert thou — he reached for fame, 
 
 And gave his youth thoughts mysteries to explore. 
 Not like Byron, who roved from shore to shore, 
 To rest at last where Grecian stars outflame. 
 Thou stoodst alone, and from the wells of thought, 
 
 As Moses from the rock set waters free 
 
 Whose currents flow into eternity, 
 
GASZYŃSKI. 331 
 
 In thine own heart gigantic voices wrought 
 Echoes to reach with most harmonious note 
 The wondering ear of ages far remote. 
 
 "O' 
 
 WHEN BY THE SHORES OF YOUR BELOVED LAND. 
 
 (Gdy na wybrzeżach twoiej Ojczyzny.) 
 
 When by the shores of your beloved land 
 
 You chance to see a shattered vessel fill, 
 
 Wrecked by the pilot's lack of judging skill — 
 Through shallow waters driven at his command — 
 
 Give it, oh ! give it at least a tear, 
 
 For thus is hapless Poland imaged here. 
 
 If you should chance upon an orphan child, 
 
 Alike of home and mother's love bereft, 
 
 Who, mourning in a foreign land, is left 
 To wait the hope's return that once beguiled, 
 
 Look in his tearful face, and you will see 
 
 Of Poland's sons a hapless refugee. 
 
 And if your glance should ever chance to rest 
 On some high mountain of volcanic fire 
 Whose flames through smoke and lava floods aspire, 
 
 Sent up from heat eternal in its breast, 
 
 Think then, 'Tis thus the ardent flames upstart 
 From love of country in the Polish heart. 
 
 And should your thoughts to other countries wend, 
 
 And find a people that are glad and free, 
 
 A land of plenty and fertility 
 O'er which no bloody scepter shall extend, 
 
 O ! raise your hands and supplicate in prayer 
 
 That Poland too such happiness may share! 
 
332 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND. 
 
 THE YOUNG WARRIOR AND THE SWALLOW. 
 
 A gallant } 7 oung warrior in far foreign land, 
 
 By strangers surrounded, misfortune oppressed, 
 Unable his sad, bitter thoughts to command 
 
 Of his country so dear, he by sad fate distressed, 
 Beheld from the West a wee swallow flying, 
 
 And said, with expression of great pain and care: 
 You surely flew over where Poland is lying — 
 
 What message or news do you bring me from there? 
 
 Perhaps it so happened you rested a spell, 
 
 And built 'neath the eaves of my cottage your nest, 
 Near by where the waters of Pilica fell ; 
 
 Where groves are sweet and vales full of rest — 
 There where my good mother each day sheddeth tears, 
 
 And fondles the thought of my speedy return 
 With hopes rising high — chased away oft by fears. 
 
 What news from my mother so dear can I learn? 
 
 Perhaps, too, you rested on Vistula's shore, 
 
 Where my lonely heart ever calls me to fly; 
 Where happiest bliss I first gathered in store, 
 
 And heaven I beheld in a sweet angel's eye. 
 Ah ! does my beloved one think of me ever, 
 
 When the winds gently from the Easter-land come? 
 Does she send me her longing sighs ! Alas ! never ! 
 
 What news do you bring me from my beloved one? 
 
 And my comrades, alas! who with me did go 
 
 To fight for our freedom in same rank and file 
 At the bayonet's point — do they press to the foe? 
 
 And I here, alas! lying idle the while. 
 Are they living? or who of my friends was it said 
 
 Are folded away in the cold, cruel tomb? 
 It may be, perchance, all are perished and dead. 
 
 What news can you bring me of friends from my home? 
 
GASZYŃSKI. 333 
 
 Perhaps 'midst my household with voice of command 
 
 The cruel foe rules my dear kindred to-night, 
 While fond mother's weeping and prayers they withstand, 
 
 For savage hearts now — not a feeling of right. 
 Here I change me to joy — from joy back to pain, 
 
 When stories so varied, uncertain I hear. 
 0, swallow! pray tell of my country again. 
 
 What news do you bring me of Poland so dear? 
 
 ENVY. 
 
 A refugee within a stranger land, 
 
 I marked, while mingling with the proud and grand, 
 
 The rare profusion in their homes displayed; 
 I saw the riches which surrounded them, 
 But envied not this wealth of gold and gem — 
 
 It was far other wealth for which I prayed. 
 
 I have known those who with a thrilling word 
 
 Could sway the thousand answering hearts that stirred. 
 
 Crowds knelt before them, moved to joy or bliss, . 
 Though such may be a mighty power to wield, 
 My mind aspired not to so wide a field. 
 
 I did not crave the glory like to this. 
 
 I knew two lovers once whose pulses beat 
 To one harmonious tone of love complete; 
 
 Whose blended lives a flower-like fragrance wrought. 
 Yet though I lived and moved through crowds alone, 
 I envied not the joy they made their own. 
 
 It was another type of love I sought. 
 
 Once o'er the sea a sailor boy returned 
 From a long voyage, while his bosom yearned 
 
 For kindred welcome, and his eyes grew dim; 
 When 'mid the throng appeared his mother's face, 
 And tears were mingled in a fond embrace. 
 
 Ah! then it was I felt — I envied him! 
 
334 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND. 
 
 BOGUSŁAWSKI. 
 
 The subject of this short biographical sketch was 
 the son of a very distinguished dramatic writer of that 
 name, and was born in 1805. As a writer he possesses 
 great talent in the delineation of comedy, and it places 
 him in the foremost ranks of dramatic authors. He 
 served in the Polish army, and since 1833 has become 
 a successful dramatic artist. 
 
 His comedies were published in three volumes at 
 Warsaw in 1854, entitled "Original Comedies." Among 
 the most noted of these are " My Relations," " Craco- 
 vians and Mountaineers," "The Lioness of Warsaw," 
 and "She Hates Him." All these comedies were re- 
 ceived with great applause. We give one of his lyrics. 
 
 SHE ONLY LAUGHED. 
 
 Once a little girl and a little boy 
 
 Played gaily together on the same lawn, 
 They sang the same song in their childish joy, — 
 
 John with Halina, Halina with John. 
 
 Johnny plucked tryony red, to entwine 
 
 Mid her bright golden hair with boyish craft, 
 
 And when back from the well they saw it shine, 
 
 She and Johnny laughed, — she and Johnny laughed. 
 
 In harvest time, so encouraged was he, 
 
 Like flashes of lightning his sickle fell, 
 When he was with her it was plain to see, 
 
 Though the sweat ran down, he could work right well. 
 
 To the church together they used to go 
 
 On each Sunday and every holiday; 
 Halina looked merrily to and fro, 
 
 But Johnny looked into her eyes alway. 
 
BOGUSŁAWSKI. 335 
 
 When service was done and on coming out, 
 The boys and girls and the people would say: 
 
 "A very nice pair they will make, no doubt/' 
 Halina, of course, laughed such thoughts away. 
 
 Johnny grew to a lad as years rolled by, 
 
 True hearted and handsome, with active brain; 
 
 The maidens looked after him with a sigh, 
 But 'twas all in vain, — it was all in vain. 
 
 For Halina rivaled a rose's grace, 
 
 With cheeks red and blooming and almost daft; 
 Johnny, half trembling, looked into her face, 
 
 But she only laughed, — but she only laughed. 
 
 No longer he sang at night and at morn, 
 
 Nor decked her with flowers as when they played; 
 
 He was sad at his work, he felt forlorn, 
 
 For he loved the maid, — for he loved the maid. 
 
 Once he said for her sake, without a fear, 
 He would plunge in the fire if she willed so; 
 
 His language was heartfelt and most sincere, 
 
 But she laughed at his words, — laughed at his woe. 
 
 Then the poor boy covered his face from sight, 
 
 And bitterly wept in his wretchedness; 
 His eye became dim, and his face grew white, 
 
 So deep was his suffering and distress. 
 
 He faded as withers the grass in fall, 
 
 As flowers, when touched by the frost, decay; 
 
 He bade an eternal farewell to all, 
 
 And passed from sorrow and grief away. 
 
 On Johnny's coffin, when three days had passed, 
 
 A handful of earth Halina spread; 
 In the evening her tears of grief fell fast, 
 
 But she laughed again when the night had fled. 
 
336 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND. 
 
 LENARTOWICZ. 
 
 Theophilus Lenartowicz was the first who followed 
 the footsteps of Julius Słowacki. In him we see the 
 songs and the feelings of the Polish people majestic- 
 ally raised heavenward; and when he proclaimed that 
 love, prayer and labor were the three shining stars 
 guiding the christian and national life, his honest voice 
 was heard, and its beautiful and truthful sounds were 
 received with unanimous acknowledgment by the whole 
 Polish nation. Lenartowicz has in him something so 
 rural and home-like that it makes it a pleasant task to 
 read his writings. Most of his poetry has so much 
 music and harmony in it that he could be compared 
 with Bohdan Zaleski, the great favorite of the Poles. 
 
 Lenartowicz resembles in his song the whole peo- 
 ple, — he is simple, quiet, and deep. In his humble 
 cottage is contained his whole heaven and his earth. 
 He knows nothing of the artificial bounds of societary 
 intercourse, which often attract the learned and re- 
 fined. With him God is everywhere; hence his heaven 
 is everywhere. Heaven to him is as dear as the earth 
 on which he sojourns, only it is higher and more per- 
 fect. To him the earth without heaven would be an 
 unintelligible problem; he could not understand heaven 
 without the earth. His heaven is earthly, and he con- 
 siders the earth as a living image, a probationary place, 
 and an ante-chamber of heaven. Among all the Po- 
 lish poets Lenartowicz is the poet of the future. He 
 is the lover of the new era just exactly as are the peo- 
 ple for whom he sings. The kingdom of God — which 
 according to the prediction of seers and bards is yet 
 
LENARTOWICZ. 337 
 
 to come — which Krasiński contemplates with a reflex 
 glass and Pol expects to reach by the sword, while 
 Słowacki endeavors to dream it out by the process of 
 imagination, Lenartowicz sees with his own naked eye 
 of intuition. 
 
 The Polish nation, prostrated by fearful vicissitudes 
 of fortune, — their energies benumbed by so many 
 bloody catastrophes, — were glad to listen to his quiet 
 muse, and if occasionally it lulled them to sleep, it 
 was all the more welcome on that account. These 
 beautiful fugitive verses, appearing now and then in 
 newspapers and periodicals of the day, were like the 
 gentle breezes wafting their fragrance and cooling the 
 feverish brow of the people. There is much feeling 
 in them, much purity and originality. This originality 
 some may think monotonous, but it is like the flowers 
 of the prairie, growing separate and apart and scat- 
 tered over a great expanse, when made into a single 
 bunch apparently lose their brightness; but although 
 the theme is changed, whether the strings are tuned 
 higher or lower they always emit the same pleasant 
 tones. 
 
 Lenartowicz was born in 1822 in Warsaw. After 
 finishing his education he entered a law office as a 
 student. In 1837 he became a pleader in the highest 
 courts, and three years after was named a chancellor. 
 In 1848 he was offered the office of referee in the Na- 
 tional Commission of Justice, but would not accept it, 
 and in consequence of the events which then transpired 
 left Poland for foreign countries. During several years 
 following he alternately resided at Cracow, Breslau, 
 and Posen. Having in 1851 obtained a passport he 
 went to Paris, and from there to Fontainebleau, and 
 still later to Kome. Here his health seemed to fail, 
 22 
 
338 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND. 
 
 hence he removed to Florence, where he married the 
 celebrated artiste of painting, Sophie Szymanowska, 
 and where he probably resides at the present time. 
 
 Among the chief literary productions of Lenarto- 
 wicz are " The Polish Land in Portraitures," published 
 in Cracow, 1848, and in Posen, 1850; "The Enchant- 
 ment" and "The Blessed," Posen, 1855; "New Little 
 Lyre," Warsaw, 1859; "Saint Sophia," Posen, 1857; 
 "Poems," in two volumes, Posen, 1863. 
 
 EVER THE SAME. 
 
 With the snow disappearing the ice melts away, 
 
 And the rivers their flowing begin unaware, 
 And the swallows that sing in the sun's cheery ray 
 
 Rise flock after flock in the air. 
 They whirl on their pinions, rise high, and dive low 
 
 O'er a stream, crystal clear, where the pebbles gleam white, 
 Then around and around in a circle they go, 
 
 More swiftly each time in their flight. 
 
 On the green of the grass overspreading the shore 
 
 Graze the cows and the sheep, clad in snowy white fleece; 
 On his fife plays the shepherd; — the sun rays explore 
 
 Earth's bosom and give her increase. 
 The gentle winds murmur and sweep through the grass, 
 
 Sway the boughs of the trees in their frolicsome play, 
 Grow stiller as on to the forest they pass, 
 
 And then in its depths die away. 
 
 The little birds'pause in their hymns for awhile, 
 Then the church bell begins its slow toll solemnly 
 
 For the prayer whose faint murmur is heard in the aisle. 
 Then ceases the bell, and the bee 
 
 Begins its low hum on the blossoming green, 
 
 To and fro 'mid the flowers on its golden wing borne, 
 
LENARTOWICZ. 339 
 
 While the little girl's song rises trembling between. — 
 
 O my God! in the spring's fresh morn 
 How graciously all things Thy hand doth adorn! 
 
 In the shade of an old linden tree I recline, 
 
 That is scarcely beginning to burgeon and shoot; 
 
 I list, as he flits through the boughs of the pine, 
 How the cuckoo is cooing his suit. 
 
 cuckoo! O cuckoo! Of years that remain 
 How many are there you shall number for me? 
 
 When, O bird! — my dear bird of the prophet-like strain, — 
 
 Will the end of this counting be? 
 It is twelve already, if rightly I heard; 
 You have counted too many for me, my bird ! * 
 
 Low each bough of the apple and pear tree drops; 
 
 All too heavily laden with fruit are they; 
 And over the meadow the girls bring the props 
 
 To grandpa, who whittles away. 
 
 1 watch as he gives them a welcoming smile; 
 
 'Tis a picture to treasure on memory's page. 
 How happy I feel, though the tears start the while; — 
 God! give me such happy old age! 
 
 O'er the fields hung with mist see the shadows increase; 
 
 The day's labor ends as the sun westers low; 
 No sound greets the ear save the cackling of geese, 
 
 No sight save the white fences show. 
 Now and then the slow wheel of a wagon is heard; 
 
 From some creature estrayed comes a sound now and then, 
 Or a creak from the well when the old crane is stirred, 
 
 And then falls the silence again. 
 
 * There is a remarkable superstition in some parts of Poland in 
 regard to this bird, and it has its influence with almost every rank 
 in society ; namely, when it makes its appearance in the Spring, 
 each one listens, the first time they hear it, with rapt attention, be- 
 lieving that the number of times it utters the word "cuckoo" indi- 
 cates the number of years they are to live. 
 
340 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND. 
 
 In the garden-patch brother is hoeing around, 
 
 Grandpa whittles and whittles, his back to a tree; 
 Two sisters are spreading the flax on the ground, 
 
 And chanticleer crows cheerily. 
 When 'tis cloudy without we are happy within; 
 
 Our roof is secure when the tempest makes strife; 
 And sweet is the bread that through labor we win 
 
 For father, for children, and wife. 
 
 There's pleasure in all things surrounding me here; 
 
 My country, my people, are precious to me. 
 In the home of the farmer dwells sunshine and cheer, 
 
 And a bird that sings constantly. 
 Where a wife spins and sings to the wheel's drowsy tune, 
 
 Where the rich soil yields us a bountiful crop, 
 Where the star bathes its ray in the well, and the moon 
 
 Rises up o'er the forest top. 
 
 Is there pleasanter looks than our neighbors can give? 
 
 Water purer than that which wells freshly from earth? 
 Aught more sweet than in memory of kindred to live, 
 
 More dear than the land of our birth? 
 And what better gift than a mind of content? 
 
 A heart open, — honest; — all else is above. 
 What more sad than the days of our youth, lost and spent? 
 
 What more holy than labor and love? 
 
 This world is made up of the good and the ill, — 
 
 Of all sorts of people, with natures diverse, 
 And they each go their ways, and they each work their will 
 
 As maybe, — for better or worse. 
 I spend the spare time with my children and song, 
 
 With father and grandsire, — a life free from blame; 
 And the days they pass smoothly, if slowly, along, — 
 
 Pass brightly, — though ever the same. 
 
DEOTYMA. 
 
 teł 
 
DEOTYMA. 343 
 
 DEOTYMA. 
 
 (Hedwige Łuszczewska.)* 
 
 Hedwige Łuszczewska (Deotyma) is known in the 
 Polish literature as a lady of extraordinary poetic 
 talent; she is in reality a wonderfully gifted improvvi- 
 satrice and rhajjsodist; hence she must be considered 
 as an uncommon phenomenon of our age. She is so 
 gifted that she can apparently, with scarcely an effort, 
 incarnate an idea into a living being, — not a being that 
 throbs, quivers, and palpitates, — but she can embellish 
 it with such an illusive language that it seems so. Her 
 lyrism is not of a slender and nauseous kind, but a 
 quiet and yet sublime comprehension of the subject, 
 united with bright imagery and loftiness. The lyric 
 art of our poetess consists not only of the characteris- 
 tics of epic poetry, but also possesses a finished dramatic 
 turn. The most admired improvisations of Deotyma 
 are ' ' Spring, " ' ' Sculpture, " ' ' Stones, " < ' Birds, " 
 " Painting," and "Flowers"; perhaps the best of all 
 is "The Highest Love." . Deotyma feels, perhaps, 
 involuntarily an inclination to the dramatic Muse, as 
 is plainly shown in her fantastic creations: "The Mys- 
 tery of Fruits," "Tamira," and "Stanislas Lubom- 
 irski," of which it can be remarked that aside from 
 some forms and turns resembling the monologues of 
 Goethe's " Faust," there is not much of dramatic art, 
 and there is an uncertainty whether Deotyma' s genius 
 is thus adapted. From these dramatic specimens she 
 went into epopee as " Poland in Song," and " Poetry." 
 
 * Pronounce Heel vi g Loosh-tchev-skah. 
 
344 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND. 
 
 Deotyma' s improvisations are written mostly under the 
 influences of occurring circumstances; but the multi- 
 tude of images introduced in them makes one feel 
 restive under the pressure, and at other times one gets 
 weary of the frequent introduction of philosophical 
 views, which oftentimes are but cloudy mysticisms. 
 Some of her allegorical compositions are wrought up 
 in a highly poetic and finished style ; such are ' ' The 
 Mysteries of Fruits," " Pilgrim," " May Visions, " 
 "Storm in the Desert," "Wreaths," "A Dream," 
 u The Power of Song," " The Inspiration," and others; 
 perhaps the finest and the most finished of all is ' ' The 
 Prayer." The chief idea of Deotyma' s composition is 
 of a religious cast, — an anticipation that society can be 
 regenerated only by faith. 
 
 Deotyma always surrounds herself with phantasm; 
 it is her strongest forte, and yet the weakest. Her 
 notions of society, her ideas of history, and the 
 unfolding of human spirit in form and action, are 
 always rosy, well meant, and possess unaffected sim- 
 plicity. They are like the smiles of a child, unsuit- 
 able to well-wrought ideas, and not consonant with 
 the life of reality; but after all one cannot but admire 
 her many precious gems of genius, which shecl a great 
 luster upon the national literature. 
 
 Deotyma was born before 1840, at Warsaw. She 
 is the daughter of Wacław Łuszczewski, counsellor of 
 state, and the director of the commercial and industrial 
 department. Her first education was under the super- 
 vision of Dominick Schultz, and Anton Waga, the 
 celebrated Polish naturalist. She traveled in Ger- 
 many and other countries, and made an excursion into 
 the Carpathian Mountains. Descriptions of her trav- 
 els were published in "The Warsaw Gazette," and 
 
DEOTYMA. 
 
 345 
 
 1 ' The Illustrated Weekly. " In 1865 she returned with 
 her father from the far-off regions of Kussia to her 
 native place. 
 
 Her poetry was published in Warsaw in 1854, 1856, 
 1859 and 1860. 
 
 SYMPHONY OF LIFE. 
 
 A LYRIC SCENE. 
 
 Written by Deotyma on the One Hundredth Anniversary of 
 
 BEETHOVEN'S BIRTH; 
 
 Performed at Warsaw on the 17th day of December, 1870* 
 
 Allegro con brio. Op. 67. 
 ^1^_ _ ^ 
 
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 * The following poem was written on the one hundredth anni- 
 versary of Beethoven's birth, which was celebrated with great solem- 
 nity in the city of Warsaw on the 17th of December, 1870. In this 
 beautiful lyric scene Królikowski played Beethoven, and Madam 
 Palinska represented the genius of Music. The newspapers of those 
 days write about the event as follows : " We will not even attempt 
 to give a correct account of the charms of the Polish verse, sublim- 
 ity of ideas and unassumed inspiration. Our opinion is, however, 
 that the performance was the most creditable representation of hom- 
 age to the memory of Beethoven ever given in our city. 
 
 From Beethoven's dialogue his desire is plainly shown to write 
 a Symphony of Life. While he sits down to the composition of his 
 work an unseen orchestra plays the first part of the symphony. 
 After that is finished another dialogue takes place before "Adagio," 
 and a third one before "Scherzo," with a finale. In this way the 
 idea of the composer, represented by scenery and poetical elucida- 
 tion, exerted a magic influence on the audience. No one remem- 
 
346 POETS AND POETKY OF POLAND. 
 
 A portico. Back in the distance a grove. Toward one side 
 a column, on which stands Beethoven's bust. In the 
 middle a small table, having on one side the column, and 
 on the other a chair. On the chair sits Beethoven, lean- 
 ing on the table, with his face covered by his hands. On 
 the table before him there is inkstand and pen and musical 
 note-paper. From the column side Music, in a classic 
 dress, with a laurel branch in her hands, approaches 
 Beethoven, and lays her hand on his shoulder. 
 
 Music. 
 
 Beethoven, awake! I would address thy soul. 
 
 Beethoven. 
 I am not sleeping. 
 
 Music. 
 
 Not sleeping? Commonly 
 Life seems one half a dream to be — 
 Until Inspiration with a high control 
 Awakens the soul to real life, pure and free. 
 
 Beethoven (raising his head). 
 
 Under the fondling of that heavenly hand 
 I feel . . . my spirit wakes from mists of sleep — 
 Oh, my dream 'mid people fearful was and deep! 
 I thank thee, Music, for thy influence bland; 
 It has awakened me. O seraph, stay! 
 Come, my own beloved, and- my soul possess, 
 I will follow thee even into endlessness. 
 I am forever thine! 
 
 bers such perfect stillness and such emotion during any concert 
 before. 
 
 One of the reportorial corps questioned the poetess why the 
 genius of Music did not crown Beethoven himself, but only his bust? 
 The poetess replied, in the words of Naruszewicz, the poet : 
 "True greatness is never crowned with glory during this life, 
 The crown is put on after they are gone — upon their monuments." 
 
DEOTYMA. 347 
 
 Music. 
 
 All words that thou dost say 
 Music hears and changes into melodies — 
 As genius loves genius with spontaneous glow 
 Thus I love thee! I take thy soul and show 
 To thee Creation's marvelous mysteries — 
 For thee I came down from regions of the sun 
 Into this darkness. 
 Come with thy beloved into infinity. 
 What is it thy heart would solve to day? tell me, 
 For Music no secrets hath from thee — not one ! 
 
 Beethoven. 
 
 All to me is happiness when thou art near — 
 But amid the people tones discordant sound, 
 The stars revolve harmoniously around, 
 But a chaos still does human life appear. 
 Hearts are sobbing, and desolate spirits moan. 
 The songs of the world are fully known to me, 
 And thus sadly ask I why should Harmony 
 Ev'ry where exist, save in man's life alone? 
 
 Music. 
 
 Ah, thou'rt wrong! There's harmony thou must hear, 
 Voices of more worlds than one to comprehend — 
 Life is a symphony loud that rises clear — 
 Where voices of earth, of hell and heaven blend. 
 
 Beethoven {unfolding a roll of paper). 
 
 Stay. I would write thy utterances — that when 
 I shall return to the world half-dreaming still 
 I may show thy revelations unto men — 
 Awakening those whose souls thy words can thrill. 
 {A moment's silence.) 
 
348 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND. 
 
 Music. 
 
 Hark! some one comes thro 1 darkness and silence drear . . . 
 It pauses now, say you — what hear you? 
 
 Beethoven. 
 
 I hear — 
 Three strokes . . . deep are they and very ominous; 
 The bravest must tremble . . . when that sound is heard. 
 
 Music. 
 
 Even the spirits with sudden dread are stirred, 
 Destiny knocks at the gates to Heaven thus. 
 
 Beethoven. 
 What does it wish? 
 
 Music. 
 
 With all earth's voice, in solemn tone 
 It calls: " Young soul! it is thy turn, come thou away." 
 At that sound (to none save the happy known) 
 The heavens are disturbed with subtle sway. 
 The powers of Paradise as guests regret 
 The interruption of the feast whisp'ring low 
 " Who will then open to him?" but none will go, 
 Although Destiny knocks loud and louder yet. 
 But here look ! a radiant young soul alone 
 By the firm voice of its own destiny led — 
 Suddenly rises aglow with fire of dread — 
 And runs to the door. . . . 
 
 Beethoven. 
 The portals wide are thrown! 
 
 Music. 
 
 The guest goes in. " 'Neath that mysterious cloak 
 What bearest thou — perdition's or glory's key?" 
 
DEOTYMA 349 
 
 'Twas thus the soul in trembling accents spoke. 
 
 He answered: "What wouldst thou choose — oh, come 
 
 with me 
 On a journey toward Fame's beckoning light; 
 To a rehearsal on the planet — come to-night. 1 ' 
 With feeling of regret the heavenly choir yearn, 
 Spirits at the portal hold her and repeat 
 "Oh, as thou leavest us — say wilt thou return — 
 Wilt ever return? 1 ' 
 
 Beethoven. 
 
 Amid the voices sweet 
 I distinguish one . . . 'tis innocent as yet — 
 Pure young soul, with sad complaint I hear it dwell 
 With weeping on the farewell strophes — her farewell 
 To Heaven as though she and death had met! 
 
 Music. 
 
 Because he who is born for one world, ever dies 
 For another, with tears and sighs. 
 
 {Long silence.) 
 
 Beethoven. 
 
 Oh, winged sweetheart! perchance that soul no more 
 Was young? Perchance from Eternity's dim spheres 
 Too many times that road she had traveled o'er, 
 Or it may be sad forebodings caused those fears? 
 Such forebodings like sad memories seem to be. 
 
 Music. 
 
 Perhaps you guess aright. 
 
 {Silence.) 
 
 But list! life does not wait: 
 The soul still with fond complaint against its fate 
 Sinks in the embraces of its Destiny. 
 He grasps and covers it with its mantle fold, 
 
350 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND. 
 
 Bears it 'mid praise and worship from Paradise — 
 Behold! even worlds now from their thrones arise 
 By admiration and respect controlled! 
 
 Beethoven. 
 
 Yes! let them rise, and thou, Destiny, stern guide, 
 Be humble. The soul going where trials wait 
 Is greater than the sun — than cherubims more great. 
 Spectators these — the soul strives in arena wild. 
 (Long silence.) 
 
 Music. 
 
 The soul through misty abysses falls to earth from the skies, 
 Drowned by night and the silence far and nigh ; 
 
 Then she slowly forgets by whose desire she downward flies — 
 From whence she came, — whither she goes, — and why. 
 
 Awake, soul! thy world is near; — 'tis rock high and steep, 
 Thrown out upon a lake that has no strand, 
 
 And at Life's portals angel guards their faithful vigils keep, 
 And they take her from Destiny's stern hand. 
 
 Two exiles from heaven, — two beloved of angels are they; 
 
 'Tis hard to choose between them: — one so fair, 
 The sunny love, — and the other eternal pain . . . Alway 
 
 When they go they go together ev'rywhere. 
 
 Though the young soul knows them not by sight, yet it comes 
 to lie 
 And dream upon their bosoms, and the Muses sad 
 Bring them into this dark world; — look! how bitter and yet 
 how glad; 
 They to waken her with fiery kisses try. 
 
 Advance stripling into life! then he took at this decree 
 The trav'ling staff like pilgrim 'neath a sky 
 
DEOTYMA. 351 
 
 Dim with the twilight, gazed abashed, saying What troubles 
 me? 
 Vainly seeking through mem'ry for reply. 
 
 Where are these lights without shadows, the truth that no 
 change knows? 
 
 And where the lovely kindred spirits, to whom 
 He bade a sad farewell? here the mist profounder grows; 
 
 Yet still amidst the earth's intensest gloom. 
 
 Beethoven (ivith enthusiasm). 
 
 He will preserve his hope that the light lives somewhere still, 
 
 And that he remembers her as in a dream ; 
 Although outwardly bedimmed, she exists in him, and will, 
 
 'Neath the guise of conscience, though accursed she may 
 seem. 
 
 Music. 
 
 He prepares for life's battle, armed with hope, against all fears, 
 
 As for a dance with joy imagining 
 Works of might for the world, arranging plans for coming 
 
 years ; 
 But years cunningly disappear. Scarce a young genius shows 
 Promise of bloom when time claims it for its own; 
 Scarcely has the soul accomplished aught when weary grown 
 To youth's Allegro sings it the sad close. 
 
 Beethoven. 
 
 And thou, too, art weary ; — take a rest, bend down thy brow. 
 My oracle's words shall be in notes enchanted now. 
 
 {Here Music sits down on the steps of the column and begins 
 to entwine a wreath from laurel leaves. During this time 
 the orchestra, hidden in the grove, plays " Allegro,'' from 
 Beethoven's Symphony. After the " Allegro" is finished 
 Beethoven lays down his pen; — then Music rises.) 
 
352 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND. 
 
 Music. 
 
 Now the soul for the first time sits to rest beside the way, 
 Begins to look around . . . but by sadness is oppressed; 
 Although nothing seems to pain her, what tortures still her 
 
 breast? 
 
 Beethoven. 
 
 Thought! 
 
 Music. 
 When she begins to think endlessly her thoughts hold sway; 
 In life's symphony thought plays the Andante with grave 
 
 sound, 
 Looking at the world that is shut closely all around: 
 Seeing causes without effects, confession she seeks, 
 Upon elements, books, mankind, and boldly asks " Why? " 
 And when she has asked once o'er and o'er, the word she 
 
 speaks 
 To ev'ry one and ev'ry where. 
 
 Beethoven. 
 And who will make reply? 
 
 Music. 
 
 The people's answers differ, — so the mystery remains, 
 
 And Nature, who her wonders so willingly explains 
 
 Except to this "Why? "has reply for everything; — 
 
 Then to Destiny the soul turns with its questioning. 
 
 Is Destiny responsive? — will this an answer bring? 
 
 See! she grows a Titian; — so quickly soars the mind,' 
 
 She sends herself ambassador to God from mankind, 
 
 She criticises His laws, is astonished at His sway; — 
 
 But why ever from these laws do all things go astray? — 
 
 What light from her country in her conscience can she find? 
 
 Deepest melancholy envelops her. 
 
 Beethoven. 
 So soon. 
 
DEOTYMA. 353 
 
 Music. 
 
 Now is the dark hour. She is in doubt amid her gloom 
 As to the aims of life she has cherished long and well ; 
 E'en dreams of eternal light these doubts dispel. 
 
 Ah! she keeps silence and even ceases asking "Why? 1 ' 
 
 (Music sits down again on the steps of the column and con- 
 tinues wreathing the laurel crown.) 
 
 Beethoven. 
 
 I will take this moment while she is speaking not 
 To enchant in notes the mystery of human thought. 
 
 (He grasps the pen and writes. During that time the orchestra 
 is performing the " Andante" of the Symphony. With the 
 finishing of the " Andante " Beethoven also stops writings) 
 
 Beethoven (laying down his pen). 
 
 Here is the " Andante," bitterly solemn in truth, 
 I am as a player who counts an Enchantment's cost. While 
 I am listening to it I cannot in sooth 
 Forbear indulging in a bitter smile. 
 
 Music (rising). 
 
 You are not alone who thus smiles. Nay! 
 Every one will thus smile who questions truth too near, 
 
 Ev'ry thinker bears with him a sign of sneer; 
 As an interrogation mark it stands for aye! 
 
 (After a while.) 
 
 Terrible soul's voice with irony rife; 
 
 Her pois'nous tears e'en through a stone will go; 
 In the grand symphony of life 
 
 She strikes the frantic Scherzo. 
 23 
 
354 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND. 
 
 Beethoven (grasps the pen). 
 
 Wait ... I will write Scherzo. The serpents beneath my 
 pen 
 Already with venom hiss. . . . 
 
 Music. 
 
 Hold on a moment then, 
 
 In the soul open to the great 
 And pure light of inspiration this sneering may flit 
 
 With simple innocence, but it 
 Should ne'er be placed on a page separate. 
 
 (Beethoven pushes his pen and paper aside. A short silence.) 
 
 Music (continues). 
 
 Now the pilgrim of life behold! 
 
 Having thrown the bitter smile from his heart 
 He rose, by longing thought controlled, 
 
 And withdrew into Mystery's realms apart. 
 He was unconscious while his thought did progress, 
 
 Powers unknown before within him woke to life; — 
 Of life's problems from this day he will think less, 
 
 And he will live better, and more free from strife. 
 (With growing warmth.) 
 
 Man wonders with how many changes fraught 
 Life seems, when on it his full vision brought. 
 
 He touches it. The world is different far! 
 The rock of grief is harder than the thought, 
 
 But its flowers of pleasure more fragrant are. 
 The brave soul raised its head and looked around 
 
 As 'twere her element herself she bore. 
 Symphony! the brassy trumpet sound; — 
 
 Life's a battle evermore. 
 See the man of destiny; his touch the keys obey; 
 He bears the standard away! 
 
DEOTYMA. 355 
 
 Beethoven (sadly). 
 
 And sometimes loses standards. 
 
 Music {with a smile). 
 
 All the suns with their trembling rays, 
 
 Every angel with a beating heart, 
 From the skies with interest lean and gaze 
 On man in life's struggle bearing a part. 
 (Draivs back as if in fear.) 
 It is a dreadful sight! ... Oh! what's doing there? 
 
 The angels are pale, . . . the suns no more are bright. . . . 
 Too many temptations! — the spirit in despair. . . . 
 Man, before half fallen, . . . now is fallen quite ! 
 Do you hear his moanings? 
 
 Beethoven (with warmth). 
 
 God! wilt Thou 
 Arrest the fate that overwhelms him in this hour? 
 Will no hand rise to his assistance now? 
 (Reproachfully.) 
 Lives there for him no saving power? 
 
 Music (raising her hand). 
 
 Only one power can help him to rise, 
 
 Of which hell is jealous. Above 
 A vision bright appears from out the skies; — 
 
 That vision is beauteous Love! 
 
 Beethoven (gets up and raises his hand). 
 
 Above all his misfortunes now is he! 
 That which brought him to the world and nursed him too 
 Resurrects him now. In life's symphony, — 'tis true, — 
 
 Love is a hymn of victory ! 
 O Love! thou mother of faith! 'Tis through thee 
 
356 POETS AND POETEY OF POLAND. 
 
 Man agrees with truths of eternal birth; 
 He who but once loved truly on this earth 
 From doubt of Heaven's joy is free. 
 
 (He becomes thoughtful, sits down slowly, and leans his head 
 on his hands. After a short interval of silence he raises his 
 head, as if awakened from a dream.) 
 
 Beethoven (continues). 
 And the pain? 
 
 Music. 
 
 Pain? It is not needful that a mortal 
 Call for it from Heaven's portal. 
 He will find it here. 
 
 Beethoven. 
 
 Every day it will appear, 
 In every-day tear, in his daily bread, 
 In that which is changing, in that which is dead; 
 But it is most fearful with conscience in its face. 
 (Long silence.) 
 
 Music. 
 
 Up to this time man everything has tried, 
 But since in Love sublime harmony he perceived 
 He ends all there. His symphony's run achieved 
 
 Great Finale and is glorified! 
 
 In life it is long and difficult to bear, 
 But the end receives its reward ev'rywhere. 
 The longer the years the stiller are they grown, 
 And remembrances speak in the loudest tone. 
 
 Some weep bitter tears, that bitter tears succeed; 
 
 Others in prayer watch beside the dear ones' tomb. 
 The days flit away, . . . time flies with the greatest speed, 
 
 And the soul hastes on to the sfaol of its doom. 
 
DEOTYMA. 357 
 
 It clasps it, and with mantle o'er it spread 
 It raises it by funeral bells' deep tones, 
 And while on its way worlds rise from their thrones 
 
 With emotions of expectation and dread. 
 
 Then Destiny before the heavenly gates 
 Halted. Now it knocks, but not alone it waits. 
 This time it brings with its return a soul. 
 
 Beethoven. 
 
 Happy spirits! Will you not open the door? 
 Then, my beloved one, tell me. 
 
 Music. 
 
 No. As to this 
 I am silent. This laurel for witness I take. 
 I promised to reveal life by song, but more 
 Beyond that is a problem 
 
 That death can break. 
 
 Beethoven {folding his 
 
 I will reveal God's mystery so great! 
 Even if o'er an abyss the spirit stood,^— 
 Even if love and pain followed her. They would 
 
 Of themselves ope the heavenly gate! 
 
 {He grasps the pen and writes. Music sits doivn on the steps 
 of the column and finishes the wreath. During this time 
 the orchestra plays Scherzo and the Finale of the symphony. 
 
 As the last strains of the Finale die away Beethoven throws 
 his pen aside and, weary, hides his face in his hands, and 
 falls into a deep reverie. 
 
 Music arises, and with the laurel wreath, lohich is finished, 
 crowns Beethoven's bust on the column. She looks once 
 more upon Beethoven, and, throwing him a hand-kiss, dis- 
 appears.) 
 
358 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND. 
 
 BERWIŃSKI. 
 
 Richard Vincent Beuwinski was born in Great 
 Poland in 1819; finished his education at the Lyceum 
 of Leszno, and at the Universities of Breslau and Ber- 
 lin. He was for a long time a contributor to several 
 periodicals published in Great Poland, and was himself 
 the editor of a daily journal at Posen. 
 
 In 1845, while traveling toward Galicia, he was ar- 
 rested, and thrown into a political prison at Wisnica, 
 where he was kept for a year, and being given up to 
 Prussia he was again imprisoned at Berlin. In 1847 
 he was released, and in 1848 made a member of the 
 National Committee. In 1852 he was sent to the Diet 
 in Berlin. 
 
 Leaving Polish soil he went to Turkey, and from 
 1856 served as an officer in the Ottoman army, under 
 the command of Sadyk Pasha (Michael Czaykowski). 
 He wrote a work entitled " The Book of Light and 
 Illusions;" "The Book of Life and Death;" "The 
 Last Confession at the Old Church;" "The Tower of 
 the Mice;" "Don Juan of Posen;" "Wawel;" "Cra- 
 cow;" "Duma of a Polish Soldier in the Turkish 
 Army in February, 1863." Part I of his poems was 
 published at Posen, 1844, and Part II at Brussels the 
 same year; also in the "Collective Almanack," 1854, 
 and in "The Friend of the People" at Leszno and 
 Posen. Still another was published at Breslau, 1840. 
 
 He died toward the end of 1879 at Constantinople. 
 Berwinski was a man of high poetic talents, and a true 
 lover of his country. 
 
BERWIŃSKI. 359 
 
 THE EXILE'S SONG. 
 
 Within my mother's orchard wide 
 
 The rose and lily drank the dews, 
 Field poppies and blue-bottles vied 
 . To blend with sweeter flowers their hues. 
 
 The nightingale poured out its song 
 
 In many a sad, harmonious note; 
 The brooklet's murmur all day long 
 
 Through dream and waking seemed to float. 
 
 I wandered here in childhood's hours, 
 
 To me a paradise it seemed; 
 Lightly I ran amid the flowers 
 
 Or on the earth's soft carpet dreamed. 
 
 But now, a homeless refugee 
 
 Of bitter fate, I feel the smart ; 
 Footsore I wander wearily, 
 
 And bleeding is my exiled heart. 
 
 I think how there at home to-day, 
 
 The poppies and the cornflowers bloom; 
 
 Perchance the roses breathe away 
 
 Their sweetness on my mother's tomb. 
 
 Shall I again those blossoms see, 
 
 Or kiss my mother as of yore? 
 A voice prophetic answers me: 
 
 Thou shalt behold thy home no more. 
 
 ON THE LAKE GOPŁO.* 
 
 Amid my native waters deep, 
 From a shattered bark, 
 
 * A large lake in Prussia-Poland, about thirty-five miles long and 
 eleven miles broad, by the cities Strzelno and Kruszwice. 
 
360 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND. 
 
 Among the billows wild I leap 
 Into the distance dark. 
 
 Around, above me, boundless space, 
 
 I swim in distance vast; 
 In all the world I hold no place, 
 
 My thoughts are on the Past. 
 
 Above me moon and stars are bright, 
 
 Here is a somber grave; 
 Dark doubt enshrouds me with its night, 
 
 Corpses are 'neath the wave. 
 
 Where do I swim I ask? Oh, where? 
 
 With pain to earth I bend; 
 A living corpse am I — Despair 
 
 And Hope my bosom rend. 
 
 Where'er I go Hope's falcon goes, 
 Oh, bark swim safe and sure! 
 
 If I must die I would repose 
 In native waters pure. 
 
 In elements of native waves 
 
 Fly my good bark away; 
 Oh, rise, ye corpses, from your graves, 
 
 All in my star's dim ray. 
 
 Eise, and sepulchral fragrance send 
 Through the chill air to me, 
 
 And star above thy glory lend 
 That I some hope may see. 
 
 The star now shines; the corpses fast 
 
 Beneath my feet arise — 
 The corpse majestic of the Past 
 
 Most fearful in my eyes. 
 
BEKWIŃSKI. 361 
 
 He rises, looks, and all around 
 
 Now one by one they stand; 
 Deep saber-cut and bullet-wound, 
 
 And paws of lion's grand. 
 
 Dread shapes and colors strange are these, 
 
 Many a gory spot; 
 The dreadful masks my life-blood freeze — 
 
 Avaunt! I know you not. 
 
 Away from me! for my sad heart 
 
 Is pierc'd with icy pain; 
 Bid all your threat ning looks depart, 
 
 And never come again. 
 
 Take them away, and then to me 
 
 Direct your steps, I plead; 
 Why gaze you sadly, angrily, 
 
 Nor my entreaties heed? 
 
 Lions of life eternal — vain 
 
 I call on you to go. 
 From me what do you wish to gain? 
 
 Speak quick ! for I would know. 
 
 Give back our household gods once more — 
 
 The countless hosts that knew 
 Our might and strength in days of yore — 
 
 'Tis this we ask of you. 
 
 They bent to us and prayed for us, 
 
 O horror! can it be? 
 Our people sunk in waters thus, 
 
 Poor reptiles tread to see. 
 
 Our people? shine with hopeful gleam, 
 O star in clouded sky! 
 
362 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND. 
 
 All household gods a trouble seem — 
 Fly fast, my bark — oh, fly ! 
 
 Oh, shine my star! 'tis not for me 
 'Neath native surge to lie; 
 
 Old household gods may perish, we 
 Immortals cannot die. 
 
 Hark! their sepulchral voices hear 
 In hollow, humming sound; 
 
 In fault they think me — far and near 
 With frowns they gather round. 
 
 O household gods! what is your want? 
 
 And corpse, what is your will? 
 Avaunt! old gods, and corpse avaunt! 
 
 O bark, fly faster still! 
 
 Onward, onward, without delay; 
 
 The old god, what is he? 
 But weak and old — he need not stay 
 
 To bar youth's pathway free. 
 
 Against the ^urge in crowds they swim ; 
 
 My words are all in vain — 
 Then peace be with you phantoms grim, 
 
 These tears and all this pain. 
 
 In vain, in vain, you wish to stem 
 Time's stern, relentless tide, 
 
 Since fate does to this world condemn 
 By laws that fix'd abide. 
 
 O ancient god ! forgetfulness 
 No hope for thee can lend; 
 
 New light of faith that shines to bless 
 Descend on me — descend. 
 
BERWIŃSKI. 363 
 
 Night's shadows all shall vanish fast 
 
 If thou descend on me ; 
 And ere another day is past 
 
 The people sav'd shall be. 
 
 'Tvvas thus I spoke, and like a knell 
 
 I heard a moaning rise; 
 On the grave of the god there fell 
 
 Two tear-drops from my eyes. 
 
 Oh, lightly may the earth, I pray, 
 
 Lie on thee evermore; 
 So shines my morn a little way 
 
 And sweet salvation's shore. 
 
364 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND. 
 
 MALCZEWSKI. 
 
 Anthon Malczewski is one of the brightest stars in 
 the horizon of Polish literature. It is a curious fact in 
 the annals of Polish poetry that, without any previous 
 efforts, unaided by anyone, unheralded by any poetical 
 composition of his own, he sprung into celebrity at 
 once, simultaneously with his "Marya" (Mary). He 
 stood at once as a prophet emerging apparently from a 
 dark and unlearned crowd. He sent upon the world a 
 poem of great power and beauty, founded upon a tra- 
 dition of great significance, and left the crowd without 
 being understood or appreciated by them. " Mary a " 
 is a poem of Ukraine, and there is not now a single 
 dissenting voice in the praise of that extraordinary 
 poetical production, replete with so many beauties and 
 touching incidents; the boldness of expression strangely 
 commingling with unsurpassed pathos and faultless ver- 
 sification placed him at once in the first rank of the most 
 distinguished Polish poets. 
 
 The plot of " Mary a" is this: A proud old Palatine 
 betroth s his son to the daughter of a friend, and, as is 
 usual in such cases, neglects to ascertain previously 
 the mind of the young count. The son falls in love 
 with the daughter of a noble of inferior rank, be- 
 tween whom and his own father a hereditary hatred 
 exists. The father of " Marya," seeing that his daugh- 
 ter's happiness is at stake, reluctantly overcomes his 
 ancient enmity, and allows a marriage to take place be- 
 tween the young couple, which, though concealed for a 
 long time, is finally discovered by the old Palatine. 
 He hides his burning anger under the mask of appro- 
 bation, and invites Marya to his castle. His son is 
 
MALCZEWSKI. 365 
 
 then, in company with Marya's father, sent to repel the 
 invasion of the Pagan Tartars at some distance from 
 the castle. On his return, after having conquered the 
 enemy, he finds that his wife is murdered. He deserts 
 his home, and is never heard of more. 
 
 This remarkable poem created but a feeble impres- 
 sion at first. The critics of the day alleged against the 
 poet that his taste was unrefined, and that the way he 
 chose was a way leading only to error, but it was not 
 long before these impressions were dispelled and utterly 
 annihilated. 
 
 This poem, woven on the circulating local tradition, 
 was written in a bold and artistic style; the scenes and 
 incidents painted as with the brush of a great master. 
 Here we see, for the first time, on the Russian back- 
 ground, led out into sight two figures, after the ancient 
 Polish fashion — the ideals of Polish feelings, truly na- 
 tional, presented as if taken living from the history, 
 sinking rapidly into the past, — an apparition, as it were, 
 of a Polish Palatine, — the ideal of a Polish aristocrat — 
 and a sword-bearer, the father of Mary, also an ideal of 
 a Polish nobleman. Mary, again, is the ideal of a 
 Polish young woman who, with a pure and lofty feel- 
 ing, unites resolution and extraordinary courage, then 
 adding to it the thought of the invasion of the Tar- 
 tars, taken from the very heart of the annals of Polish 
 history — magnificent picture of Ukraine and its de- 
 lightful scenery, all brought out in almost tangible 
 shapes and embellished by the deepest feelings and 
 loftiest thoughts and nicest shadings, makes one think 
 that Lord Byron, whom Malczewski knew personally, 
 had exerted powerful influence over the Polish poet. 
 In "Marya" there is a tearing of the spirit to pieces 
 by strokes of adversity and grief that characterize some 
 
366 POETS AND POETEY OF POLAND. 
 
 of Lord Byron's poems; but still it is not the grief of an 
 English lord, but of a deep and earnest thought over the 
 misfortunes of native land, and a reecho of the intense 
 feeling and the sorrows of Ukraine's vast steppes,* 
 all this being brought out in the beautiful Ukraine. 
 With poetical feeling and native qualifications he was, 
 as it were, permeated by surrounding nature; he 
 dreamed himself into the local traditions and souvenirs, 
 and turned their native hues into poetry — and there 
 we see the first strong impressions of romanticism. 
 This great poem breathes with pure feelings of religion 
 and morality, overspread with the expression of plaint- 
 ive and painful sadness which the readers see through 
 their tears. Mishaps and disappointments of life are 
 the intrinsic strength and charm of the poem. Fresh- 
 ness, coloring, and almost tangible plasticity are the ex- 
 ternal qualities. A strange historical reverie, introduced 
 for the first time into Polish poetry by Malczewski, 
 became the characteristic of other poets; not only the 
 mystery of the scene which, besides the hidden objects 
 and gradual unfolding adds to it a great power, but 
 also the avoiding of the elucidation, as if on purpose, 
 by scattering the particulars, and fantastic visions 
 are interspersed throughout this renowned produc- 
 tion. When this poem was once understood it spread 
 throughout the nation by several successive editions, 
 and finally became so popular it mattered not where a 
 Pole's foot trod he could not do without it. " Marya " 
 is written after the manner of an epopee. Malczewski 
 wrote also other compositions in verse: "A Journey 
 to Mont Blanc;" "The Carnival of Warsaw;" "To 
 Julia; " "To Peter and Paul." Besides, he wrote the 
 tales of "Iphigenia," "Atenais," and "The Journey." 
 * Prairies. 
 
MALCZEWSKI. 367 
 
 Malczewski was born in 1792, in the province of 
 Volhynia, and came from a distinguished family. His 
 father was a general in the Polish army. He received 
 his initiatory education at Dubno, and then went to 
 college at Krzemieniec, where he attended lectures on 
 mathematics by Joseph Czech. In 1811 he entered 
 the army, and in a few years became quite distinguished 
 as engineer under Col. Malet; but breaking one of his 
 legs, he in 1816 left the ranks. During the following 
 five years he gave himself up to literary pursuits, and 
 traveled in France, Switzerland, Italy and Germany. 
 In 1824 he returned to Warsaw, but the experience of 
 living in a large city taught him to appreciate the mode 
 of life that was not degenerate ; hence he quitted Warsaw 
 and rented an estate, the village of Hrynów, in the county 
 of Włodzimierz, and thus avoiding noisy amusements 
 and social gatherings, he gave up his time to literature. 
 
 An interesting love affair between himself and a 
 Polish lady by the name of Kuczyńska forms quite an 
 episode in the distinguished poet's life. Having for a 
 long time lived in a state of magnificence he finally, by 
 being very generous to those who needed his assistance, 
 became reduced in circumstances. He died in 1826. 
 
 His "Marya" went through thirty different edi- 
 tions; the last was published (illustrated) by Żupański in 
 1865. The poem was translated into several languages. 
 
 EXTRACTS FROM " MARYA." 
 
 The Kozak* passing through the ravine wide, 
 Where only howling wolves and Tartars hide, 
 
 * Here "Kozak does not mean Cossack, a Russian soldier, but a 
 sort of an attache of noblemen in Ukraine, and we may add in the 
 provinces of Podolia and Volhynia. These Kozaks were generally 
 selected from the comeliest and best developed young peasants, and 
 being traioed as messengers to duty, were, as occasions required, sent 
 
368 POETS AND POETKY OF POLAND. 
 
 . Approached the statue where dark shadows throw 
 Likeness of specters buried long ago; 
 Took off his cap, and thrice the cross he signed, 
 Then with his message hastening like the wind 
 Upon his snorting horse away he flew 
 Where Buh glides on, a streak of silvery blue. 
 
 As the bold Kozak fleetly rides along 
 
 He hears the hidden foes that round him throng; 
 
 But his good horse, as though he understands, 
 
 Bears him through blooming fields and thistly lands. 
 
 Naught speeds more swiftly underneath the sun; 
 
 Like to an arrow from the bow he wings, 
 
 His head bent low his horse's neck upon. 
 
 And through wild causeways rush these desert kings, 
 
 Rider and steed — two forces blent in one. 
 
 Thus loses Wacław* all — no more to find 
 
 His happiness and faith in human kind. 
 
 He cannot wake his loved one from her rest — 
 
 She who was all to him of dear and best; 
 
 Whose noble spirit and angelic grace 
 
 Could shed illusion over falsehood's face. 
 
 How dark her death makes all the world appear! 
 
 Alone he strays, as in a desert drear, 
 
 Or by the statue on his loved one's tomb 
 
 He mourns the malice that has wrought her doom 
 
 And chased all tenderness from out his soul. 
 
 One bitter thought therein holds dark control — 
 
 even to distant places with important dispatches and messages of all 
 sorts, also carrying letters to and from postoffices. They had a pecu- 
 liarly picturesque dress, and were the heroes of many interesting 
 love affairs among the pretty girls of those beautiful provinces. 
 Each Kozak had a fine horse and a splendid equipment, including 
 a "nalmyka," a sort of a short whip made of several strands of 
 leather woven together, and a fancy handle. These Kozaks were 
 also the heroes of many love songs and Durrikas, and form an inter- 
 esting chapter, especially in the history of the Ukraine. 
 * Wacław, the betrothed of Mary ; pronounce Vatz-łav. 
 
MALCZEWSKI. 3()9 
 
 " Why did I leave her to another's care? " 
 When in the pallid face that greets him there 
 He reads of all the struggles she has known. 
 Then deep reproaches make his heart their own. 
 Of her destruction and his own, the cause, 
 Before this thought his life's pulsations pause — 
 Then in his hands he hides his face to weep. 
 
 This mood is over soon, but all too deep 
 The wound within him festers, poison-frought; 
 Leaves in his once exalted soul a thought — 
 Shared by the exiles — that will never sleep. 
 
 This noble youth, is he the earth's disgrace? 
 Ah! rather ask wherefore hath goodness place 
 Here, where all good with evil is denied, 
 Where death of parents profits to the child, 
 Where love of fellow beings is assumed 
 By those with envy of their joy consumed. 
 Where lofty roles and aspirations fail, 
 Revealing hypocrisies 'neath the veil, 
 And where but few the faithful hearts that blend 
 In love's divine ecstasy to end. 
 
 In describing "Marya" the poet says: 
 
 Though young, the winds of earthly pain 
 Have cast their breath upon her soul, 
 And, like the weary autumn blasts 
 That o'er the earth in anger roll 
 And wither flowers within the grove, 
 Have robbed her early hopes of love ! 
 
 Within her beaming eye no more 
 Conflicting war of thought we see; 
 The flame that burned from lamp of love 
 And shone so happily on me 
 Now beams not, shows not e'en one spark, 
 Though with its smoke her brow is dark. 
 24 
 
GOSZCZYŃSKI. 
 
 370 
 
GOSZCZYŃSKI. 371 
 
 GOSZCZYŃSKI. 
 
 Seyerin Goszczyński is different in qualifications 
 as a poet from other bards of the Ukraine. The choice 
 of his genius was the more gloomy side of her history 
 and the inherent qualities of her nature. It is the 
 creative spirit leading vice to a feast of revenge. Dark 
 clouds of fantasy ever avoiding the serene sky and 
 searching everywhere charms overcast with dismal- 
 ness, are his characteristics. Wild transports of pas- 
 sion, battles, treason and murders are the usual themes 
 of his poesy. His pictures and figures are not put 
 forth as the ideals of a mere illusion, as Zaleski's; not 
 in any melancholy, dissolving itself over a landscape, 
 as in Malczewski, but they are thrown on the back- 
 ground of wild nature with a complete truthfulness 
 and reality. Such elements he has introduced in his 
 poetry with impassioned delight, and yet he does not 
 offend aesthetic feeling nor morality. We have no 
 poet who could excel him in painting so truthfully the 
 scenery of nature — nor one who could more admire 
 and appreciate its beauties. His genius is still more 
 to be appreciated when we lean; the fact that it is not 
 given to one and the same individual to excel in two 
 different things. — to fathom the depths of passion and 
 to comprehend the grand and sublime respiration of 
 nature. "The Castle of Kaniów " represents scenes 
 of bloody adventures which filled the whole of Ukraine 
 with horror and pain. Here the poet brought together 
 all the horrible events of that painfully memorable 
 epoch. He dramatized this tale, interweaving into it 
 incidents at which the soul is horrified, not at all re- 
 
372 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND. 
 
 lieved by introduction of any of the softening influ- 
 ences of heroic love at least burning faintly in the 
 depth of grief and revenge. He delineated, however, 
 the appalling reality, and placed its pictures in the 
 sight of his own poetical fastasy, illumed only by a 
 flame of a night's conflagration. Yet these wild and 
 terrible beauties are in fact the true beauties of a crea- 
 tive artist, — the conception of the poem and its finish 
 of genius — but perhaps its most striking features con- 
 sist in the prominence of figures and characters, — 
 uncommon individuality. Only great mental powers 
 could produce a poem like it. 
 
 Goszczynski's poetic spirit is strong, inflexible, deep 
 and fiery; wide as the river Dnieper, and boundless as 
 the limitless steppes: hence his poetic creations are 
 likenesses unto himself. Occasional incorrectness of 
 expression and the lack of clearness in the elucidation 
 of subjects is alleged against him, as also great haste 
 and precipitancy, but his buoyant spirit would not at 
 all times submit to certain precisions in composition. 
 While soaring through his beloved Ukraine, with its 
 beautiful scenes engraved upon his heart, he breathed 
 forth his inspirations untrammeled by any small obsta- 
 cles that lay in his way. Ukraine was his mother, 
 who nursed and fostered his poetic spirit; and it was 
 there where he spent his youth. 
 
 When Goszczyński came into the Carpathian Moun- 
 tains, and having surveyed their gigantic proportions, 
 their scenery and their beauty, — a lone wanderer 
 amidst this grandeur, — he wrote a poem, " St John's 
 Eve," and proved himself, as in "The Castle of 
 Kaniów," to be a master artist in the delineation of 
 nature's grandeur. 
 
 Severin had a different task from almost any other 
 
GOSZCZYŃSKI. 373 
 
 poet before him. He cut loose from despondency and 
 ideals, and was the first to approach reality in the 
 spiritual world. He w T as the forerunner of bloody 
 and violent commotions; and Mickiewicz's "Ode to 
 Youth" was a sort of a political manifesto; so was 
 Goszczyński^ ;% Feast of Revenge," — a watchword 
 calling to action. His ''Three Strings" is also a 
 poem of great inspiration, of loftiness and harmony. 
 His latest poem, "The Mother of God, 1 ' turns the 
 heart and mind to those blessed sources whence flow 
 faith and life. 
 
 Besides these he wrote "The King of the Castle," 
 in which he has shown that even in our prosaic age 
 and in every-day spheres of our lives there is poetry; 
 but the genius of the poet is here intensified to bring 
 into plain sight poetry where a common eye cannot 
 see it, by representing objects in charming and en- 
 chanting colors. 
 
 Goszczyński belongs to that class of bards who, 
 whenever they strike with their rods there immediately 
 appear rich treasures of poesy. If he had not written 
 anything else beside "The King of the Castle," it 
 would be enough testimony that the soul of the author 
 possessed the power of the enchanter's wand, who has 
 awakened poesy in stones, and, like the second Moses, 
 can draw a spring of pure water to refresh and strength- 
 en the enfeebled and waning vital powers of the dying 
 Israelites. 
 
 His talent of presenting his characters in bold re- 
 lief is worthy of great admiration. With the artistic 
 brush of a Shakspeare he takes objects of ordinary 
 kind and lifts them up to higher ideal powers. In 
 some of his poems we can see a certain degree of ex- 
 aggeration, but he is never deficient in presenting facts 
 
374 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND. 
 
 on the foundation of historical truths. His style, with 
 its customary freshness and beautiful coloring, is occa- 
 sionally unpolished and sometimes rough, but it is 
 always in harmony with the spirit and substance of 
 the subject. Goszczyński comes out in his poems not 
 only as an artist, but he also represents himself as a 
 political individuality. In all his compositions he paints 
 prominently his youth, his dreamings, his tendencies 
 and action. From these we can discern his physiognomy. 
 
 Goszczyński was born in the city of Lince, in Uk- 
 raine, in the year 1803. From 1811 to 1814 he at- 
 tended school at fathers Piiars; later he attended the 
 school at Winnica, and in 1816 at Humań; but his 
 education was completed at Warsaw, where he formed 
 ties of mutual friendship with such distinguished men 
 as Bohdan Zaleski, Louis Ziółkowski, Maurice Moch- 
 nacki and Michael Grabowski. With the latter he 
 went to Vienna in 1818. Returning to Warsaw, he 
 was active in the general national agitation. After 
 the downfall of the revolution of 1831, toward the end 
 of the year he went to France, and immediately joined 
 the so-called sect of Towiański and became one of 
 the most ardent of his adherents. He was heard of from 
 France by publishing in Posen, in 1842, a tale, "The 
 King of the Castle." In 1864 he wrote a beautiful 
 but somewhat mystic poem, "The Mother of God." 
 In 1867, on the 4th of May, he sent his oration to the 
 cemetery of Montmorenci, at Paris, on the occasion 
 of unveiling the monument erected to the memory of 
 Adam Mickiewicz. He died in 1879. 
 
 His works were published: "The Castle of Ka- 
 niów," Warsaw, 1828; "Writings," in three volumes, 
 Breslau, 1852; "The King of the Castle," Posen, 
 1842; "The Mother of God," 1864. 
 
GOSZCZYŃSKI. 
 
 CONSCIENCE. 
 
 In living body drest, 
 And yet a corpse, I keenly feel that I 
 Have long outliv'd myself, and vainly try 
 To find a place of rest. 
 Adverse my fate, most sad my doom; 
 
 I fear all things, — all things fear me. 
 This radiant world to me is as a tomb; — 
 A specter cloth'd in mourning must I be. 
 Suffering as a penitent, 
 
 I roam the world with weary feet, 
 Where'er I turn some grief I meet. 
 Shunned by all things innocent, 
 While all most bitter 1 neath the sun 
 Forever to me closely clings; 
 But more than all my sufferings, 
 The phantom-like, nude skeleton 
 Of conscience comes a specter dire. 
 'Tis in the way before my eyes; 
 It ever eats my heart as fire, 
 
 And " suffer, son of baseness ! " cries. 
 Endure life that's a living death; 
 One time you courage lack'd to yield your breath 
 
 For your own glory and for others' good. 
 Fate brought you to a tyrant's presence then. 
 
 The impulse Heaven gave you you withstood, 
 Though with oppression moan'd your fellow men. 
 Eyes that the people's chains beheld 
 Overflowed with pity mild, 
 But the brave heart, with throbbing wild, 
 Almost tore the breast wherein it swelled. 
 Of action then had fully come the time; 
 Before you lay a new and noble life, — 
 Perhaps a tomb, — but freedoms tomb sublime, — 
 The famous bed of glory after strife; 
 
376 POETS AND POETEY OF POLAND. 
 
 Triumph's bright wreaths had budded for you sweet, 
 
 Hymns prepared your ears to greet 
 
 From grateful people you had sav'd. But, no! 
 
 You would not let your poor life go. 
 
 A cold ordeal yours has been, 
 
 Yet dark and dreadful was your sin. 
 
 Your duty you neglected. When I cried, 
 
 My voice to stifle long you tried. 
 
 Suffer yourself, — struggle with dread, — 
 
 Torment yourself, — let your heart bleed. 
 
 Since you'd not die when there was need, 
 Die while you are dead! 
 
 NEW YEAR'S PRAYER. 
 
 God! who art above the skies, 
 Wanderers we come. Most wise, 
 
 To Thee to bring 
 
 Our prayers, and sing 
 For our dear country's sake. 
 
 O God! our dear people bless, — 
 Poland's sons save from distress. 
 
 Break thralldom's chain! 
 
 And slavery's bane 
 From our dear people take! 
 
 O God! Wilt Thou bless our land- 
 Bless Poland's wandering band! 
 
 In freedom yet 
 
 May she forget 
 Grief ere her sun goes down! 
 
 Bless, O Lord, every one 
 Whom Poland claims her son, — 
 
 Who strives with zeal 
 
 That greater weal 
 May his loved country crown! 
 
GOSZCZYŃSKI. 377 
 
 Oh, then, God of mercy! bless 
 Our sad watches with success. 
 
 May they be brief, 
 
 Our days of grief, 
 Leave to return — never ! 
 
 Look upon our sore distress. 
 Grand in Thy forgiveness, 
 
 May rays divine 
 
 Of Thy grace shine 
 Round our land forever! 
 

 POL. 
 
 378 
 
pol. 379 
 
 POL. 
 
 Vincent Pol occupied the first place among the 
 true national poets. From the beginning of his poetic 
 career he was a faithful exponent of experienced im- 
 pressions. Pol is an inspired traditional bard, and ex- 
 quisite delineator of quiet scenes, of the home-hearth, 
 of patriarchal life, and always a lover of simplicity. 
 His poetical character is apparent in his "Songs of 
 Ianusz," "Pictures of the Mountaineers," in his 
 "Fugitive Pieces," and "Songs of Our Home." His 
 " Songs of Ianusz " are not only nicely adapted to the 
 present generation, but they are that class of composi- 
 tions which future ages are waiting for — because one 
 can see in them a whole living nation in its past, the 
 present, and the unfolding of the future. It has been 
 said of him that, if in the memory of men all traces of 
 national life were obliterated, and the little golden 
 book containing the "Songs of Ianusz" were pre- 
 served from destruction, the inspired historian could 
 guess correctly the character of Polish history that 
 was, and a new bard could equally draw his materials 
 from the same source, and could reveal its future. 
 
 "The Pictures from Life and Travels," in which 
 the poet presents his songs to the people through a 
 smiling tear, does not fall behind the "Songs of 
 Ianusz," for, even if their limits are somewhat nar- 
 rower, they have enriched the people with treasures 
 hitherto unknown, for they have struck deeper into the 
 heart than anything of the kind before. Nothing is 
 more beautiful than these pictures. With a heart full 
 of love Pol went into the mountains, looked over and 
 
380 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND. 
 
 around, guessed all and comprehended everything. He 
 makes the language of gigantic nature his own. " The 
 Songs about Our Land " are so many diamonds, which, 
 although glistening with various colors of different 
 Polish dialects, constitute nevertheless one bright and 
 luminous light for every part of the Fatherland. 
 
 In writing these songs it was the aim of the poet to 
 demolish the walls that separated different parts of 
 Poland by dialects and customs distinguishing them 
 from one another; to get them acquainted with each 
 other; lift their spirits above the common level sur- 
 rounding them; to place them together on high, and 
 to show them the beautiful land flowing with milk and 
 honey, and to say to them: " See, here! here is your 
 Canaan! " 
 
 It can be asserted with truth that stillness is the 
 most charming Muse of Pol. She always delights in 
 calm tranquillity. She leads him into the shades of 
 eternal woods, so that they might tell him of their im- 
 memorial history. She takes him to the ancient clois- 
 ters, where their somber appearance tells him of events 
 of long ago. Wrapped up in reveries of charming 
 tranquillity he sings in elegiac tones of fertile fields, of 
 meadows, mountains, and the magnificence of Polish 
 rivers. These songs are not vain Jeremiads, but the 
 expressions of grand reality, and as they are founded 
 on truth they only charm the more. Pol can, in a 
 thousand ways, present his native land in the most 
 interesting and beautiful colors. 
 
 With ever-present freshness Po± charms his readers 
 and insures his compositions a deserved reputation; 
 he knows how to knock at the heart, and the feeling of 
 his readers always approvingly responds. His diction 
 is stamped with manly age, comporting with the epoch 
 
pol. 381 
 
 of which he is a distinguished representative. In him 
 one finds a certain fullness of form and vitality of in- 
 ternal powers, ever accompanied by a peculiar peace 
 of mind and an equilibrium between ardor and reflec- 
 tion leading the spirit into a world of calm resignation. 
 His family attachments are very strong, as is his at- 
 tachment to his fatherland and his native heath. In 
 his retrospection of the Past one can see the sorrows 
 and mourning of an orphan, but without any bitter- 
 ness, or any apparent feelings of deep affliction. 
 
 Thus far Pol has passed his life in literary pursuits, 
 not only with the greatest credit to himself, but also to 
 the pleasure and satisfaction of his countrymen. Some 
 of his poems are wrought with the skill of a great 
 artist, for, frequently while reading them, it seems as 
 if he sung them himself with a harmonious and charm- 
 ing melody. 
 
 Pol was born in 1807 in Galicia, where his father 
 occupied a place in the judicial department. He 
 was educated at Lublin, and after finishing the course 
 he traveled in Rhenish provinces. After the events of 
 1831, in which he took an active part, he returned to 
 his native surroundings, and then traveled over the 
 Carpathian Mountains, and resided for some time 
 among the mountaineers. In 1846 he experienced 
 fearful strokes of misfortune. In 1847 he organized 
 the chronological publication of the library of Ossoliń- 
 skis. In 1848 he obtained a diploma of "Doctor," 
 and became a professor of geography in the University 
 of Cracow. He afterward retired to Lemberg, where, 
 we suppose, he still resides, full of years and honors. 
 
 His works were published in Posen, Cracow, Leip- 
 sic, Warsaw, and Lemberg. Among these we can 
 mention "Poetry of Vincent Pol," "Mohort," an he- 
 
382 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND. 
 
 roic rhapsody, " Getting Home after a Storm," " Pic- 
 tures of the Mountaineers," "Song of a Prisoner," 
 "Memoirs of Winnicki," "My Aunt," "The Word 
 and the Fame," "The Street Organ," "Songs of Our 
 Home," "A Tale without an End." Besides these 
 we can mention his "Dissertations on Natural Sci- 
 ence" and "Geographical Lexicon." "The Songs of 
 Ianusz " (Pieśnie Ianusza) were all written by Yincent 
 Pol. 
 
 SONG OF THE MOUND. 
 
 " Leci liście z drzewa, 
 Co wyrosło wolne." 
 
 tree nursed by freedom! 
 
 Thy leaves are fast falling; 
 Over the mound yonder 
 
 A lone bird is calling: 
 There never was — never — 
 
 One hope for thee, Poland; 
 The dream is departed, 
 
 Thy children have no land! 
 
pol. 383 
 
 Flame wraps ev'ry village, 
 
 Destroyed is each city, 
 And voices of women 
 
 Rise calling for pity. 
 From home and from hearthstone, 
 
 In swarms all are hasting, 
 In fields of their labor 
 
 The ripe grain is wasting. 
 
 When children of Warsaw 
 
 Repeated her storj^, 
 It seemed as if Poland 
 
 Would conquer with glory. 
 They fought through the winter 
 
 To summer's sad waning; 
 To welcome the autumn 
 
 None — none were remaining. 
 
 The struggle was ended 
 
 For hearts vainly burning — 
 To hearths of the native 
 
 No feet are returning. 
 Some earth cover'd over, 
 
 In dungeons some languish, 
 Some scattered in exile 
 
 Of home dream in anguish. 
 
 No help comes from Heaven, 
 No aid from hands human, 
 
 We weep o'er the waste lands 
 That flowers vainly bloom in. 
 
 O dear country Poland! 
 If 'mid thy despoiling 
 
 The children who loved thee 
 Had taken while toiling 
 
384 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND. 
 
 Of earth but a handful, 
 By fatherland nourished, 
 
 Rebuilt on lost Poland 
 Another had nourished ! 
 
 LITTLE STAR. 
 
 O thou little star that sparkled 
 
 When I first saw light, 
 Wherefore has thy brightness darkled? 
 
 Why so pale to-night? 
 
 Wherefore shin'st thou not as brightly 
 
 As when I, a child, 
 On my mother's bosom nightly 
 
 Slumbered, dream-beguiled? 
 
 Swiftly, swiftly, hast thou sped thee 
 
 Through the blue beyond; 
 In be wild' ring way hast led me 
 
 Ways I should have shunn'd. 
 
 Through the heavens thou speedest gaily, 
 
 Followed I thy lure; 
 Of my life bloom weaving daily 
 
 Garlands premature. 
 
 But the roses in them faded — 
 
 Yellow grows my May; 
 With the life so darkly shaded 
 
 No illusions stay. 
 
 On the vistas spread before me 
 
 Look I now through tears; 
 Since in heavens stretching o'er me, 
 
 Pale thy light appears. 
 
pol. 385 
 
 O my little star! restore them 
 With thy sparkling rays; 
 
 Still my soul is longing for them, 
 For those happy days. 
 
 With them yet I fain would linger 
 
 Past delights I crave 
 Ere my fate's relentless finger 
 
 Beckons to the crave. 
 
 25 
 
KONDRATOWICZ. 
 
 (SYROKOMLA.) 
 
KONDRATOWICZ. 387 
 
 KONDRATOWICZ. 
 
 (Syrokomla). 
 
 Louis Kondratowicz, known under the pseudonym 
 of Syrokomla, is one of those youthful poets who 
 in their time stood at the head of the bards of 
 greatest literary power. He was equally a learned 
 scholar and a profound thinker; he did not chase after 
 fame on account of his originality, but as a master of 
 the forms already in existence; he adorns them with 
 the pearls of his poetic spirit, besides an uncommon 
 ease and simplicity which throws charming surround- 
 ings around the reader. The lyrico-epic mantle of his 
 "Chit-Chats " is the same as Pol's and Zaleski' s, gush- 
 ing from the sources of inspiration. To the minds sea- 
 soned to the glistenings of eternal youth of the 
 pictures of long ago his compositions proved welcome 
 visitors. In this species of poetic creations consists 
 Syrokomla's fondness. From his "Chit-Chats," in 
 which the historical narrator and sad-feeling lyrist 
 unites if himself the different qualities, we find almost 
 in every line — in every thought, — fresh fragrance of 
 nature and truth; we perceive everywhere natural 
 colors of simplicity, happily conceived, and so plainly 
 expressed that even a man unacquainted with the past 
 history of his country and literature, if he were only 
 possessed of pure feeling, would be immediately 
 initiated in Syrokomla's tenderness and simplicity. As 
 are the "Chit-Chats" so are also his "Fugitive 
 Ehymes," which we find in great variety, but always 
 marked by expressions of fidelity to nature and tender- 
 
388 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND. 
 
 ness of feeling ; but when we still further consider the 
 beautiful intellectual principle and honest intentions 
 we still more admire their intrinsic value. There we 
 find a true love of God and humankind, honest and 
 appreciative feeling of beauty, and a noble incitement 
 to everything that is good, and always an upright 
 tendency toward progression. 
 
 Perhaps the most feeling of all of Kondratowicz' s 
 poetic creations is u The Death of Acernus." He took up 
 very skillfully the beautiful and yet very mournful 
 scene of the death of the Polish poet Klonowicz(q. v.), 
 of the sixteenth century. The poet, impressed with 
 the solemnity of the hour, sings with great feeling and 
 tenderness the sad demise of the bard, who in the hour 
 of God's inspiration rebuked the sinners, and tried to 
 turn his beloved countrymen to truth, contrition, and 
 repentance. 
 
 Another great service rendered by Kondratowicz to 
 Polish literature was the translation of Polish-Latin 
 poets, such as Kochanowski, Sarbiewski, Szymonowicz, 
 and others, which were published in his " History of 
 Polish Literature." Kondratowicz was one of the 
 most fertile of Polish poets, and although he did not 
 excel in everything, he could, with his simplicity and 
 deep feeling, draw tears from the eyes of his readers. 
 Enlivened by true poetic spirit, he excelled almost all 
 of his contemporaries in the depth of feeling and the 
 love of his native land. In these wonderful " Chit- 
 chats " we hear the roar of the old Lithuanian forests; 
 we plainly perceive the winding of the grand blue 
 rivers; we again converse with our old and noble an- 
 cestors; we see the old battles, victories, and joyous 
 feasts; — in a word, whatever this tender poet sings 
 from his pain-stricken breast breathes with love of 
 
KONDRATOWICZ. 389 
 
 everything that is true, familiar, and natural. In 
 peace and harmony with the whole natural brother- 
 hood, he saw the salvation of the Polish land, and 
 upon this he founded the happy futurity of the people. 
 He rebuked and satirized the old foibles and chimeras 
 of the nobility, and tried to eradicate these stumbling 
 blocks so that the people could be once more united by 
 the reciprocal ties of brotherly affection. The chiefest 
 stamp of Syrokomla' s poetry is the characteristics of a 
 people governed more by the impulses of the heart 
 than the mind. 
 
 Kondratowicz was born in 1822 at a place called 
 Smolków, near the city of Mińsk. He received his 
 education from Fathers Dominicans at Nieświeżo. At 
 twenty-one he was married and settled in a rural dis- 
 trict. In 1853, having lost by death several children, 
 and suffering himself from ill-health, he went to Wilno, 
 but in a short time returned again into rural life, not 
 far from where he resided formerly, and lived almost 
 in seclusion. After a while he gave his property up to 
 his parents and settled in the city of Wilno. In 1858 
 he traveled in Great Poland and visited Cracow, where 
 he was received with much cordiality and distinction. 
 Returning he lived again at Wilno, from whence he 
 went to Warsaw. Being overpowered by bodily sick- 
 ness and great mental depression, he succumbed to the 
 accumulated vicissitudes and died the 15th day of 
 September, 1862. 
 
 All the writings of this distinguished poet belong to 
 that class that are truly popular. Although eighteen 
 summers are passed away since his death, the Polish 
 Nation can hardly realize that Syrokomla will sing for 
 them no more — forever! 
 
 The following are among his works that were already 
 
390 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND. 
 
 published: "Chit-Chats," and "Fugitive Rhymes," 
 Wilno, 1853; "Baka Regenerated," St. Petersburg, 
 1854; "John Demborog," Warsaw, 1854; " Cottage in 
 the Woods," and " Margier," Wilno, 1855; '"Death of 
 Acernus," 1856; "Johnnie Cmentarnik," 1856; "The 
 Old Gate," " Easter Thursday," " Days of Penitence 
 and Resurrection," 1858 ; "Wanderings in My Dis- 
 trict," "Ulas," a war pastoral, 1858; "Sophia, the 
 Princess of Sluck," 1858; "Poetry of the Last Hour," 
 Warsaw, 1862. Also "The History of Polish Litera- 
 ture," and a most beautiful translation of the songs of 
 Beranger. All the known and unknown writings of 
 Kondratowicz were published by Iagielski, at Posen. 
 
 DEATH OF THE NIGHTINGALE. 
 
 (Śmierć Słowika.) 
 
 Shut in a wire cage amid the great city's roar 
 
 Was once a nightingale; 
 But his desire to sing grew on him more and more; — 
 
 So strong it must prevail. 
 
 Here is no shade, — no elder trees, — no hazel bush 
 
 His little head to hide; — 
 No sweet companion here, — for here no streamlets gush 
 
 And through the meadows glide. 
 
 No dear ones here to hear him sing, though he should die 
 
 Amid his bursts of song. 
 In the congenial open air he may not fly, 
 
 His narrow cage is strong. 
 
 Instead of gentle winds the wheels' harsh rumbling blends 
 
 With shaking walls' loud jar; 
 From carriages of rich men, finely drest, ascends 
 
 The dust-cloud near and far. 
 
KONDRATOWICZ. 391 
 
 Murmurs of a noisy crowd instead of streamlet clear 
 
 In busy, bustling ways; 
 Oh! where is peace and quiet? where is freedom here, 
 
 Prophetic songs to raise? 
 
 His soft breast almost bursts; now his small head shakes, 
 
 He chokes with blinding dust; 
 But born into the world a nightingale, he makes 
 
 One effort — sing he must. 
 
 With sweet increasing melody he lifts his song, 
 
 Sings out his longings vain; 
 But soon his voice is drowned by hurrying throng, 
 
 Intent but on some gain. 
 
 His notes soar higher and higher, o'er all the noise 
 
 In musical despair, 
 Thrilled by the memory of vanished joys, 
 
 When he was free as air. 
 
 His little wings are weak, — he flaps them all in vain; 
 
 He flutters with faint breath; 
 His warm and tender heart just warbles one more strain, 
 
 But 'tis the note of Death! 
 
 THE SOLDIER WANDERER. 
 
 (Na tern twardem szczudle mojem.) 
 
 With this hard crutch to lean upon 
 
 I have wandered all the wide world o'er 
 
 Mourning the ills I've undergone, 
 My countless woes and trials sore. 
 
 God only knows how much I've borne 
 While fighting boldly in the war; 
 
 And proofs of valor I have worn 
 
 Where balls were flying thick and far. 
 
392 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND. 
 
 How oft on picket I've remained, 
 
 Pinched with hunger, chilled with cold, 
 
 Yet murmured never nor complained, 
 But did my duty true and bold. 
 
 And at my general's behest 
 
 I've waded to the fortress' wall 
 Through blood of comrades I loved best, — 
 
 Could aught more terrible befall? 
 
 Though I was not a soldier long, 
 
 I've fought on famous battle-grounds; 
 
 Have lost a limb, — once good and strong, — 
 And suffered honorable wounds. 
 
 Now I must beg from door to door. 
 
 Ye rich! with ample fortune blessed, 
 Though fate has. granted goodly store, 
 
 Ye harken not to the distressed! 
 
 Such is the recompense of all 
 
 Who nobly acted, nobly fought. 
 And happily does it befall ; — 
 
 My spirit grieves, but changes not. 
 
 THE PLOUGHMAN AND THE LARK. 
 
 'Tis morn ! You sing already, lark, and I begin to plough, — 
 For man must dearly purchase life by toil and sweat of brow. 
 He labors for his household beneath the heavens so broad, 
 While ye, who toil not, live. Still we are children of one God. 
 
 You are my companion now, though different is our lot. 
 You dream of love and pleasure; but, oh! I know them not. 
 You are gay and happy ever, and when the morning breaks 
 You fly to swell the grand " Hosanna" the angel wakes. 
 
 Your sweet song pleases heaven, and your thanks are very dear 
 To our God, who gives the little that you require here. 
 
KONDRATOWICZ. 393 
 
 And your joyous chatterings, oft repeated, o'er and o'er, 
 To all the world announce the praise to God forevermore ! 
 
 You sing already, lark, and I with aching heart must plough. 
 As you heavenward rise, dear bird, pray for the ploughman 
 
 now. 
 Say that, sailing o'er the village, you saw much misery, 
 And hunger, too.* Spring is not as kind as your sweet melody. 
 
 Rising early in the morning, we scarce can lift our hands 
 To praise our God. Our breasts are chilled, and sorrow by 
 
 us stands. 
 The sight of spring nor morning star can bring us gladsome 
 
 cheer, 
 When every morn the church bell tolls the death of loved 
 
 ones here. 
 
 The children cry, men suffer, and the world is hid by tears; 
 For the lark the spring is life, but death the ploughman fears. 
 Pray for us, lark, that pitying God may take us in His care, 
 And grant us heaven to sing His glory forever there! 
 
 COUNTRYMEN, I BEG ASSISTANCE. 
 
 (Pomoc dajcie mi Rodacy.) 
 
 Countrymen, I beg assistance, 
 
 Trouble sorely has bereft me; 
 I must beg for my subsistence, 
 
 Since for toil but one hand's left me. 
 
 Countrymen, in this land royal, 
 A poor wand'ring fellow mortal, 
 
 A bold soldier, true and loyal, 
 Begs for aid without your portal. 
 
 Both my aged parents leaving, 
 
 Leaving home and wife so cherished; 
 
 * Written during great scarcity. 
 
394 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND. 
 
 Leaving my poor children grieving, 
 Fought I where I might have perished. 
 
 On the battle-fields most gory 
 
 Fought I 'neath my country's banner; 
 
 Blood I've shed on fields of glory, 
 Now to beg beside your manor. 
 
 Of my wealth a thief bereft me, 
 Storm and fire my home molested; 
 
 Brother, mother, wife have left me, 
 In the grave they long have rested. 
 
 'Neath a cruel fate's oppression, 
 
 Scorn and need with grim persistence 
 
 Leave me nothing in possession, 
 Save one hand to beg assistance. 
 
 Joy and hope no longer burning — 
 
 I but wander, wander ever, 
 For my native heath I'm yearning, 
 
 But I shall behold it — never. 
 
 Some old friend my mem'ry keeping, 
 Mayhap thinks of me with longing; 
 
 Some perchance may fall to weeping, 
 
 Their sad thoughts towai;d me thronging. 
 
 Where steel clashed and balls were ringing 
 When I fought the foe, if only 
 
 Some swift ball from mercy winging 
 Had but stilled this heart so lonely. 
 
 Sword in hand death would have found me 
 Fighting 'mid the leaden shower; 
 
 But to-day grief closes round me, 
 Which no weapon can o'erpower. 
 
KONDRATOWICZ. 395 
 
 MATTHEW'S UNLUCKY TURNS. 
 "(Przyszła kryska na Matyska.") 
 
 Matthew lived in days now olden; 
 
 His like since has ne'er existed — 
 Handsome, with a fortune golden, 
 
 Of rare joy his days consisted. 
 He was loved and knew no trouble, 
 
 And though some with envy burning 
 Saw his fortune, none thought Matthew's 
 
 Golden tide would e'er be turning. 
 
 And a maiden, black-eyed, handsome, 
 
 Loved him with a love confiding, 
 Vowed Dear Matthew, my own darling, 
 
 My true love shall be abiding! 
 But another chap with money 
 
 Came and bought her heart's affection; 
 Matthew, spurned, received this cruel 
 
 Stroke of fate in deep dejection. 
 
 My dear Matthew, never mind it — 
 
 Sorrow not for such a trifle ; 
 To the tavern come and join us, 
 
 Quickly all this trouble stifle! 
 Thus his chums beguiled his sorrow 
 
 With their words of cheer and gladness; 
 "Right, friends," Matthew said; this folly 
 
 Paid he for in grief and sadness. 
 
 In the bowl he drowned his sorrow, 
 
 Half a week he drank for pleasure — 
 Treating all who came around him, 
 
 Treating without stint or measure. 
 But in paying for the liquor 
 
 All his money was expended — 
 To his wretched home he wandered, 
 
 Ill-luck evety step attended. 
 
396 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND. 
 
 1 From his trouble and hard drinking 
 
 Matthew sickened unto dying- — 
 Then the doctor came to see him 
 
 All his trouble multiplying; 
 For his visits and prescriptions 
 
 Took three horses from the stable. 
 Then poor Matthew left the country — 
 
 To endure his fate unable. 
 
 Ere he died he thus concluded: 
 
 By my friends to be remembered, 
 In my will I must leave something 
 
 To each one for service rendered. 
 In his hut, alas! was nothing 
 
 But some matting old and tattered. 
 And poor Matthew sighed perceiving 
 
 All his plans by ill-luck shattered! 
 
 At last dying, as Job's turkey, 
 
 Poor was he, and ruined wholly; 
 The old remnants of his wardrobe 
 
 Formed the rest for head so lowly. 
 At his funeral was no mourner; 
 
 Who has seen aught so depressing? 
 Four old beggars bore the coffin — 
 
 Now was fortune most distressing. 
 
 'Neath the grave-sod in the churchyard 
 
 He was buried; ah, poor fellow! 
 His demise no bells were tolling 
 
 In their tones so sad and mellow. 
 By the side of a small chapel 
 
 Is a fir-tree cross; the path you 
 Trace and read thereon as written: 
 
 " The last turn has come to Matthew.' 
 
odyniec. :; ( ,>7 
 
 ODYNIEC. 
 
 Anton Edward Odyxiec, born 1809, is the author 
 of a few lyric productions, such as " The Wedding," 
 etc., but he distinguished himself chiefly by his trans- 
 lations. He translated Walter Scott's "Lady of the 
 Lake," "The Bride of Abydos" of Byron, "The Fire 
 Worshipers " of Moore, "Corsair" and " Heaven and 
 Earth" by Byron, also "Mazeppa," and rendered into 
 Polish the "Lay of the Last Minstrel," by Walter 
 Scott. The translation of ballads from Burger, Żu- 
 kowski and Pushkin, as also Schiller's "The Maid of 
 Orleans," revert greatly to the credit of Odyniec. 
 His satiric poem, "The Specters," combines elegance 
 with great wit, and a wholesome moral to the would- 
 be poets. When nothing could drive away ghosts 
 from a haunted building, the declamation of an indif- 
 ferent poet of one of his compositions at the witching 
 hour of night set the ghosts to yawning, and so dis- 
 gusted them that they left the premises, positively and 
 forever. Mr. Odyniec resides at present in Warsaw. 
 His " Felicita, or The Martyrs of Carthagena," a 
 drama in five acts, as also "Barbara Radziwił," are 
 esteemed as productions of very high order. 
 
 PRAYERS (A LEGEND). 
 
 " Des Herzens Andacht hebt sich frey zu Gott, 
 Das Wort ist toclt, der Glaube rnacht lebendig." — Schiller. 
 
 The sight of a lake! Oh! how beautiful! 
 
 At evening's hush in summer's time, 
 When over it gently the soft winds lull 
 
 The waves to sleep with a mystic rhyme. 
 
398 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND. 
 
 Oh! how gratefully then the billows' roar 
 Sounds in the ears of lookers on; 
 
 They glisten with blue near the further shore, 
 Slowly fade as they near anon. 
 
 With just such weather, the skies were bright, 
 
 Gently sighed the evening wind, 
 When a worthy pastor, at edge of night, 
 
 Beside the lake his way inclined. 
 
 Already the last bright rays of the sun 
 Behind the mountains strove to hide; 
 
 But from the West appeared a single one, 
 That strangely charmed the waters wide. 
 
 The pastor to heaven lifted his eyes, 
 And long he gazed in holy thought. 
 
 How good! how mighty is He! and how wise! 
 Who all these stars to being brought! 
 
 The sun's fiery course to His will He bends, 
 Compels the moon along her way; 
 
 To fill the soundless depths the water sends; 
 Bids them remain, and they obey. 
 
 Why is the grass upon the earth so green? 
 
 The night so dark? the day so light? 
 Who gave spring flowers? autumn's scene? 
 
 Sweet fruits and grain for man's delight? 
 
 Whose mandate, — " Let there be," — created all? 
 
 And whose breath caused this world to be? 
 Thus musing did the pious pastor fall 
 
 Before his God on bended knee. 
 
 After a moment's pause, upon the tide 
 He turned his eyes once more, and then 
 
 A peasant, leaping over a log, he spied, 
 And saw him jumping back again. 
 
ODYNIEC. 399 
 
 "That's for you, God,*' at ev'ry jump he cries, 
 
 And, jumping back, " this is for me." 
 The pastor viewed the act with much surprise. 
 
 " What are you doing? " questioned he. 
 
 " I pray." " How's that? " the pastor said; " 'tis odd. 
 
 Can it be you know not your prayers? 
 Have you no church? Have you no house of God? 
 
 No pastor who the Word declares?" 
 
 " I knew not from my childhood's early day. 
 
 Amidst the woods I've lived alone, 
 Nor wander hence. I have no time to stray, 
 
 But praise my God as best I've known. 
 
 11 Whether I sow, or gather sheaves of grain, 
 
 Or whether I am making hay., 
 Whether the sun shines bright, or falls the rain, 
 
 I praise and thank my God alway." 
 
 The pastor marveling his knowledge spare, 
 
 Began the worth of prayer to tell, 
 Explained its nature, taught him the Lord's prayer, 
 
 And spoke of God and virtue well. 
 
 And when he deemed that he had well impressed 
 
 His teaching on the peasant's heart, 
 And said the prayers once more with him, he blessed 
 
 The boor, and went his way apart. 
 
 With a slow pace traveling o'er the sand 
 
 He passed at length around the lake, 
 And saw the evening star in luster grand 
 
 Above the hills in beauty wake. 
 
 Through the immensity of heaven's blue, 
 
 Swimming in the effulgent light, 
 Its rays from the lake's bottom glitter through, 
 
 Like memories of past delight. 
 
400 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND. 
 
 Its brightness seemed close to the bottom clasped, 
 
 Like virtue to an upright heart; 
 It will last unchanged, though by whirlpools grasped, 
 
 Though billows over it roar and dart. 
 
 As the mist of the valley upward goes 
 By sunbeams from the meadow caught, 
 
 So the pastor's spirit heavenward rose 
 On wings of happy, pious thought. 
 
 Then he heard a voice. From afar it spake, 
 And, ah! he is filled with sudden fear. 
 
 For, walking on waves of the rolling lake, 
 He saw the peasant drawing near. 
 
 "Wait, O father! wait!" the peasant besought. 
 
 " Repeat the prayers before you go 
 Once more ; for what you told me I forgot, 
 
 Although I wish them well to know." 
 
 The pastor, seeing such strong evidence 
 
 That in God's grace he had a part, 
 Said to him: " Son, in your own way pray hence; — 
 
 More than the words God loves the heart. 
 
 " Before the throne, my son, — first precedence, — 
 
 Your virtue and industry take," 
 The pastor said. The happy peasant thence 
 
 Returned in safety o'er the lake. 
 
JULIAN KORSAK. 401 
 
 JULIAN KORSAK. 
 
 Julian Korsak has a peculiar characteristic of his 
 own in a certain style of lyrical boldness and loftiness, 
 and laudable competition in translations; and another 
 fact which is not to be overlooked is his noble en- 
 deavors (in which he was successful) to beautify the 
 Polish verse with flowers of Eastern poesy. The 
 whole is stamped with these attractions, and forms 
 quite a large volume — "Poetry of Julian Korsak." 
 In this volume his lyrics are flashing with resplendent 
 light. The two-sided soul of his poetry is glistening 
 toward the West with lyrics, and to the East with 
 " Bey ram." 
 
 Korsak has done great service to Polish literature 
 by his translation of the " Divine Comedy " of Dante, 
 upon which he labored for twelve years, — and we may 
 say the best part of his life. In this work, permeated 
 and carried away by the spirit of the great master's 
 Christian poesy, we find many explanations of points 
 in the poem very difficult to understand. 
 
 In the translation of this poem Korsak had not 
 alone in view his own personal fame, but also a con- 
 scientious responsibility; uniting his own spirit with 
 the spirit of Dante, he seemed to have acquired new 
 poetic strength as well as inspiration; all conceptions 
 and thoughts — in fact all the spiritual powers — un- 
 folded within him on the grandest scale, befitting the 
 bard who sung the great theme of Eternity. 
 
 He was born in 1807, and after finishing his educa- 
 tion in the University of Wilno, from 1826 to 1830, he 
 resided alternately at Warsaw and St. Petersburg, de- 
 
402 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND. 
 
 voting his time to still further improvement and cul- 
 ture. After the death of his father he succeeded as 
 heir to a large landed estate in the county of Słonim, 
 and was made the president of the county court ; but 
 at the expiration of his term he returned into rural 
 seclusion and devoted himself to literature and sciences. 
 In the year 1853, in order to improve his failing health, 
 he went to Nowogródek (Newtown), and after a few 
 months' illness died on the 30th of September, same 
 year. 
 
 His work " Poetry " was published at Posen, 1833, 
 and at St. Petersburg, 1839; " Lara," from Byron, 1836; 
 "New Parnassus," translation of Shakspeare's tragedy 
 of " Eomeo and Juliet" ; " Twardowski the Sorcerer," 
 "Dramatic Dialogues," " Camoens in the Hospital," 
 and many fugitive pieces. The " Divine Comedy " 
 was published in 1840. 
 
 THE FROZEN TEAR. 
 
 Soft o'er the white bed falls the moon's pure light; — 
 'Tis bleak and chill, but Love its vigil keeps, 
 
 As maiden hither comes each dreary night, 
 
 And at her loved one's tomb till morn she weeps. 
 
 'Tis bleak and chill, but neither drifting snow 
 Nor wintry storm the maiden's heart appalls. 
 
 She seeks his grave to pray — her sad tears flow, 
 And one bright drop upon the gravestone falls. 
 
 The tear was hot, but, chilled by the cold blast 
 And storm at night, was frozen to the stone 
 
 Like drops of sleet to tree limbs frozen fast, 
 Through all the night all, all the day it shone. 
 
 An angel saw it and with joy divine 
 
 Within his hand the frozen tear-drop bore. 
 
JULIAN KORSAK. 403 
 
 Pity in heaven willed that it should shine 
 A pearl in her bright crown forevermore ! 
 
 MY BELOVED ONE. 
 
 Her lips are ever streaming 
 
 Sweet kisses unto me, 
 Her eyes which light are beaming 
 
 Are light as eyes can be; — 
 How beautiful is she ! 
 
 Oh ! when to me she's speaking 
 
 My .soul her accents hears, 
 And though my heart were breaking 
 
 She'd soothe my grief and tears; — 
 How tender then is she! 
 
 Whene'er her true love greeting 
 
 She moves in airy grace, 
 Their lips in kisses meeting 
 
 And clasped in close embrace, 
 How passionate is she! 
 
 When change's wing soars over 
 Joys green and springing heath, 
 
 Misfortune finds her lover 
 
 And blasts him with his breath, 
 How constant then is she! 
 
 Before a week be flying 
 
 Another love she'll take, 
 And scorn her first love's sighing, 
 
 Although his heart should break; — 
 How fickle then is she! 
 
 She bids her lover smother 
 
 His feeling, and depart; 
 Her hand she gives another, 
 
 But no one owns her heart; — 
 How curst, how curst is she! 
 
404 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND. 
 
 WITWICKI. 
 
 Stephen Witwicki was born at Krzemieniec, in the 
 province of Poclolia, where his father was a professor 
 in the Lyceum. After finishing his education he went 
 to Warsaw, where he obtained a position of great 
 honor and importance, being appointed one of the 
 chiefs in the " Commission of Learning." In the lit- 
 erary fights of those days between the Classics and 
 Romantics he joined the ranks of the latter. He left 
 his lucrative office, preferring to go to France, where 
 he became personally acquainted with Mickiewicz and 
 Zaleski, and turned his mind to the awakening of the 
 true religious feeling of the Polish people. 
 
 Witwicki was a thoughtful, careful, and a finished 
 poet. He wrote ballads, pastorals, and biblical po- 
 etry; also tales in verse, as, for instance, "Edmund," 
 his "Life's Account of a Country Gentleman," 
 "Spring," "A Change," and "The Voices," the last 
 especially of great Christian humility, but full of po- 
 etic power. His moral and literary miscellanies are 
 pleasing and instructive. His "Evenings of a Pil- 
 grim," and in fact all of Witwicki's poetical works, 
 were published in Warsaw, Paris, as also in Leon 
 Zienkowicz's "Library of Polish Poets," Leipsic, 
 1866; his "Gadu-Gadu" (Chit-Chats), at Leipsic in 
 1850, and at St. Petersburg, 1852. This honored bard 
 died in Kome, 1847. 
 
 CUPID. 
 
 A little boy of curious ways, 
 
 With brilliant eyes and rosy lips, 
 
WITWICKI. 405 
 
 With golden hair and damask cheeks, 
 I met with on my morning trips. 
 
 I gazed upon him for a while, 
 
 Thinking he had a tale to tell — 
 When with a lurking, meaning smile, 
 
 He asked me " If my heart was well?" 
 
 But gazing at my visitor 
 
 I saw some arrows 'neath his wing; 
 Aha! said I, there's danger here, 
 
 With this mischievous little thing! 
 
 Again he asked, while there I stood, 
 
 If to his pangs I was a stranger? 
 I answered not, but quickly ran 
 
 From such a sudden, threat'ning danger! 
 
 With panting breast and bosom thrilling 
 At having 'scaped from such a storm, 
 
 I fled unto my Anna's dwelling, 
 To hide beside her lovely form. 
 
 But know ye what betel me there, 
 How I was caught in Cupid's snare? 
 
 I fell exhausted at her feet, 
 
 And lo! the little rogue was there. 
 
 THE WARRIOR. 
 ('"Rrzy mój gniady, ziemie grzebie. ,ł ) 
 
 Yonder stands my sorrel neighing — 
 
 Parting time draws near; 
 Farewell father — farewell mother, 
 
 Farewell sisters dear. 
 
 Haste my steed! the voics calls loudly 
 
 To the battle plain — 
 On the field thou lookest proudly, 
 
 Proudly shak'st thy mane. 
 
406 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND, 
 
 To the field where hosts assemble, 
 
 With the wind away! 
 Let the foe before us tremble — 
 
 We shall win the day! 
 
 'Mid the ranks of dead and dying 
 
 If I chance to fall, 
 Take thy way, my steed, in flying 
 
 Homeward free from thrall! 
 
 Hark ! I hear my sisters calling — 
 Shall we turn my steed? 
 
 No! to where the foe is falling 
 Let us haste with speed! 
 
 JOSEPHINE. 
 
 If thou shalt ever meet 
 
 Spring's sweetest, loveliest rose, 
 With balmy breezes sweet, 
 
 Whose cheek with brightness glows 
 Like Orion's purest light, 
 
 Whose words breathe but delight, 
 And if she ask with love for me 
 'Tis Josephine — be sure 'tis she! 
 
 ii. 
 
 If like the silent stream, 
 
 When flowing without noise, 
 
 Or like the moon's sweet beam, 
 From thoughtless crowds she flies; 
 
 To all she knows is kind, 
 Pure, noble, and refined — 
 
 And if she ask with love for me 
 
 'Tis Josephine — be sure 'tis she ! 
 
WITWICKI. 
 
 407 
 
 III. 
 
 If thou shalt see a tear 
 Roll down her rosy cheek, 
 
 And if she doth appear 
 
 With feeling pure to speak; 
 
 And in her brightest eye 
 Thou shalt see modesty, 
 
 And if she ask with love for me 
 
 'Tis Josephine — be sure 'tis she ! 
 
 iv. 
 
 If thou shalt ever see 
 
 Some orphans or the poor, 
 
 Who driven by poverty 
 Enter her welcome door; 
 
 And if her heart doth beat 
 With sympathy replete, 
 
 And if she ask with love for me 
 
 'Tis Josephine — be sure 'tis she! 
 
 But if thou e'er of love 
 
 To her by chance shalt speak, 
 And if a tear of sorrow 
 
 Do not bedew her cheek; 
 And not a sigh she give, 
 
 Her bosom does not heave, 
 And if she does not ask for me, . 
 My Josephine, — it is not she! 
 
408 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND. 
 
 GOSŁAWSKI. 
 
 Maurice GosŁawski was born in 1805; a man of the 
 noblest heart and most exalted mind; not only one of 
 the greatest Polish poets, but also one of the truest of 
 Poland's sons. Being concerned in the revolution of 
 1831, he was never remiss in duty as a soldier, nor 
 neglected the cause of his country as a patriot. He 
 was so honest and honorable besides, that he had the 
 love of the whole country, and when he died we may 
 truly say that Poland lost not only one of her greatest 
 poets, but she also lost one of the most high-minded 
 and honorable of her sons. His death took place in 
 Stanisławów (Galicia), 1839. 
 
 Almost all of his poetry breathes with most devoted 
 love to his country and a friendly and brotherly attach- 
 ment to the whole people. He is the author of "Po- 
 dolian Wedding," " Renegat," "Banco," and many 
 others. His fugitive pieces are full of great poetic 
 spirit and pathos. 
 
 HAD I THE ROYAL EAGLE'S WING. 
 
 "Gdyby orłem być." 
 
 Had I the royal eagle's wing 
 
 How soon Podolia's air I'd breathe, 
 
 And rest beneath that sunny sky 
 
 Where all my thoughts and wishes wreathe. 
 
 'Tis there I first beheld the light, 
 
 There passed by happiest, earliest years ; 
 
 'Tis there my father's ashes lay, 
 
 Sunned with my smiles, dewed with my tears. 
 
GOSŁAWSKI. 409 
 
 Oh! were I but the regal'bird, 
 I'd fly to where my steps once trod, 
 And where my hopes are buried up; 
 Then change me to an eagle, God! 
 
 Oh ! would I were a brilliant star 
 Whose light illumes Podolia's groves, 
 That I might gaze throughout the night 
 On her, the girl my spirit loves ! 
 
 Then from the silvery clouds I'd send 
 Unto her eyelids visions bright 
 As those soft rays which Luna beams 
 Upon the lakes in summer's night. 
 
 To watch with eyes unseen her steps, 
 To gaze upon her form afar, — 
 My soul's transported with the thoughts ; 
 Change me, O heavens, to a star! 
 
 Why dream the thought, my bursting soul, 
 Thy aspirations are in vain; — 
 Exiled to far and foreign land, 
 Ne'er shall I see my home again. 
 
 Accursed am I ! yon eagle soars, 
 The star of night rolls glittering on ; — 
 My home is far, — my soul is chained, 
 Tears flow around me, — hope is gone! 
 
 UNCERTAINTY. 
 
 Dearest! I keep a secret still — 
 
 A holy secret, all my own; 
 My eyes with tears for sadness fill, 
 
 I smile and make my rapture known. 
 
410 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND. 
 
 But darling ! in those eyes of thine 
 There glistens neither tears nor joy; 
 
 I see not there the doom divine 
 Which shall uplift me or destroy. 
 
 Thou hast no need to tell me twice 
 Of the destruction held in store, 
 
 One look from thee will still suffice: 
 In it are all my hopes — and more. 
 
 My soul 'tis easy to upraise 
 
 To that which makes it paradise; 
 
 Its only need or wish to gaze 
 
 Into the heaven within thine eyes. 
 
RAYMUND KORSAK. 411 
 
 KAYMUND KOESAK. 
 
 Kaymund Korsak was born in 1767, in White Rus- 
 sia, and was a colonel in the Polish army. As a poet 
 he is mostly known by his elegant effusions " To Poe- 
 try," as also by his "Introduction" to the poem of 
 Kev. Baka on iw Infallible Death." 
 
 He died in Podolia, 17th of November, 1817. His 
 friend, Bohusz, erected a monument to his memory, 
 with this inscription: "The memory of a' virtuous man 
 shall outlive ages." He distinguished himself in lyric 
 poetry, especially in the composition of hymns. 
 
 ODE TO GOD. 
 
 Avaunt! ye empires, powers, kings, 
 
 That this too-little earth contains; 
 My Muse a higher theme now sings, 
 
 Heaven's pure regions she attains! 
 
 To her, my Muse, the Alpine height 
 
 Is as the valley spread below; 
 From turbulence she taketh flight, 
 
 From crash of storms that overthrow. 
 
 She speeds aloft on soaring wings, 
 
 And loses in aerial realms; 
 All monuments of earthly things 
 
 Before the glory that o'erwhelms. 
 
 Thou sovereign of birth and death! 
 
 At Thy command, — supreme, divine, — 
 Rose suns and stars and worlds beneath, 
 
 But never was beginning Thine! 
 And what our feeble thoughts transcend, 
 Thou neither yet shalt have an end ! 
 
412 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND. 
 
 Thou sittest on majestic throne; 
 
 Time at Thy word begun its course; 
 All omnipotence is Thy own; 
 
 Of wisdom Thou Thyself a source. 
 
 Stern justice rests within Thy hand, 
 For us Thy mercy still provides. 
 
 O Lord of all! whose sole command 
 Creates, exalts, upholds, divides! 
 
 Thou on unaided power dost rest, 
 Before whose thunder angels quake, 
 
 And through the heavens manifest 
 
 The might that stills when storms awake. 
 
 Thou lightest stars, and dost create 
 
 The rocks that hide not from Thy face; 
 
 Thou rulest o'er all human fate, 
 And with Thy presence fillest space. 
 
 In the beginning, self sustained, 
 Thy will itself created Thee, 
 
 Thy wisdom in its breadth contained 
 Of worlds the vast immensity ! 
 
 Above the chaos spread around, 
 Mid elements confusion rent, 
 
 O'er darkness all unpierced by sound 
 Thy living breath, Thy touch, wast sent. 
 
 Then rose the sun with glowing ray, 
 
 And nature saw creation's day! 
 
 EXTRACT FROM A RELIGIOUS POEM. 
 
 For gifts bestowed since earth I trod, 
 That to my saddened heart were given, 
 
 I thank Thee mostly, O great God! 
 That but a mortal I am here. 
 
GÓRECKI. 413 
 
 GOEECKL 
 
 Anton Goeecki was a writer of lyric poetry and 
 fables. The distinguishing marks of Gorecki's fables 
 are that they are in reality little satires, with a view 
 of pointing out the weak side of the society in which 
 he lived, and to correct faults and foibles in a general 
 way. His ballad "The Doom of the Traitor to His 
 Country " is truly beautiful. "The Taking of the Pass 
 of Samo-Siera " is also an uncommon production. All 
 his fugitive compositions are permeated by genuine wit 
 and patriotic feeling. As a poet his name will always 
 occupy a high place in Polish literature. 
 
 Górecki was born in 1787, in the province of Wilno. 
 His education began at home and in the schools of 
 Wilno, and later he entered the University of Wilno. 
 In spite of the Russian government's orders he made his 
 way through to Warsaw and joined the army. In the 
 campaign of 1812 he distinguished himself as an officer 
 in the battle of Smolensk, and received the cross of the 
 Legion of Honor and participated in all battles. After 
 napoleon's return he went to Cracow to be healed of 
 his wounds. He settled in the country with the rank 
 of captain, and gave himself up to farming pursuits, 
 literature and poetry. After 1815 he traveled in for- 
 eign countries, visiting Germany and Italy. Returning, 
 he settled in Lithuania, and was one of the most active 
 members of the so-called society of "Ragamuffins," 
 but in reality a club of young men of great talent, who 
 published a newspaper called "The Street News," a 
 very celebrated institution of its day. After the break- 
 ing out of the revolution of 1830 Górecki, being a 
 
414 POETS AND POETEY OF POLAND. 
 
 member of the national committee of Wilno, was made 
 agent, and went to Switzerland, London and Paris, 
 where, after the end of the revolution, he remained till 
 after his death. He was in close connections with 
 Mickiewicz, Zaleski, Witwicki and other distinguished 
 men, and shared with them the vicissitudes of a life 
 generally experienced by refugees. He died the 18th 
 of September, 1861. 
 
 His works were published in Paris. "Poetry of a 
 Lithuanian," 1834; "Fables," 1839; "Seyba," 1837; 
 "New Collection," 1858; "Another Little Volume," 
 1859; and "Miscellaneous," 1861. 
 
 DOOM OF THE TRAITOR TO HIS COUNTRY. 
 
 " Śmierć Zdrajcy Ojczyzny." 
 
 The night was dark! The gloomy silence poured 
 Calmness on Nature's breast, to peace restored; 
 Then the pale moon arose to view, 
 And nearer the appointed moments drew 
 
 When spirits, on their tireless wings, 
 Descend beneath the star-beamed glow 
 
 To soothe with sleep the sufferings 
 That mortals know. 
 
 Beside the river 
 
 Which flows forever, 
 Whose turgid billows moan unrest, 
 A stately castle rears its crest. 
 
 There a loathsome traitor lies 
 
 On gilded bed, that gives no ease, 
 And waits for sleep to close his eyes, 
 
 And bring his guilty bosom peace. 
 
GÓRECKI. 415 
 
 Now and again the glimmering light 
 
 That from the costly lamps outshone 
 Showed through the shadows of the night 
 
 The wealth obtained through crime alone. 
 
 With care and labor, year by year, 
 
 Of gold he hoarded many a store. 
 The treasures of the world were here, 
 
 But, lacking peace, he slept no more. 
 
 The moments fly! 
 The town clock, striking solemnly, 
 Tolls twelve — but yet no blessed sleep 
 Doth o'er his weary senses creep. 
 
 Yes ! from his pillow sleep goes hence 
 
 To huts, and lets its blessing fall 
 O'er those who lived in affluence 
 
 Ere for their country they lost all. 
 
 But he, his land's degenerate son, 
 
 Waits still for sleep to bring relief, 
 
 And, trembling like an autumn leaf, 
 Kemorseful shivers through him run. 
 
 Sleepless, he leaves his gilded bed, 
 
 Bends o'er the coffers filled with gold, 
 And thinks to soothe the spirit's dread 
 
 With glittering treasures there untold. 
 
 Hark! through the heavens a roll of thunder crashes! 
 
 The lightnings blaze in ire! 
 
 The flickering lights expire! 
 Backward the door, unhinged, the whirlwind dashes! 
 
 Then the pale moon gleams through, 
 Disclosing to the view 
 
416 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND. 
 
 A stately form, and staid, 
 
 In mourning garb arrayed. 
 
 A still and somber guest, 
 
 With pale hands folded on a bleeding breast. 
 
 Beholding that pale form, 
 The traitor trembles. Whether it is warm 
 With life he knows not, nor can comprehend. 
 His hair stands up on end, 
 And he cries out, " Who tries to frighten me? 
 Speak, or die instantly ! " 
 
 But from the form is heard 
 
 In answer not a word. 
 
 It only nearer draws, with silent tread, 
 
 And sighs instead! 
 
 The traitor then, despite his soul's alarms, 
 Growing more confident, resorts to arms. 
 The trigger pulls in ire! 
 The weapon flashes fire! 
 The bullet, in its eager thirst for blood, 
 Echoes through the air its thud, 
 And strikes the apparition — but it draws 
 
 Nearer, with noiseless pace, 
 A noiselessness that awes, 
 
 And stands before the traitor face to face. 
 
 The phantom on his trembling shoulder lays 
 A hand whose chill dismays, 
 
 So death-like is its clasp! 
 
 His brow is dewed! 
 
 He sinks subdued, 
 Another weapon clutching in his grasp. 
 
 Then spoke a voice in gentle tones, 
 Like brooklet purling o'er the stones, 
 
GÓRECKI. 41 
 
 As musical as sound of lute, 
 
 As sad as winds in church-yard mute. 
 
 11 Hold! for the ball is vainly sped. 
 
 I live not in this world, but with the dead. 
 
 Son, tho' thou wouldst doom me to the grave, 
 
 Yet still I live, and am here to save! 
 
 I see thy soul with keen remorse oppressed, 
 
 And I would win it to eternal rest, 
 
 And I forgive. No mother's heart is won 
 
 To turn against a son! " 
 
 But as she spoke the dwelling rocked, 
 
 As by an earthquake shocked. 
 
 The shades of night made moan, 
 
 And through their shadows thrown 
 
 A dark-winged shape appears. 
 
 And in an awful voice of thunder says: 
 
 " Forgiveness there is none for him who slays! 
 
 Who sheds his brother's blood must reap in tears, 
 
 Stand up therefor 
 
 Before God's judgment evermore 
 Then ceased the spirit. On the couch he cast 
 
 The traitor's lifeless form. 
 His soul he bore away through clouds and blast; 
 
 While moaned the wind, and lightning rent the storm. 
 
 TO A LADY LAUGHING AT A STAMMERING POET." 
 
 Within these few lines are forever recorded 
 
 Two errors: I stammering, you manners unheeding. 
 
 Posterity's judgment will thus be awarded: 
 
 My error was nature, your's lack of good breeding. 
 
 27 
 
418 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND. 
 
 FABLES. 
 THE OXEN AND THE SPANIEL.* 
 
 About a certain farm there arose a dispute. 
 
 A judicial tribunal undertook the suit. 
 
 All the oxen belonging to the farm involved 
 
 Anxiously regarded the question to be solved: 
 
 Who would be their future master? Wishing a report, 
 
 They asked the spaniel to please hasten to the court, 
 
 To ascertain the facts, if anybody knew. 
 
 But the spaniel answered, " Why should that concern you? 
 
 'Tis of no consequence to you, respected friends, 
 
 Who obtains the farm; for, howe'er the matter ends, 
 
 Be it John or Peter, or whatever the name, 
 
 You will be commanded to work on, just the same." 
 
 THE BIG SHIP AND A SMALL BOAT. 
 
 It so happened once beside a coast, 
 
 A small boat, wise in its own conceit, 
 
 Lying in port, tied up to a post, 
 
 And seeing, far out, the wild waves beat 
 
 A large ship, as the storm beset her, 
 
 Said: " Shame! that it can swim no better! " 
 
 Just then more fiercely the wind up blew; 
 
 Lo! the small boat's line was snapped in two; 
 
 And helpless against the rock it crashed, 
 
 Till into small fragments it was dashed. 
 
 THE DROP OF WATER, 
 
 " What would it avail for me, one drop alone, to go 
 Away from my cloud-companions to the earth below? 
 Uselessly would I perish, and do the earth no good." 
 Thus reasoned every drop of the rain brotherhood. 
 
 *Written during the Vienna Congress, 1815. 
 
GÓRECKI. 419 
 
 In consequence of this did a fearful drouth succeed, 
 Till one of the little drops, perceiving the earth's need, 
 Said: "Whether I'll help or not, I'll make a sacrifice." 
 Sodownto earth she dropped from her cloud-home in the skies. 
 Then the heavens sent after her to the parching plain 
 Many more; till, drop by drop, there came a cheering rain 
 That revived the farmer's fields, and saved him from distress, 
 And made his heart o'erflow with joy and thankfulness. 
 'Tis noble to give a good example to others, 
 And make sacrifices for the good of our brothers. 
 
 SPARROWS. 
 
 A FABLE. 
 
 Old sparrows grouping on a tree, 
 
 Very learnedly conversed, 
 
 Finding fault with ev'ry bird, whate'er it be. 
 
 Hoopoo's tuft-head provoked their gossip first. 
 
 The jay, thinking he is pretty, is so vain. 
 
 The golden oriole, like the thrush, is plain. 
 
 The dove pretends modesty, but when she flies 
 
 Her aspiring flight her gentle mien belies. 
 
 The cuckoo, most selfish all the birds among, 
 
 Slips slyly in other neste her helpless young. 
 
 The bullfinch alights upon the highest tree, 
 
 Goldfinch thinks his song the finest melody. 
 
 And a crazy-head, the wagtail he flies, 
 
 As soon as the morning's light begins to rise, 
 
 Out to each nook and corner — everywhere, 
 
 With turned-up tail and eager, prying air. 
 
 But as these birds themselves were only sparrows, 
 
 They at others shot their arrows. 
 
 But idlers they through summer sweet, 
 Who but consumed the farmer's wheat. 
 
420 POETS AND POETRY OB^ POLAND. 
 
 BALIŃSKI. 
 
 Charles Baliński was a poet in every sense of the 
 word. He looked into the future, and wove it into 
 pains and disappointments, longings and anticipations 
 of his own life< In this respect he resembles leaves 
 which, when crushed, give fragrance they could not do 
 before being thus destroyed. 
 
 His poems, modestly entitled "Writings of Baliń- 
 ski," are very well known wherever the Polish lan- 
 guage is spoken. Among them are contained some 
 compositions pertaining to the first epoch of his life, 
 when he was expelled to Siberia. These poems are of 
 remarkable beauty. " Faris, the Bard " occupies the 
 most prominent place. "The Prayer for a Cross" is 
 equally distinguished for poetic power. His transla- 
 tions from Calderon secured for him the first rank 
 among translators. Other original creations of Ba- 
 liński, as "The Yoice of the Polish People," "A 
 Brotherly Word to the Songster of Mohort," "The 
 Cross-Road," "Penned Up," stand high in poetic 
 merits. The rhythmical construction of the verse and 
 the beauty of expression remind one of the painstak- 
 ing and exactness of classic poets. 
 
 A year before his death he sent a part of the poem 
 entitled "The Sufferings of the Redeemer" to the 
 library of Ossolinskis. This splendid literary produc- 
 tion, though incomplete, is written on a more extended 
 poetic scale, well and happily conceived, and rendered 
 with great harmony in a truly masterly manner — a 
 composition which could inspire its author with a just 
 pride. He also left, in manuscript, sketches of Polish 
 
BALIŃSKI. 421 
 
 literature, or rather the development of the national 
 poetic spirit, including specimens of poetic and prosaic 
 Polish authors. 
 
 Baliński was born the 27th of May, 1817, in a vil- 
 lage near the city of Lublin, While at the Lyceum at 
 Warsaw, and after the death of Arthur Zawisza, one 
 of the scholars wrote on the blackboard "Exoviare 
 nostris ex ossibus ultor."* On account of this verse 
 the whole school would have been subjected to the 
 strictest investigation, but the noble youth (Baliński), 
 wishing the scholars of the Lyceum to go unharmed, 
 took the blame upon himself, and was imprisoned, but 
 after a thorough investigation released. However, not 
 long after that occurrence, he was suspected of partici- 
 pating in certain patriotic doings, was arrested, im- 
 prisoned, and finally sent to Siberia, where he re- 
 mained until 1844, but on the birth of the present 
 successor to the Russian throne he was released. 
 While in Siberia Charles lost not only his comely 
 looks, but also his health. The result of this un- 
 toward event was that his affianced, after seeing such 
 marked change in his looks, recanted her promise. 
 In the year 1848, being threatened with another perse- 
 cution, he fled into Galicia (Austria), then into the 
 Duchy of Posen, and at last found a shelter in France, 
 devoting himself to poetry and literary labors. In 
 1863 he returned to his native land to take care of his 
 brother, who was severely wounded, and lay very ill 
 at Cracow From here he went to Lemberg, and 
 found generous assistance in his literary pursuits. 
 The columns of "The Annals of Ossolińskis' Library 1 ' 
 having been opened to him, he continued his poem 
 "Life and Death of the Redeemer," but death pre- 
 * May an avenger arise from our bones. 
 
422 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND- 
 
 vented its finishing. He died on the 10th of January, 
 1864. He was a near relative of Baliński the histo- 
 rian. 
 
 His "Writings" were published at Posen, 1849; 
 "A Few Literary Labors, 1 ' Warsaw, 1846; "Tales for 
 the People,'' Warsaw, 1846; "Brotherly Word," Lon- 
 don, 1857; "A Collection of Poetry," 1856; "The 
 Sufferings of the Redeemer," Lemberg, 1864, etc. etc. 
 
 EXILED PRAYER IN THE SPRING 
 
 Our Father! Thou hast brought the spring again; 
 
 Again Thy hand strews gifts and makes us glad ; 
 Joyful in rich profusion smiles the plain, 
 
 Yet Father, we are sad! 
 
 The winter gloom has swiftly winged away, 
 The heavens above us don their clearest blue; 
 
 But with the grass that springs in fresh array 
 No hopes for us renew. 
 
 Earth hears the birds that throng in joyous troops, , 
 
 Reviving dew upon her bosom lies; 
 Behold the primrose of our hope! it droops — 
 
 For lack of dew it dies ! 
 
 Birds in returning home beyond the sea 
 
 Dip wings with tuneful song in ocean's foam ; 
 
 But we, poor pilgrims — when, alas! shall we 
 Returning find a home? 
 
 The new sun lighting up the world to-day 
 Makes beautiful earth's bosom cold and stark 
 
 But for the exiled sheds no cheering ray — 
 All, all for us is dark! 
 
BALIŃSKI. 423 
 
 But we, so long as any strength is left, 
 
 Will with sad hearts united as in one 
 Pray with the voice of millions thus bereft, 
 
 Give us more sun — more sun ! 
 
 WHAT'S THE USE OF DREAMING? 
 
 What's the use of our love-dreams 
 Of plucking roses — promise beams? 
 
 Roses shun our quest; 
 Now here like the migrating bird 
 We are on the outpost afterward — 
 
 There perchance to rest. 
 
 Hearts, cease your dreaming! it is wrong; 
 Bearing our cross with cheerful song, 
 
 As to a dance go; 
 No more the sword-hilt we shall clasp, 
 But hands shall say in friendly grasp 
 
 God sends joy below. 
 
 Pleasure may come to us at last; 
 Thou knowest, God, the future vast — 
 
 What will meet us there; 
 Thou knowest to whom smiles are dear, 
 And whose grave in the coming year 
 
 Flowers shall make fair. 
 
 THE LIVING CORPSE. 
 
 Near a city there is a grave; 
 Sadly Vistula, wave on wave, 
 By it ripples, but in. the mound, 
 Look you! a living corpse is found. 
 Do not wonder — the world is rife 
 With life in death and death in life. 
 
424 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND. 
 
 The corpse looks forth and courage takes, 
 Sees the people pass to and fro; 
 Friends' kind faces that come and go, 
 Newly hope in his heart awakes. 
 They come to see me then, said he, 
 EvVy one sighs and thinks of me. 
 
 But thinking naught about the dead, 
 Pass the people with rapid tread ; 
 Life is short — it were all in vain 
 To fill their time with thoughts of pain. 
 Let the dead rest in peace, they say 
 And let who lives enjoy his day! 
 
 At last one comes, nor passes by 
 He gazes mournfully around, 
 Throws a flower upon the mound — 
 His brow is pale and sad his eye, 
 Yet hastes he on as others do; 
 Is he afraid of corpses, too? 
 
 Then thought the corpse — oh, thanks to thee 
 My brother, none have thought of me, 
 But all have coldly passed me by, 
 Light of heart, with averted eye, 
 All save thou alone, moaned he. 
 Alas! they've all forgotten me." 
 
KORNEL UJEJSKI. 42f) 
 
 KORNEL UJEJSKI. 
 
 Kornel Ujejski, the bosom friend of one of the 
 most renowned Polish poets (Julius Słowacki), was 
 born in 1823 in the county of Czortkow, in Galicia. 
 He wrote with great perspicuity and finish. His poems 
 are very chaste and classic. The poem written on the 
 death of Adam Mickiewicz only increased his celebrity 
 as a poet. His lt Enamored Bride,'' u The Dreadful 
 Night," ''The Funeral March, " and the biblical melo- 
 dies "Rebecca and Jeremiah"; as also the "Plough 
 and the Sword," are contributions to the Polish litera- 
 ture of the greatest value. We may also add that he 
 is the author of 1 ' The Flowers Without Fragrance," 
 "The Withered Leaves," — compositions of great 
 popularity; but the most popular poetical production 
 of Ujejski, known and sung as it were in every palace 
 and cottage, is his "Hymn of Complaint" — "Z Dy- 
 mem Pożarów," — which was written during the ter- 
 rible uprising of the peasantry, instigated by rascally 
 officials, in Galicia in 1846, when towns and villages 
 were burned and sacked by the infuriated mob. 
 
 At this present time he occupies the honorable posi- 
 tion of a member of the Chamber of Deputies in 
 Vienna, Austria. Mr. Ujejski is a gentleman of high 
 scholarly attainments, urbane and childlike in manner, 
 and highly respected by all classes of his countrymen. 
 Editions of his works in the Polish language have been 
 published in London, Paris, Leipsic, and Posen. 
 
426 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND. 
 
 HYMN OF COMPLAINT. 
 
 (Z Dymem Pożarów). 
 
 ' With smoke of burning — with blood outpouring, 
 
 O Lord! our voice we raise to-day 
 In fearful wailing, in last imploring, 
 
 In bitter sorrow that turns us gray! 
 Songs without murmur we have no longer, 
 
 Pierced are our temples with thorny bands, 
 Like Thy monuments of wrath grown stronger, 
 
 To Thee imploring we raise our liands! 
 
 O Lord! how often Thy hand has scourged us, — 
 
 Our red wounds bleeding and yet unhealed ; 
 We sought Thee vainly when anguish urged us: 
 
 Thou art our Father, and Thou shouldst shield. 
 But when we call Thee with hearts confiding 
 
 Then does the mocker, with fury shod, 
 Trample upon us and ask, deriding, 
 
 Where is that Father? where is that God? 
 
 We search the heavens for sign or token, 
 
 But suns of omen no signs unfold; 
 The silent azure is only broken 
 
 By eagle pinions that soared of old! 
 Our dreams grow fearful — with shadows teeming,- 
 
 By doubts distracting our souls are stirred; 
 By hearts that suffer not rash blaspheming, 
 
 Judge us, O judge not each frenzied word! 
 
 O Lord! what horrors, what woes surround us! 
 
 What days of terror upon us come! 
 The Cains are many whose deeds confound us, 
 
 The blood of brothers will not be dumb! 
 But judge not sternly, — their eyes are blinded, 
 
 Nor see the evil they do, O Lord! 
 
KORNEL UJEJSKI. 427 
 
 O punish instead the baser minded 
 
 Who roused the anger that grasped the sword! 
 
 In our misfortunes Thou still dost hold us 
 
 Close to Thy bosom. We pray for rest 
 Like birds grown weary: — Thy pinions fold us, 
 
 Thy stars shine over our household nest. 
 Thy future favor reveal unto us, 
 
 Thy hand protecting above us spread; 
 Let flow'rs of sufFring to slumber woo us, 
 
 And sorrow's halo surround the head ! 
 
 With Thine Archangel to go before us 
 
 We'll march to battle and win the fight; 
 In hearts of Satans who triumphed o'er us 
 
 We'll plant Thy standard of victor's might! 
 Then erring brethren — of error shriven 
 
 At Freedom's symbol their knee shall bow; 
 To vile blasphemers — the answer given, 
 
 " God is almighty and reigneth now ! " 
 
 UNDER THE GROUND. 
 
 (Pod Ziemie— Pod Zicmig.) 
 Under ground, under ground, — far away from the crowd, 
 
 Let me seek for a peaceable corner; 
 bis laughter disturbs me — this voice is too 
 That sound is like the voice of a mourner. 
 
 I would heap on my threshold sharp thorns to repel, 
 
 Place neai it a lion for warder; 
 All alone with my thoughts undisturbed I would dwell, 
 
 With only my God for recorder. 
 
 Around me this every-day prattling should cease, 
 
 All voices of slander and scheming; 
 Naught to darken the light of my sweet reverie 
 
 When, hand on my head, I am dreaming. 
 
428 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND. 
 
 bow happy to rest from this turmoil, away 
 From cynical sneers, — a calm sleeper, 
 
 Hearing not of the envies — the feuds of the day, 
 Or who in the mire has sunk deeper. 
 
 1 am happier far in beholding them not, 
 
 Our souls are so widely unmated; 
 That I shame when I look on their nature's foul blot 
 To be in man's image created. 
 
 My hand seldom meets in this sycophant throng 
 
 The pressure of. brotherly fingers, 
 And I feel in my heart while its pride surges strong 
 
 That I am the last of God's singers. 
 
 Surround me with quiet and stillness, — surround, 
 
 Save but for the kindred outpouring 
 Of spirits, who soaring on pinions unbound 
 
 Break out into tuneful imploring. 
 
 Where no one will enter to listen to me, 
 Where silence around me shall hover: 
 
 Six feet under ground let my resting-place be, 
 With one narrow board for the cover. 
 
1GNATZ IIOŁOWLŃSKl. 4l M ,) 
 
 IGNATZ HOŁO WIŃSK I. 
 
 Ignatz HołowiŃSKi, Archbishop of Mohilev, and 
 metropolitę of Roman Catholic churches in the Rus- 
 sian empire. He was born in 1807, in Volhynia. In 
 1825 he entered the seminary at Euck, and after finish- 
 ing his theological studies at Wilno die became a chap- 
 lain in 1831. In 1839 he made a pilgrimage to the 
 Holy Land, and in 1842 was made a rector to the 
 Roman Catholic academy at St. Petersburg. In 1848 
 he was named a bishop; three years later (1851) lie 
 was advanced to the high office of Archbishop of 
 Mohilev. He died 7th of October, 1855. 
 
 Among his works we can mention: "Relations of 
 Philosophy to Religion and Civilization,' 1 and several 
 poetical compositions of great merit. He was not only 
 a good poet, but also a distinguished orator. How 
 deeply and effectively he could work upon the feelings 
 of his congregation, the orator at his funeral, who 
 knew him personally, said: "From his lips breathed 
 the Holy Spirit, and his powerful eloquence bore down 
 and crushed superstition and unbelief. He softened 
 the hardest hearts, and awakened from deadly lethargy 
 the most obdurate sinners. He warmed with his piety, 
 and those who shed tears he carried them up to 
 heaven." 
 
 His sermons are the deepest treatises of subjects 
 he tried to preach, and they were delivered in the 
 purest and most charming eloquence. 
 
430 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND. 
 
 THE ORPHAN. 
 
 Hard, indeed, is the orphan's life. 
 
 The orphaned soul has much to dread; 
 To labor on with heart at strife, 
 
 To earn the bitter crust of bread. 
 Oh, fearful lot with sorrow rife! 
 
 Little Josie was left alone 
 
 In her fifth year, — bereaved too young. 
 She from that time had only known 
 
 The charity from strangers wrung. 
 God! save all beneath Thy heaven 
 From charity by strangers given. 
 
 Though pretty as a flower to see, 
 
 Her soul with richest virtue fraught, 
 What hand is offered helpingly? 
 
 Who for the orphan taketh thought? 
 Whether her face be bright with glee, 
 
 Or tears arise from sadd'ning thought, 
 Poor orphan ! all is wrong, — for she 
 
 Can satisfy or please in naught. 
 
 Parents in this God's world below 
 Caress the children that He gives, 
 But she for whom no parent lives 
 
 Doth grieve for all she must forego. 
 
 While all things smile for those around, 
 
 In homes by hope, with blossoms crowned. 
 
 For her alone the world is drear, 
 
 The faces 'round her strange and cold; 
 What flowers upon her path unfold 
 
 She plucks and wets with many a tear. 
 
 Love, sympathy, for her are not. 
 
 Oh, dreary is the orphan's lot! 
 
IGNATZ 110Ł0WINSKI. 481 
 
 When the world shunn'd her in neglect, 
 
 Her soul she raised in fervent prayers, — 
 In heaven her consolation sought, — 
 
 In Him who for the orphan cares, 
 The only happiness she knew 
 
 Her sweetest moments were when she 
 Would kneel beside her mother's grave 
 
 And pray to God most fervently. 
 And it was then that the white dove 
 
 Direct from heaven to her drew near, 
 Caressed her with its snowy wing, 
 
 Coo'd tenderly within her ear. 
 Driving her sorrows all away, 
 
 Until her heart with joy would swell, 
 And then the bird would gather up 
 
 The tears that from her eyelids fell, 
 And gently fluttering her wings, 
 
 Carry them up to paradise. 
 Whether her mother's spirit bore 
 
 These tears to God from out her eyes 
 Who knows? but after every prayer 
 
 This scene, repeated, strengthened her, 
 For further struggles with her fate 
 
 She stronger grew and readier. 
 But when she reached her sixteenth year 
 
 They wearied of her where she dwelt, 
 And on her coldly shut the door, 
 
 So by her mother's grave she knelt, 
 Dewed it with tears in farewell shed, 
 
 Then turning from her native place 
 She followed where her vision led. 
 
 Not far beyond the forest road 
 
 There rose a castle grand and gray, 
 On either side the river flowed, 
 
 And further on a village lav. 
 
432 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND. 
 
 With two attendants at his side 
 
 Its lord was riding, pensive eyed, 
 Across the bridge. Though young, a trace 
 
 Of sadness lingered on his face. 
 Then slackening his horse's rein, 
 
 In silent thought he seemed to brood; 
 Slow paced the steed with drooping mane, 
 
 As though he shared his master's mood. 
 
 And thus, in melancholy-wise 
 
 He neared a grove that lay apart 
 And lifting up his downcast eyes, 
 
 Fear took possession of his heart. 
 For he beheld a stranger maid, — 
 Who walked with folded hands and prayed, 
 
 By white-robed angels circled round,' 
 And in their midst, with heavenly mien, 
 One clad in robes of brightest sheen, — 
 
 Her brow with starry halo crowned. 
 The youth gazed, wonderstruck, and saw 
 
 How from the maiden's lips, at close 
 Of every prayer, — oh, sight of awe! — 
 
 Came forth a beautiful red rose. 
 How with each Ave Maria said 
 
 Fell from her lips a lily white, 
 And these the angels gathered 
 • And wove into a chaplet bright, 
 And offered it unto their queen, 
 Who placed it with a smile serene 
 
 Upon the orphan's bended head. 
 Then passed the vision from his eyes, 
 With fragrance left of paradise. 
 
 The young man fell upon his knees 
 Before the maiden then, as she, 
 
 O'ercome by fear, had turned to flee 
 Because that she was unaware 
 
ignatz hołowiński. 433 
 
 Of all these heavenly mysteries 
 
 That happened round her while at prayer. 
 
 " Oh, do not be alarmed, but stay," 
 
 Cried the abashed and trembling youth. 
 " God's mercy sent you here this day 
 
 A consolation sweet, — in truth. 
 Hear me while I recount to you 
 
 How two brief years ago it was, 
 Heaven took my parents hence; I, too, 
 
 Up to this hour have mourned, — alas! 
 With tears that still mine eyes bedew. 
 
 So deeply was the burden laid 
 
 On me, my life began to fade. 
 But listen: last night in a dream 
 
 My parents came and said to me: 
 1 Oh, why oppose God's will supreme 
 
 In mourning thus incessantly? 
 Know then that we are happier here 
 
 Than when we lingered on the earth, 
 That thou didst love us and revere? 
 
 God will reward thee; though the maid 
 That for thy wife He destineth 
 
 Is poor and but of humble birth. 
 His mother, unto whom she prayed, 
 
 Will stoop and crown her with a wreath.' 
 And I indeed nave witnessed how, 
 
 Amid an angel band but now, 
 She placed the wreath upon thy brow." 
 
 Trembling the maiden looked at him, 
 While blushes dried each falling tear, 
 
 Then as from spheres of seraphim 
 Came down the snowy plumaged dove 
 
 To whisper words of peace and love 
 Into the orphan's listening ear. 
 
434 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND. 
 
 Then Josie raised the youth, who still 
 Kneeled waiting humbly at her feet, 
 And faltered in confusion sweet: 
 
 " God's will be done if 'tis His will." 
 
 And long before the day was done 
 Beside the little chapel's shrine 
 
 The youth and maid together stood. 
 God joined forevermore as one. 
 And Josie to her life's decline 
 
 Relieved the wants of orphanhood. 
 
KRASZEWSKI. 
 
 436 
 
KRASZEWSKI. 437 
 
 KRASZEWSKI. 
 
 Joseph Ignatz Kraszewski, born in 1812, is one of 
 the most prolific not only of Polish litterateurs, but of 
 the world. Only Lopez de Yega and Pere Dumas 
 could approach him in literary fertility. Incredible as 
 it may appear, over two hundred volumes of his 
 miscellaneous writings have been published; and still 
 more astonishing, that all of them are works of great 
 erudition and merit. The most discriminating critic 
 could hardly designate which is the best 
 
 But that is not all: Kraszewski, who at the present 
 writing of this biographical sketch resides in Dresden, 
 •Saxony, is a man of rare qualities of the heart and 
 mind, respected and honored not only by his own 
 countrymen, but also by all the literary men of the 
 world who are personally acquainted with him. His 
 literary creations always aimed to correct the heart and 
 the spirit of his nationality, and to lift up the heart 
 and the spirit of humanity at large. It is for these 
 reasons that the heart of the Polish Nation justly 
 swells with pride that Kraszewski is a Pole, and the 
 son of the same country as themselves. 
 
 Kraszewski labored in almost all branches of litera- 
 ture, and whatever he wrote he wrote upon the founda- 
 tion of truth; truly it may be said that the famous 
 Amalthea was always standing by his side with her 
 " Horn of Plenty," and poured out the poet's thoughts 
 gracefully and with a generous profusion. 
 
 The most extraordinary phenomenon in the history 
 of Kraszewski's life is the ovation which he received 
 year before last (1879) in the city of Cracow, on the 
 
438 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND. 
 
 fiftieth anniversary of his great literary labors. Hun- 
 dreds, and we may say thousands, without distinction 
 of creeds, parties, or opinions, turned out to greet this 
 distinguished veteran of literature, and this great na- 
 tional demonstration lasted for several days. Two 
 monarchs honored him with tokens of their esteem. 
 Kraszewski received these congratulations with mod- 
 esty becoming a great man, representing a great peo- 
 ple. This great celebration was also participated in 
 by many distinguished representatives of other nation- 
 alities; and the interesting fact will go down into his- 
 tory that the pulse of the Polish national heart beat 
 in the year 1879 with as much patriotic fervor as in the 
 days of Poland's glory or her — misfortunes! 
 
 We may add here that the memorable event was 
 also celebrated by the Poles almost all over the United 
 States of America. In the city of Chicago especially 
 the celebration, under the auspices of two Polish socie- 
 ties — "Gmina Polska in Chicago,' 7 and "Kościuszko," 
 was of large proportions and attended by hundreds; 
 not only Poles, but other nationalities. 
 
 A handsome memorial was gotten up, with an appro- 
 priate inscription, and sent to Dresden to the veteran 
 of Polish literature by his admiring and grateful coun- 
 trymen. 
 
 The following are some of his works: ''Miscella- 
 neous Poems," Wilno, 1838; " Anafiełas," or songs 
 from the legends of Lithuania; " Witolorauda," 
 "Hymns of Pain," "Metamorphoses," "Wonders 
 and Failings of the Age," " Lancers and Bondurak," 
 "Four Weddings of Charles," "Iaryna," etc. etc. 
 The works of Kraszewski will prove a precious mine 
 to a future historian. 
 
KRASZEWSKI. 439 
 
 AH ! MY DEAR ANGEL ! 
 "Omój Aniele! pójdźiem połączeni" 
 
 WRITTEN IN YOUNGER DAYS 
 
 Ah! my dear angel! united we'll be 
 
 Through the world, through life, through pleasure and 
 grief; 
 As the green vine that clings 'round the oak tree, 
 And fondles the bark with its tender leaf, 
 Thus will we ever together be! 
 
 As two clear tear-drops that rest in the eye, 
 As two deep sighs from the heart that is true 
 
 Together we'll journey till death draws nigh, 
 You ever with me, I ever with you, 
 
 In this world, in heaven, in the grave! 
 
 Ah ! mv dear angel ! together we'll go 
 
 Through this cold world and through life's changful role, 
 Through storms of autumn, though whirlwinds may blow, 
 
 Ever together thou friend of my soul 
 Like unto two crystal tears! 
 
 THE SEA. 
 
 What has the earth, sea! more beautiful than thou? 
 
 Where in creation dwells a majesty like thine? 
 Nought can destroy in thee the charm to which we bow; 
 In sight of earth and heaven thy grandeur is divine. 
 Thy boundlessness evolved from the creating will 
 Forecasts eternity, and says to pride " Be still ! " 
 
 Whether the sun looks down into thy billowy green 
 
 Or sinks its burning rays in thy translucent breast, 
 Suffusing thee in flames of gold and crimson sheen, 
 Or with the opal glow wherein the dove is dressed: — 
 Whether dark night comes on or Menes pale draws near 
 To leave upon thy waste his traces silver clear, 
 
440 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND. 
 
 Still art thou beautiful — still wonderfully grand! 
 
 The human eye that rests on thy immensity 
 Draws from thy depth high thoughts, to which our souls 
 expand, 
 More precious than the pearls and corals hid in thee; 
 And to thy witching sounds the ear does list amazed; 
 In them we seem to hear how God, the Lord, is praised. 
 
 Thy silence is sublime, and terrible thy roar 
 
 When thy blue field puts on its somber-green attire; 
 In storms thou hurlest thee against the rugged shore, 
 
 Throwing thy snow-white foam from out thy breast in ire; 
 Thou fill'st man's heart with dread lest in thy wild unrest 
 Thou shouldst engulf the earth within thy angry breast! 
 
 BIORO DRAWER AND THE HEAD. 
 
 A certain man renowned 
 
 For learning most profound 
 His bioro drawer showed to me. 
 
 " Behold these papers ! what a store 
 
 I have for thirty years or more 
 Been putting in this drawer," said he. 
 
 " My worthy friend, I tell you true 
 They're full of wisdom — learning too." 
 
 But one who notice chanced to take 
 
 Of all their talk said: "What a pity" 
 (I don't know as it was witty 
 
 For him such a remark to make). 
 
 That which we ever look to find — 
 Wisdom and learning — in the head 
 Were by this gentleman instead 
 
 To his bioro drawer consigned. 
 
SIENKIEWICZ. 441 
 
 SIENKIEWICZ. 
 
 Charles Sienkiewicz was born in Ukraine, and re- 
 ceived his education in the city of Humań; then lie 
 went to Winnica, and finally finished his studies at 
 Krzemieniec. Very soon after he went in company of 
 Zamoyskis and traveled for several years in Europe, 
 but the most of his time was passed in England and 
 Scotland. After his return to his native land he super- 
 intended the extensive library of Prince Adam Czarto- 
 ryiski, at Puławy. After the downfall of the revolu- 
 tion of 1830 he joined the emigration, and leaving 
 Poland, settled in Paris, where he was very diligently 
 engaged in the cause of the Polish emigration. Through 
 his own and Niemcewicz's influence there was estab- 
 lished, in 1838, in Paris, a Polish historical depart- 
 ment, which finally was stocked with a library of 
 30,000 volumes. In his younger days he gave him- 
 self up to poetry. His translation of Walter Scott's 
 " Lady of the Lake'' ranks among the best translations 
 of English poetry into the Polish language. While the 
 chief superintendent of the library of Puławy he em- 
 ployed himself with great self-denial in completing a 
 catalogue of the duplicates of the library. Then he 
 wrote an addition to Bentkowski's " Polish Literature." 
 Besides these he wrote on political economy and "An 
 Account of the Present State of Greece," which he fin- 
 ished in 1830. While in Paris he gave himself up 
 entirely to historical labors, and it was through his ex- 
 ertions that "The Chronicles of the Polish Emigration " 
 were published, from 1835 to 1838, in eight volumes, 
 three of which were exclusively his own labor. He 
 
442 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND. 
 
 then wrote "Treasures of the Polish History," in four 
 volumes — 1839-42 — with valuable additional mate- 
 rials to the history of Poland, which he elucidated in a 
 very learned and interesting manner. In 1854 he pub- 
 lished a work in the French language, " Documents 
 Historiques relatif a la Eussie et la Pologne," in three 
 volumes. Just before his death he finished a manual 
 of Polish history for the high Polish school at Batig- 
 nolle. He died in Paris in 1860. After his death his 
 writings and literary labors were published, in 1864. 
 
 VARSOVIENNE. 
 
 " Oto dziś dzień krwi i chwały." 
 
 Poles, awake ! 'tis your day of glory. 
 
 Arise, oh arise in your might! 
 You will live in deathless story 
 
 Should you fall in your country's fight. 
 Where the rainbow in heaven is beaming 
 
 As he basks in July's brilliant ray, 
 Your white eagle's eye is gleaming 
 As he calls to the glorious fray. 
 
 On, true Poles! See, the foe is before us! 
 
 Sound the charge and the day is won! 
 With our sacred banner spread o'er us, 
 On for freedom and Poland, on! 
 
 ii. 
 The fierce Cossack has mounted his legions, 
 
 Our young freedom to crush in its birth ; 
 But soon o'er his mountain regions 
 
 We'll trample his hopes in the earth. 
 Barbarians! Your visions of booty, 
 
 Though ye triumph, will soon be fled; 
 
SIENKIEWICZ. 443 
 
 For the Pole knows a soldier's duty, 
 
 And will leave you nought but the dead. 
 On, true Poles! etc. 
 
 Kościuszko, arise! and aid us 
 
 To root from the soil our foe, 
 Who has promised, deceived, betrayed us, 
 
 Steeping Praga in carnage and woe. 
 Let the blood of the murderer flowing 
 
 Enrich each grassy tomb 
 
 Where our flow'rets of victory growing 
 
 Shall more gayly, more gorgeously bloom. 
 On, true Poles! etc. 
 
 iv. 
 Parent land, thy children returning 
 
 This day would deserve thy smile, 
 Thy altars with wreaths adorning 
 
 From the Kremlin, the Tyber, the Nile. 
 Years have passed since each exiled brother 
 
 His native land has press'd; 
 Should he fall there now, oh mother! 
 
 On thy bosom he will sweetly rest. - 
 On, true Poles! etc. 
 
 v. 
 Gallant Poles, to the battle rally, 
 
 To humble the tyrant czar ! 
 And in each heroic sally 
 
 Bear the ring in the front of the war; 
 Let that gift of our Poland's daughters 
 
 Be the charm to freeze to foe, 
 While gemmed in an hundred slaughters 
 
 Our symbol of victory will glow. 
 On, true Poles! etc. 
 
444 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND. 
 
 VI. 
 
 ye French ! what bloody arena 
 
 Did the Poles shun in fighting for you? 
 Was it Wagram, Marengo, or Jena, 
 
 Dresden, Leipzig, or Waterloo? 
 When the woild had betrayed to enslave you 
 
 Did the Pole yield to the coward's fears? 
 O brethren! our life-blood we gave you; 
 In return you give us but tears. 
 
 On, true Poles! See, the foe is before us! 
 
 Sound the charge and the day is won! 
 With our sacred banner spread o'er us, 
 On for freedom and Poland, on! 
 
ZMORSKI. 445 
 
 ZMORSKL 
 
 Roman Zmorski, besides possessing great poetic 
 talents, should also be credited with another inesti- 
 mable quality ; — his great ability as a translator. But 
 that is not all. In rendering translations he preserved 
 the spirit and colors of the originals, a fact acknowl- 
 edged by all who read his renditions from the Serbian 
 into the Polish, and who well understood both lan- 
 guages. He was so great an adept in the art of trans- 
 lation that he invariably preserved even the original 
 form. Everything he attempted in literature he in- 
 fused into it a peculiar literary freshness, and this rare 
 virtue especially pervades his translation of the le- 
 gends taken from the literary treasury of peoples still 
 young and unripe in civilization, but strong in the 
 faith of heaven and the love of earth - 
 
 The following translations of Serbian poetry by 
 Zmorski may be mentioned: 1. "National Songs of 
 Serbia," published at Warsaw, 1853; 2. "The Castle 
 of Seven Chiefs,'- founded on tradition, Lemberg, 1857, 
 and a second edition, illustrated by Gerson, Warsaw, 
 1860; 3. "The Royal Prince, Marko," Warsaw, 1859; 
 4. " Lazarica," Warsaw, 1860. Mr. Zmorski, having 
 lived in Serbia and knowing the people and their 
 tongue well, could appreciate the beauty and value 
 of their many songs, and we acknowledge that he has 
 rendered a great service to Polish literature by his 
 conscientious translations, for it has been of great 
 importance to the Polish nation to obtain a correct 
 knowledge of these valiant people, which in our times 
 have been called into a new life. 
 
446 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND. 
 
 The translator, however, for better and more faith- 
 ful rendition, used the blank verse, and if in one re- 
 spect he deprived them of exterior ornaments, on the 
 other hand he preserved strictly the original spirit 
 and the true meaning. He is also the author of 
 "Lesław," a fantastic tale. 
 
 Mr. Zmorski was quite a distinguished Polish poet; 
 was born at Warsaw in 1824, and died in 1866. 
 
 SIGHS FROM A FAK-OFF LAND. 
 
 In a strange and cold land, 
 
 Strangers on ev"ry hand, 
 Sadly, wearily, time passes o'er. 
 
 Oh! billows pearly white, 
 
 Vistula's sands gold bright, 
 When, oh when shall I see you once more? 
 
 The weary soul must stay, 
 
 Though fain would fly away, 
 For all the time her dreams are of thee; 
 
 Narev's and Buh's * shores afar 
 
 My mem'ry's flowers are 
 Remembrance of happy days. Ah, me! 
 
 As with Masovia's f song, 
 
 So sad, so wild, and strong, 
 The old woods roar in my ears alway; 
 
 In cemeteries' shade, 
 
 From graves where sires are laid, 
 I listen to what their spirits say. 
 
 Dear brethren, kindred band! 
 Woods of my fatherland! 
 
 * Narev and Buh, names of two rivers, 
 t Masovia, a province of Poland 
 
ZMOKSKI. 447 
 
 Ye plains! and our godly world and best! 
 
 I with my thoughts and heart 
 
 Am ne'er from you apart, 
 Your own spirit breathes within my breast. 
 
 My strength and sword ye are, 
 
 My chief and brightest star 
 Midst storms, heat and cold and wandering; 
 
 When grief has passed away, 
 
 God at some future day 
 A resurrection hymn will let us sing. 
 
 IN PEASANT'S CLOTHES. 
 
 Like peasants, brethren, let us dress, 
 
 If you wish the people to lead; 
 Our love alone does not express 
 
 Enough. To dress like them we need 
 
 Minds o'er whom foil} 7 holds the sway, 
 
 Who feel the ridicule of fops, 
 Let them speak in a foreign way 
 
 And put on clothes from foreign shops. 
 
 Whom fashion vain a god has made, 
 And whose contempt the people know, 
 
 Let him in foreign clothes arrayed, 
 Wear the apparel of the foe. 
 
 Where Kosciuszko's steps have led 
 
 Let's follow in the people's dress; 
 Let spirit and appearance wed 
 
 The Polish nation, bind and bless. 
 
 Like peasants, brethren, let us dress, 
 
 If you wish the people to lead; 
 Our love alone does not express 
 
 Enough. To dress like them we need. 
 
448 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND. 
 
 ZMICHOWSKA. 
 
 Narctssa Zmichowska (Gabryela), a sweet and 
 charming poetess, was born at Warsaw on the 4th of 
 March, 1819. A sepulchral mound raised to her 
 memory only two years ago will be a place of pilgrim- 
 age to all who appreciate genius and unblemished char- 
 acter. Three days after she was born her mother died, 
 and Narcissa was left an orphan. This orphanage has 
 left traces of deep sadness on her; she was not, how- 
 ever, left without a good guardianship, her aunt took 
 her and brought her up with the greatest care. Under 
 her eyes the young flower of a maiden began to bloom 
 and develop most charmingly, She very early evinced 
 extraordinary capabilities for learning and quickness of 
 comprehension, and gave great promise of future dis- 
 tinction. Besides that, another great and exalted feel- 
 ing began to unfold itself in Gabryela, and that was 
 the patriotic love of her country. One of her brothers, 
 who was concerned in the revolution of 1831, was com- 
 pelled to emigrate into foreign lands, and for him, the 
 unfortunate wanderer, she felt the greatest affection. 
 
 She received her initiatory education at the home of 
 her aunt, and then she was sent to the Young Ladies' 
 Pension, under the supervision of Madam Wilczyńska, 
 the best institution of the kind in Warsaw. Under the 
 guidance of this distinguished preceptress, fitting her- 
 self for a teacher, Narcissa finished her course with 
 eminent success. She was then employed in the 
 family of Count Zamoyski as a private teacher, and 
 finally settled in Paris. Here for the first time she 
 tried her hand at composition and wrote a few pictures 
 
ZMICHOWSKA. 449 
 
 of her travels— "Gibraltar," and "The Ruins of 
 Luxor," which were published in the "Warsaw Li- 
 brary" in 1842. The third piece, entitled "The 
 Storm," was published in the periodical called "The 
 Star." These poetic pictures attracted great attention; 
 the scenes, the word-painting, the richness of fancy 
 and loftiness of thought, were greatly admired by all, 
 litterateurs not excepted. Jachowicz, the poet, was 
 enchanted with these novel effusions, and while read- 
 ing the effusion "The Storm" predicted great fame to 
 the young authoress. 
 
 The residing in Paris had a great influence in un- 
 folding Narcissa's genius. Paris in those days was 
 the place of abode of the most distinguished Polish 
 poets. Mickiewicz, Słowacki, Krasiński, and Goszczyń- 
 ski were still living, and Narcissa became acquainted 
 with them all. Bohdan Zaleski, who is still living, 
 was also among them. Her poem "Happiness of the 
 Poet" was published in " The Violet," where the in- 
 fluence of Mickiewicz is plainly seen; but aside from 
 that, we here discover in the sound of this young 
 poetess' lute a combination of the manly power of 
 expression with woman's tenderness of feeling. 
 
 The originality of her poetic talent is still more 
 strongly depicted in her later compositions. A copious 
 collection in prose and verse was published at Posen 
 in 1845, entitled "Idle Hours of Gabryela." They 
 contain larger poems, fugitive pieces, and also tales in 
 prose. The critics welcomed their appearance unani- 
 mously. They justly saw in Gabryela a new shining 
 star in the heavens of native literature. 
 
 The poetess, who carried in her heart the ideal of 
 justice and love, oftentimes touches in her creations 
 the strings of social degradation, misery, and egotism. 
 
450 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND. 
 
 Whenever she mentions these subjects her heart swells 
 with feeling either of contempt, pity, misery, or unrest. 
 A great knowledge of human nature characterizes all 
 her writings, especially her tales written in prose. 
 Indeed, there are but few authors who possess a deeper 
 feeling and a more extensive store of psychological 
 knowledge. Eeturning to the enumeration of her works 
 we can mention the following: " The Curse," "The 
 Problem," "Uncertainty," "Certainty," "Weary," 
 "Eeality," "The Kind Maiden," " Longing," " En- 
 chantment," " Impossibility," "The Gift," "What I 
 Would Give You," "For the Loved Ones," "The 
 Orphan," and "To My Little Girls," which we give 
 below. 
 
 Although the ideal principally illumed her path, 
 yet with her exalted thoughts and quick comprehension 
 of the great problems of humanity, she united every- 
 day practical knowledge of life; her life was a unity of 
 all these, and hence the reason why it was so harmo- 
 nious and beautiful. At this time there was no lack of 
 distinguished women in Poland; yet Zmichowska did 
 not occupy a second place among them for reasons 
 above mentioned. 
 
 There is considerable similarity between Gabryela 
 and George Sand; there is a striking resemblance be- 
 tween the richness of their language and loftiness of 
 their style; they were alike in the deep knowledge of 
 the human heart; there was a similarity in their noble 
 thoughts and sympathies. If there was any difference 
 between these two genial women it falls to the credit 
 of Gabryela. She was a true Polish woman, and that 
 preserved her from unbelief and the fanciful attempts 
 as to the emancipation of women. Religion and the 
 old Polish traditions, which put women on the highest 
 
ZMICHOWSKA. 451 
 
 possible plane, kept her mind away from traveling the 
 
 pathless track. It cannot be denied that her mind had 
 somewhat traveled through the philosophical causeways 
 of doubt as other reflecting and independent minds do 
 travel ; but she returned to the path of faith and affir- 
 mation, led by the above mentioned Polish traditions. 
 
 Much of her time was occupied in the education of 
 young ladies, and that gained for her a great reputa- 
 tion as one of the most accomplished and successful 
 teachers in the country. Besides the invaluable influ- 
 ence she exerted by her writings and educating young 
 ladies, she had still greater influence upon society by 
 fostering and keeping up the patriotic spirit. She was 
 kind, affable, and winning in her manner, and knew 
 how to address the young generation in her familiar 
 conversations with them. In fact, she was sure to im- 
 prove the hearts and minds of all those who came in 
 contact with her. 
 
 She lived alternately in the provinces and in War- 
 saw, and after the year 1863 she went to France to 
 attend the funeral of a beloved brother, who died there 
 while a wanderer in a strange land. Her brother's 
 death seemed to have thrown a shadow over her life, 
 and those who personally knew her in her own coun- 
 try, always full of energy and activity, could hardly 
 realize the change that had taken place in her, she 
 became so unspeakably sad. Yet toward the end of 
 her life her wonted energy returned. The sight of 
 many young persons who grew up, as it were, amidst 
 the ruins without losing their patriotic spirit, revived 
 her energies, and she again became an arduous and 
 tireless co-laborer for the general good and usefulness 
 of the whole country. 
 
 In her elegiac poem " Why Am I So Sad ? " which 
 
452 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND. 
 
 is one of the most touching compositions of the kind 
 in the Polish language, guessing at the many probable 
 causes of her sadness, she intimates in the most feel- 
 ing and yet the most delicate manner that she loves 
 some one, but not being allowed to divulge the secret 
 to the world, she says she can confide it only to God. 
 Her last labor was a tale, printed in the news- 
 paper " Wiek " (The Age), entitled " Is This a Tale ? " 
 She wrote it with almost benumbed hand, and when 
 she was not able to write herself on account of long- 
 suffering pain, she dictated it from a bed of sickness, 
 and was very anxious and much concerned about this 
 last literary effort of her life, it being a testament of a 
 living spirit. Upon this story one could expand a 
 studium upon the development of her mind and its 
 fullness at the last hour. 
 
 With little diminutive analyses of feeling as to the 
 relations of every-day life, there existed in the mind of 
 Gabryela a lofty soaring of the -mind, encompassing 
 great expanse and numerous visions. She was, as she 
 herself says, very bashful and at the same time auda- 
 cious in her spirit conceptions, which gave to her 
 writings a stamp of independent originality. Her 
 works carry one away into the regions of fancy, and then 
 again furnish a solid food for reflection. They appear 
 like the antique cameos, of which one is uncertain 
 which to admire the most — the striking expression of 
 the sculptured relief or the unaffected subtlety of the 
 finish. 
 
 Zmichowska expired on the 26th of December, 1876, 
 surrounded by a great but mourning circle of relatives 
 and sincere friends. Before her death she received 
 many heartfelt tokens of respect and gratitude of 
 people advanced already in years, as well as from the 
 
ZMICHOWSKA, 453 
 
 younger generation, as a woman whose task to labor 
 for the good of all was the chief and only aim of her 
 noble life, full of trials and sacrifices. 
 
 Gabryela was buried in Warsaw on the 28th, from 
 the Church of All Saints. She was followed to the 
 grave by a great concourse of people, almost all repre- 
 sentatives of mental and patriotic life. The youth of 
 the University carried the precious remains from the 
 catafalque to the grave. 
 
 FANCY FLIGHTS. 
 
 He. I'll take a candle, lantern, and a burning brand, 
 To search if there's an honest girl in the land. 
 
 She. I'll take the moon, the stars — I'll take the bright sun, 
 To find a man with loving heart — perhaps there's one. 
 
 He. I have looked, I have searched, till convinced in the matter, 
 To find a good girl man must shake his gold at her. 
 
 She. I've looked with persistence, and it's plain to be seen 
 That men can love deeply — love themselves, I mean. 
 
 He. I ha*ve found one very honest — one I could adore ; 
 Quiet and pretty, — a painted doll in a store. 
 
 She. After much painstaking I've found the one I thought, 
 A handsome, gay warrior, but on canvas wrought. 
 
 He. Just let the painted doll show feeling in her eyes, 
 The warrior might to horseback from canvas arise. 
 
 She. If the young warrior on the horseback sat 
 
 He might find the painted doll's heart went pit-a-pat. 
 
 LONGING. 
 
 I yearn in winter for the flowers to blow, 
 
 And when they give me greeting in the spring, 
 I long for the while bind-weeds blossoming, 
 
 And with its blossoming a flake of snow. 
 
454 POETS AND POETKY OF POLAND. 
 
 For brotherly companionship I yearn, 
 
 When with my brother — then for you I long. 
 With you the yearning for my God grows strong 
 
 With Him my longings for the world return. 
 
 The good and evil that constrains my soul 
 Whate'er I long for — whatsoe'er I fear, 
 My thoughts and impulses from year to year, 
 
 As my own life, are but a longing whole ! 
 
 TO MY LITTLE GIRLS. 
 
 My little girls, you haste too much your gaze 
 
 Into the future and believe its days 
 
 Will like paymaster just to pay all due 
 
 From its stores large interest render you. 
 
 But o'er this. thought old people shake their heads, 
 
 The hope of happiness a false light sheds 
 
 To them ; yet listen ! there is happiness, 
 
 It even comes this weary world to bless; 
 
 Your years is happiness — so innocent 
 
 The childish and the youthful sweetly blent; 
 
 Without experience but without care 
 
 Your bread for coming morrows to prepare, 
 
 Whether exhausted pleasure's sources bright, 
 
 Whether till eve will linger morning's light. 
 
 Blessed the first spring days so glad, so free; 
 
 Blessed the joyful days of youth; for thee 
 
 The trees' perfume, the nightingale's refrain; 
 
 Bodah, the poet, sings for thee this strain: 
 
 " Thou'rt a dream of flowers, a golden dream; 
 
 Ideal of faith and virtue — pure, supreme." 
 
 But o'er these dreams, — o'er freedom, too, in truth,- 
 
 There's still a greater happiness, O youth ! 
 
 Yes, 'tis still greater, more alluring still. 
 
 It's voice is soft and innocent. It will, 
 
ZMICIIOWSKA. 455 
 
 With prayer to God, — pure, earnest and sincere, — 
 
 So softly breathe " I love thee,"' sweet and clear. 
 
 Yet waits a greater happiness than this, 
 
 When love for love is given. That is bliss ! 
 
 Then will your heart with stronger pulses beat, 
 
 And warmly throb with rapture new and sweet, 
 
 And in it find new strength, and talent wake 
 
 As from a dream, high tasks to undertake. 
 
 But there is happiness e'en this above. 
 
 'Tis that of great Humanity's best love, — 
 
 Real love of Christ that warms us as the sun; 
 
 In God's word is bread for every one, 
 
 In life on earth amid the crowd alway, 
 
 In light of wisdom and the light of day; 
 
 In thoughts of our ancestors we recall, 
 
 In labor and salvation unto all; 
 
 In merciful forgiveness of our sins 
 
 Through that surpassing love that gently wins. 
 
 My little girls, let ev'ry one believe 
 
 That happiness like this she will receive. 
 
 Let each pursue it, look for it, and know 
 
 That beauty, joy and study, even woe, 
 
 Were given you as help most wise and kind 
 
 That you at last sad happiness might find. 
 
 Epitaph. 
 
 Here at all times all things are full of gloom. 
 He who indifferent is will grieve you. 
 He whom ardently you love will leave you, 
 And who loves you is laid within the tomb. 
 
 Here there is naught to comfort or to cheer; 
 Here suffering is your portion ever. 
 Oh! better 'tis to sleep and waken never; 
 'Tis better in the quiet grave than here. 
 
456 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND. 
 
 OLIZAROWSKI. 
 
 Thomas Olizarowski, a prolific and popular writer 
 of poetry, such as "Dumki" (mournful poems) and 
 Sonnets. He also wrote several humorous pieces, 
 which were much admired. His greater poems, such 
 as "Solemn Praises," "Psalms," and "Complaints," 
 gained for him a wide reputation. His '.'Tales in 
 Verse," the best of which is "The Storm," and a poem 
 in the romantic spirit, "Bruno," are classed among the 
 first productions of the kind. 
 
 It is a matter of regret that we have no particulars 
 of this poet's life. His works were published at Cra- 
 cow, 1836-9, and at Breslau, 1852. He also com- 
 posed a drama, " Vincent from Szamotuł," which was 
 published in 1850. 
 
 BE MINE. 
 
 How difficult to gain 
 
 From your sweet lips one word, 
 
 Must I seek in vain, 
 
 Content with hope deferred? 
 
 How dearly I love thee; 
 
 Speak! let me know my fate. 
 I can no longer wait 
 
 Whate'er my sentence be. 
 
 Beauty must have her way, 
 
 Yet grant to me some sign; 
 Quite wild with love I pray, 
 
 Ah! darling, be thou mine! 
 
OLIZ AKOWSKI. 457 
 
 LUCINA AND THE STREAM. 
 My Lucina doth resemble 
 This clear stream, whose waters tremble; 
 'Tis her lovely image surely, 
 For it flows so gently, purely. 
 
 But when I recall how yonder 
 Streamlet parts its banks asunder, 
 I incline to think I wrong her, 
 That the likeness holds no longer. 
 
 For I know her nature tender, 
 Kindest service seeks to render; 
 That she would if in her power 
 Join these severed banks this hour. 
 
 Therefore she cannot resemble 
 This clear stream, whose waters tremble; 
 For these shores she would not sever 
 Keeping each apart forever. 
 
 CHLOE AND THE STUMP. 
 
 Oh, how much this object here 
 Reminds me of my Chloe so dear; 
 I mean this quiet, silent stump, 
 As crooked 'tis as she and plump. 
 
 But then this stump in silence rests, 
 Secluded from all noise and strife, 
 And no bad temper manifests; 
 It leads a peaceful, quiet life. 
 
 Not so with my beloved Chloe, 
 From quiet she is far, I know; 
 In angry tones she scolds at me 
 If things are not as they should be. 
 
 No, I am sure 'twas a mistake; 
 No real resemblance can I make; 
 Would she like it were free from guile, 
 Nor storming at me all the while! 
 
458 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND. 
 
 A. A. JAKUBOWSKI. 
 
 In closing this collection of poets and poetry of 
 Poland, the editor introduces one more name, which 
 will ever remain green in his memory, and which so 
 vividly reminds him of his own life's changes and its 
 vicissitudes. Young Iakubowski was his political fel- 
 low prisoner at Briinn and Trieste, and the companion 
 of his youth, and, what is more, born and brought up 
 in the same part of Poland. He was a young man of 
 great poetic genius, and by his early death Polish lit- 
 erature has lost much. Moreover, he possessed noble- 
 ness of character and kindness of disposition such as 
 are rarely found. He composed many fugitive pieces 
 of great poetic beauty, some of which we're translated 
 and published many years ago in a small volume en- 
 titled "Remembrances of a Polish Exile," but we 
 could not obtain a copy. 
 
 Iakubowski prided himself much in being a relative 
 of the poet Malczewski, and while engaged as a teacher at 
 Stockbridge, Massachusetts, he heard that the brother 
 of the poet was a general in the Mexican army. He 
 went to Mexico and found him, but the haughty man- 
 ner of his proud relative wounded the spirit of the 
 youth, and he returned to the United States very much 
 depressed. He never seemed to recover from this 
 check to his sensitive and poetic soul, and amidst, un- 
 satisfied aspirations and ruined hopes death claimed 
 him for his own at the age of twenty-two years. 
 
 ODE TO NAPOLEON, 
 i. 
 
 Great as thou wert, Napoleon ! thou lost but little blood 
 In the mighty cause of liberty, the holy and the good. 
 
A. A. JAKUBOWSKI. 459 
 
 Thou thoughtst alone on how another gem 
 
 Thou'dst place upon thy empire diadem, 
 
 Or how another pearl thou'dst find 
 
 To add unto thy wreath, 
 
 That, placed in Fame's high towering dome, 
 
 Shall never yield to death. 
 
 ii. 
 Like some volcano on the plain, 
 Thou poured on earth thy burning rain, 
 Made monarchs tremble at thy word, 
 And balanced Europe on thy sword. 
 Gay wert thou with honor, 
 Sad with glory, too, wert thou, 
 For the darkness of ambition 
 Sat enthroned upon thy brow. 
 Not only kings didst thou hurl down, 
 But for a while 
 
 E'en fate did wait upon thy smile 
 And tremble at thy frown. 
 
 in. 
 E'en as the ocean, wave on wave, 
 Fights 'gainst the rocks its waters lave, 
 And vainly makes its surges roll; 
 So did those base and paltry things, — 
 Europe's hereditary kings, — 
 Fight 'gainst thy adamantine soul. 
 
 iv. 
 And e'en when exiled o'er the sea, 
 They trembled at the thoughts of thee; 
 And though the iron bolt of fate 
 Had crushed and left thee desolate, 
 There was a magic in thy name 
 No spell on earth could e'er resemble, 
 To make the wildest monarch tame, 
 The boldest conqueror tremble. 
 
INDEX 
 
 PAGE. 
 
 List of Illustrations . . '5 
 Polish Accented Letters 6 
 Pronunciation of Polish 
 
 Poets . . . . .7 
 
 Introduction . . 11 
 
 History of Polish Poetry 17 
 
 Key— 
 
 Sketch of Life ... 36 
 
 Virtue 37 
 
 Vice 38 
 
 What Poland was 340 years 
 
 ago 38 
 
 A Thought . . . .38 
 Anecdote .... 38 
 Useless the yield, etc. . . 39 
 Kochanowski — 
 
 Sketch of . . . .41 
 The Greatness of God . . 42 
 Thren I .... 43 
 ThrenVII .... 44 
 Thren IX . . . .44 
 Thren X . . . . 45 
 
 Thren XIII ... 45 
 From Canto XIII . . .46 
 Tales of St. John's Eve . 47 
 
 Excerpts 53 
 
 Klonowicz — 
 
 Sketch of .... 54 
 Merits of Poland . .56 
 
 M liskowski — 
 Sketch of . . . .58 
 Dialogue between Death and 
 a Young Maiden . . 58 
 
 SZYMONOWICZ — 
 
 Sketch of . . . .60 
 Sielanka (Pastoral) . . 61 
 Sielanka XIV, Jealous Wife 64 
 Epigrams .... 68 
 Zimorowicz — 
 
 Sketch of 69 
 
 Song 70 
 
 Sielanka 71 
 
 Sielanka .... 72 
 Sielanka 72 
 
 Gawiński— 
 
 Sketch of . . . .74 
 Pastoral (Sielanka) . . 74 
 Bones on the Battle Field . 77 
 Soldier Slain ... 77 
 The Ploughman and the 
 Lark 77 
 
 Drużbacka — 
 
 Sketch of . . . .79 
 ' Spring 80 
 
 Sarbiewski — 
 Sketch of . . . .81 
 To the Cicada . . .82 
 To Liberty .... 83 
 A Thought . . . .87 
 
 Konarski— 
 
 Sketch of . . . .88 
 
 Naruszewicz — 
 
 Sketch of .... 92 
 Consultation of Animals . 95 
 Who is Foolish . .97 
 
 Kniazńin — 
 
 Sketch of . . . .99 
 A Reverie .... 100 
 Eternity . . . .101 
 Religion .... 101 
 
 31 orawski — 
 
 Sketch of ... . 102 
 Giermek .... 103 
 
 Karpiński — 
 
 Sketch of . . . .111 
 Morning Hymn . . 113 
 Evening Hymn . . .113 
 Yearnings in the Spring 114 
 Peace that Virtue Brings 115 
 
 Woronicz— 
 
 Sketch of .... 117 
 From the Temple of the 
 
 Sybil 120 
 
 Love and Virtue . • 121 
 The Poles . . . .121 
 
 Krasicki — 
 Sketch of . . . . 123 
 
 461 
 
462 
 
 INDEX 
 
 PAGE. 
 
 The War of Chocim . . 128 
 How much to Drink . 135 
 Drunkeness: A Satire . 136 
 Fables : The King . . 139 
 The Lazy Oxen . . .139 
 The Mosquito and the Fly 139 
 The Boys and the Frogs . 140 
 The Ram and the Jackass 140 
 The Standish and the Pen 141 
 The Dog and his Master . 141 
 The Tallow Candle and the 
 
 Torch .... 141 
 The Fool and the Sage . 142 
 The Tortoise and the Mouse 142 
 The Haughty Rat . . 143 
 The Cat and the Hound . 143 
 The Two Painters . . 143 
 The Child and the Rod . 144 
 The Shepherd and his 
 
 Sheep .... 144 
 The Captive Bird . .145 
 The Philosopher . . 145 
 
 Wengierski — 
 
 Sketch of . . . .146 
 My Wife .... 147 
 What one Likes . . . 148 
 
 Trembecki — 
 
 Sketch of .... 151 
 Baloon 153 
 
 Niemcewicz — 
 Sketch of .... 157 
 America and Gen'l Wash- 
 ington 165 
 
 United States ... 166 
 Duma Gliński . . .167 
 Duma Potocki . . . 171 
 Fastidiana . . . .175 
 
 Dmochowski — 
 
 Sketch of . . . . 184 
 Cracow's Environs . . 185 
 Castle of Oycow . . 185 
 
 Minasowicz— 
 
 Sketch of . . . .186 
 The Maiden and the Rose 186 
 What you are . . . 187 
 
 Feliński — 
 Sketch of . . . .188 
 Polish National Hymn . 188 
 From the Tragedy of Bar- 
 bara Radziwił . . . 190 
 
 Kropiński — 
 
 Sketch of . . . . 191 
 
 
 PAGE. 
 
 Human Life . 
 
 . 192 
 
 A Fragment from his Elegy 
 
 of Hedwige, Queen 
 
 of 
 
 Poland .... 
 
 194 
 
 Osiński — 
 
 
 Sketch of . 
 
 . 195 
 
 In Praise of Copernicus 
 
 196 
 
 Wybicki — 
 
 
 * Sketch of 
 
 . 200 
 
 Poland is not yet Lost . 
 
 201 
 
 Mickiewicz— 
 
 
 Sketch of . 
 
 . 203 
 
 Primrose . . 
 
 210 
 
 Ode to Youth 
 
 . 212 
 
 New Year's Wishes 
 
 214 
 
 To M— .... 
 
 . 215 
 
 A Moment and a Sparkle 217 
 
 From the " Ancestors " 
 
 . 217 
 
 From Faris . 
 
 . 218 
 
 From the same 
 
 218 
 
 Father's Return . 
 
 . 218 
 
 Childe Harold's Farewell 
 
 to his Native Land . 
 
 222 
 
 Translation of the same into 
 
 Polish .... 
 
 223 
 
 Brodziński — 
 
 
 Sketch of 
 
 . 228 
 
 The Father and his Son 
 
 . 232 
 
 The Old Man . 
 
 . 233 
 
 Slander . . 
 
 235 
 
 Friendship . 
 
 . 235 
 
 Wiesław .... 
 
 236 
 
 Krasiński — 
 
 
 Sketch of . 
 
 . 257 
 
 Pray for Me . . . 
 
 264 
 
 Ever and Everywhere 
 
 . 264 
 
 To a Lady 
 
 265 
 
 Once I asked the Day 
 
 . 266 
 
 Resurecturis 
 
 267 
 
 SłOWACKI — 
 
 
 Sketch of .... 
 
 273 
 
 I am so sad, God . 
 
 . 280 
 
 Extracts from Słowack 
 
 i's 
 
 Tragedy, Mindowe . 
 
 , 282 
 
 Garczyński — 
 
 
 Sketch of . . . 
 
 290 
 
 Military Sonnet . 
 
 . 292 
 
 Conversation . 
 
 293 
 
 Zaleski — 
 
 
 Sketch of . 
 
 . 295 
 
 The Poet's Song . 
 
 297 
 
 'Tis different with us . 
 
 . 298 
 
INDEX. 
 
 463 
 
 
 PAGE. 
 
 Unas inaczej (the sanie 
 
 in 
 
 Polish) .... 
 
 299 
 
 To my Guitar 
 
 . 302 
 
 Jachowicz — 
 
 
 Sketch of .... 
 
 303 
 
 Sunset .... 
 
 . 305 
 
 The Little Orphan . 
 
 306 
 
 Mother's Warning 
 
 . 307 
 
 The Little Jewess . 
 
 307 
 
 The Widow's Mite . 
 
 . 308 
 
 Korzeniowski— - 
 
 
 Sketch of . 
 
 309 
 
 The Last Labor . 
 
 . 311 
 
 Wasilewski — 
 
 
 Sketch of .... 
 
 314 
 
 Upon the Rocky Shore 
 
 . 316 
 
 Memory's Tear 
 
 317 
 
 Jaśkowski— 
 
 
 Sketch of . 
 
 . 318 
 
 A Tale .... 
 
 318 
 
 Zan— 
 
 
 Sketch of . 
 
 . 323 
 
 Triolets .... 
 
 326 
 
 Gaszyński — 
 
 
 Sketch of . 
 
 . 328 
 
 Shakspeare (A Sonnet) 
 
 330 
 
 When by the Shores of your 
 
 Beloved Land 
 
 331 
 
 The Young Warrior and the 
 
 Swallow . 
 
 . 332 
 
 Envy 
 
 333 
 
 BOGUSŁAWSKI — 
 
 
 Sketch of . 
 
 . 334 
 
 She only Laughed . 
 
 334 
 
 Len arto wicz — 
 
 
 Sketch of 
 
 . 336 
 
 Ever .the Same. 
 
 338 
 
 Deotyma — 
 
 
 Sketch of 
 
 . 343 
 
 Symphony of Life . 
 
 345 
 
 Berwiński — 
 
 
 Sketch of 
 
 . 358 
 
 The Exile's Song . 
 
 359 
 
 On the Lake Gopło . 
 
 . 359 
 
 Malczewski — 
 
 
 Sketch of .... 
 
 364 
 
 Extracts from " Marya ' 
 
 . 367 
 
 Goszczyński — 
 
 
 Sketch of . 
 
 371 
 
 Conscience . 
 
 . 375 
 
 New Year's Prayer 
 
 376 
 
 Pol— 
 
 Sketch Of .... :!7!> 
 Song of the Mound . 382 
 Little Star .... :JS4 
 
 Kondratowicz — 
 
 Sketch of .... 387 
 Death of the Nightingale . 390 
 The Soldier Wanderer . 391 
 The Ploughman and the 
 
 Lark 892 
 
 Countrymen, I beg assist- 
 ance .... 393 
 Mathew's Unlucky Turns 395 
 
 Odyiśiec — 
 Sketch of . . . .397 
 Prayers (A Legend) 397 
 
 Julian Korsak — 
 
 Sketch of . . . .401 
 
 The Frozen Tear . . 402 
 
 My Beloved One . . .403 
 
 WlTWICKI — 
 
 Sketch of .... 404 
 
 Cupid 404 
 
 The Warrior . . . 405 
 Josephine .... 406 
 
 GOSłAWSKI — 
 
 Sketch of . . . . 408 
 Had I the Royal Eagle's 
 
 Wings . . . .408 
 Uncertainty . . . 409 
 Raymund Korsak — 
 
 Sketch of . . . .411 
 Ode to God ... 411 
 Extract from a Religious 
 
 Poem .... 412 
 Górecki — 
 Sketch of . . . .413 
 Doom of the Traitor to his 
 
 Country ... 414 
 To a Lady Laughing at a 
 
 Stammering Poet . . 417 
 Fables : The Oxen and the 
 
 Spaniel .... 418 
 The Bis: Ship and the Small 
 
 Boat 418 
 
 The Drop of Water . 418 
 Sparrows • . • .419 
 Baliński — 
 
 Sketch of . . . • 400 
 Exile's Prayer in the Spring422 
 What's the use of Dreaming 423 
 
464 
 
 INDEX. 
 
 
 PAGE. 
 
 PAGE. 
 
 The Living Corpse . 
 
 . 423 
 
 Zmorski — 
 
 Ujejski — 
 
 
 Sketch of . ... .445 
 
 Sketch of 
 
 . 425 
 
 Sighs from Far-off Land 446 
 
 Hymn of Complaint 
 
 . 426 
 
 In Peasant's Clothes . 447 
 
 Under the Ground . 
 
 . 427 
 
 Zmichowska — 
 
 HołOWlŃSKI — 
 
 Sketch of . . 
 
 . 429 
 
 Sketch of . . . .448 
 Fancy Flights . . . 453 
 
 The Orphan . . 
 Kraszewski — 
 Sketch of . 
 
 . 430 
 . 437 
 
 Longing .... 453 
 To My Little Girls . . 454 
 
 Epitaph 455 
 
 Olizarowski — 
 
 Ah ! my dear Angel . 
 
 . 439 
 
 Sketch of .... 456 
 
 The Sea . 
 
 . 439 
 
 Be Mine . . . .456 
 
 Bioro Drawer and 
 
 the 
 
 Lucina and the Stream . 457 
 
 Head . 
 
 . 440 
 
 Chloe and the Stump . 457 
 
 Sienkiewicz — 
 
 
 Jakubowski — 
 
 Sketch of 
 
 . 441 
 
 Sketch of . . . .458 
 
 Varsovienne . 
 
 . 442 
 
 Ode to Napoleon . . 458 
 

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