No More Learning

Borne upward by the pale and misty Shades
Of our own martyrs, now she cleaves the Blue,
Crosses the Milky-Ways, and leaves the suns behind;
Higher and higher still she ever mounts,
And whiter, more resplendent still she grows.

Look on her, Lord ! See her as low she kneels
Before Thy throne, midst all Thy Seraphim.
Upon her forehead burns the Polish crown,
Herazure mantle sweeps the depths of space.
Tissued of rays of light. The spheres are still,
And wait Thy word ! With gentle voice she prays ;
Behind her weep the spirits of our sires;
In either hand she holds a chalice up. . . .

O Lord, 'tis Thine own blood she here presents

In the cup which she holds high in her right hand !

And lower — in the left, — O. lower far, —

Thou knowest. Lord, — the blood of those who loved thee, —

Of Thine own faithful subjects, crucified

Upon a thousand crosses I The blood which flows

Unceasingly beneath a triple sword.

Upon three realms which yet are but one country / . . .

In the name of the Holy Cup which overflows

With Thine own love, she prays I'hy mercy for

The chalice which is lower— lower far, —

She prays for us, — Father, and Spirit, Son !

She prays for us, and we all pray with her.

That Tliou wouldst grant the grace of every grace !

It is not Hope that we implore from Thee :

It falls upon us like a rain of flowers. —

Nor is it Death on our oppressors' heads :

Their doom is written on to-morrow's clouds. —

Nor is it power to rise from our red graves :

The stone unrolled, we have already risen. —

Nor is it arms to meet our enemies :

The tempests bear them to us on the winds. —

Nor is it aid ; the field of action opes

Before us now, and we must aid ourselves. —

But as to-day Thy judgment has commenced

On the two thousand years already lived

By Christianity, O grant us. Lord,

A holy will!

O Father, Son, and Spirit, a good will !

The hymn of the "Good Will" was the last of the
Psalms of the Poet ; we might even say it was the last of
his songs. He raised his voice only once more in his
"Resurrecturis," in which he seemed to endeavor to gather
together, as in a final chortl, all his ideas upon sacrifice,
to recomnieml them to the nation, — after wliich he was



128 POLISH POETRY IN

silent. The Nation was silent with him ; she ruminated
long upon the thoughts evolved in "Iridion," "The
Dawn," and the "Psalms" ; she tlioroughly impregnated
herself with them; she entered upon a career of painful
and obscure labors for which she may perhaps be some
day compensated, but Avhich for the time only thickened
around her the shroud of forgetfulness in which she was
wrapped. The greatest events passed without in the least
changing her lot ; even the Crimean war did not call her
upon the scene of action, and in the midst of so many Peo-
ples making their names resound, or recovering them, she
rested long mute and ignored. She became, like her Poet,
^'anonymous ! '''' During this time, the author of the
" Psalms" died in a foreign land, and there was nothing,
even to this untimely end, Avhich did not bear the seal of
the tragic destiny which, with its weight of lead, })ressed
to the very earth the whole of this mournful and pained
existence. An old man, an old and brave soldier, had
just expired in the midst of the indifference of his com-
patriots, — an indifference which was indeed only gener-
osity ; and if the nation deigned to give a single thought
to the event, it was of the respite which this death might
give to the tortured life of a son who had been ever faith-
ful to his country. But the fatal tie uniting these two
lives was not to be broken even by death ; a violent ill-
ness seized the Poet, and he perished but three months
after he had lost his father. He died in Paris, the 24th
of February, 1859, — and Silence only came to seat herself
upon his grave ! To borrow the picturesque expression
of a celebrated Polish writer : " A great genius went to
heaven, and in his flight he did not brush the earth,
even with his shadow ! "

A like silence reigned over another tomb, wider and
deeper far, which was called Poland ; but on a day more
than a year ago the three monarchs of the North agreed
upon the "interview of Warsaw," which, rigluly or
wrongly, the liberal opinion of ICurope regarded as the
point of departure of a new holy alliance ; it was said this
interview was especially directed against Italy, and the gen-
eral tendencies of the West. At this news Poland trembled.
The Nation, so long buried in its own grief, in its internal



THE NINETEENTH CENTURY.



129



toil, shook off its shroud, and sprang from its inaction.
And is it known what was the signal of this sudden Polish
life? It was a funeral mass celebrated upon the same day
in all the churches of the country for the repose of the
souls of three poets : Mickiewicz ; the author of the
"Psalms"; and Slowa<;ki.

A pious thought of love and concord thus strove to re-
unite before God, and in the general mourning of their
fellow-men, the two great adversaries who had been for a
long time friends, placing above them both the great
master, — "the immortal IVa'ide/ote. "

Soon after came the day in which the people of Warsaw
rose ; rose without arms, bearing only the cross and Polish
flag in their hands: "They gave no death, but they
received it;" and when the Ruler, frightened at an at-
titude so new, demanded what they wanted, they replied :
" Our Country. "

Then must the great spirit of the singer of "Resurrec-
turis" have leaped for joy. The Ideal he had dreamed
was now Ideality ; aird the Poetry which had remained so
long anonymous was now signed by the name of an entire
People.



THE "FRAGMENT,"

OR

UNFINISHED POEM.



INTRODUCTION.



Mountains in the neighborhood of Venice. Sunrise. Ali-
GHiERi and the Young Man, both in hunting costume,
are seated upon a rock.

The Young Man. Look, friend, in what glowing purple
the god of day ascends ! Ah ! if man were thus born,
and could thus extend his dominion over earth ! Look !
How that last dim star is dying out ! It is said to be the
fate of the heart thus to die, consumed in the flames of
genius ! Rise ! Rise, O Sun ! Shine down into these
depths still tenanted by darkness ; throw thy glittering
bridges of rainbows from bank to bank across the white
torrents ! How fresh is the air ! I feel so strong, I see
so far, my sight is so clear and piercing, I know I shall
not miss a single shot to-day. The poor chamois brows-
ing there upon that dizzy cliff will not live till noon !
Dost thou not hear? The shrill horns of our hunters re-
echo through the pines of the mountain. Come ! let us go !

Alighieri. I will remain here.

Young Man. Alighieri, what is the matter with thee
to-day ? Thou hast scarcely spoken to me since sunset.
When we began to climb these rocks at midnight, in
silence didst thou skirt the precipices, using thy hand
only to point out to me their dangers ; and now when the
chase is about to begin, when the trees shiver with the
bayings of our dogs, when the earth, the rocks, and my

131



132



THE ^'FRAGMENT:'



spirit tremble with eagerness, thou hesitatest and hast no
desire to accompany us!

Alighicri. Knowest thou not this is the hour in which
I am accustomed to pray to God ?

Young Man. Then I will wait for thee.

Alighieri. Knowest thou not that I am wont to pray
to the Lord only in solitude?

Young Man. Then tell me at what time I shall return
for thee.

Alighieri. Thou wilt find me this evening in the same
place.

Young Man. I wish to Heaven thou wouldst accom-
pany me ! Come ! 1 cannot fire aright without thee.
We will mount that naked peak where crystals form and
chamois bound. The hunters say the whole world can
be seen from that point : come !

Alighieri. The whole world may be seen from here
also !

Young Man. How ?

Alighieri. By closing our eyes, and humbling our
spirits before the Lord !

Young Man. Hark ! again they wind the horn. Adieu !
Now on, on ! over these abysses, and up those heights, —
up — up, among the clouds ! I am sorry from my heart,
Alighieri, that thou wilt not come with me.

Alighieri. Bend not thus over the precipice, — hold by
the branches ! I can still see, — I see thee, — turn not to-
wards me, — take care there on the edge of the waterfall !

He hears me no longer. He flies like a bird, scarcely
touching earth. In the dawn of existence, the child, agile,
light and careless, sports like the spirits whom Death will
approach no more. But they know the mysteries of being,
and he has scarcely wakened to the consciousness of life !
As the ether which fills the infinite may condense into
dark masses, form brilliant suns, or float as light vapor on
through s])ace, — so may he become all or nothing ; the
Elect of Heaven, or the prey of Hell !

{He raises his hands in prayer. )

Merciful Father ! Thy ways on earth have in our days
grown obscure ! Thy face is veiled in clouds ! ! Men



INTRODUCTION. 133

seek thee anew, and cannot find Thee ! But even now
Thou risest upon the horizon ; Thou increasest ! Why-
do they gaze forever into the heights of Heaven ? Ah,
if they would but look toward their own horizons !

Heavenly Father ! this moment of transition is for
their eyes a fearful twilight ; for their thoughts a dread-
ful temptation ; and for their hearts a terrible grief! If
Thou shortenest it not, many of them must perish !
{He kneels. ')

I pray to Thee, Lord, for him whose soul Thou hast
committed to my charge. Graciously listen to the testi-
mony I bear Thee of him ! Unconsciously, but without
ceasing, his soul strives to break a way to Thy Heaven !

The germ of all beauty, a spark from Thee, burns in
its depths, but the body, like a thick veil, wraps it on all
sides. The spirit over which I watch still seeks Thee
through this fog, O Lord ! . . .

He knows not yet, O God, that thou art also present
within himself; Thou whom he sees above him, whom
he acknowledges below him ; Thou who art everywhere !
Pardon him then, Lord, if he languishes for Thee !

Behold, Lord, I am sad even unto death, for the mo-
ments of his innocence are passing away, — soon must his
heart be torn by the struggle of Good and Evil, — the sole
but bitter source of virtue ! Remember me. Lord ! Show
Thy mercy upon me, by showing Thy pity upon him !
{He bows his forehead to the earth. )

Merciful Father ! I do not pray Thee to remove from
his path any of the cares of life ! I know that, like all
the exiles upon earth who through this world return to
Thee, he, too, must pass through the probation of evil
when the hour of temptation sounds ! Thy will be done !
Strike him with the scourge of grief, that he may be
humbled among men ; let them load him with chains, let
his body suffer martyrdom, if Thou wilt only spare him
the shame of baseness and save him from the eternal
night of the soul ! Let me warn him in these last, fleet-
ing moments !

Let this night obey me ! When in Thy name I shall
command it, let the winds of the valleys and the mists of

12*



134



THE "FRAGMENT:



the torrents gather round me, that I may form them into
ephemeral figures, and breathe my thoughts into a Dream
which will only live until to-morrow's dawn !

But in it will be Thy Eternal Truth and the transitory
truth of this world !

And he whom I love will one day remember Thy
Eternal Truth, — and thou wilt save him, Lord !

{Long silence. ^

Young Man {re-entering). What is this? Still in the
same place, under the same pine, and still at prayer ?
Give me thy hand ! Rise, Alighieri !

Alighieri. Thou, Henry ! So soon returned ?

Young Man. Thou dreamest ! Did I not leave thee
at sunrise? and now that sun sinks in the west, behind
the crest of yonder rocks. " »S<? j<? <? «," indeed ! Since
I left thee, I have thrice crossed the glacier of Hewal-
dyne, been on the very summit of the mountain, and to
the very foot of this ravine. Thrice have I wound the
horn ; thou must have heard it !

Alighieri. True ; it is already sunset !

Young Man. Has the day, then, passed away like a
moment for thee?

Alighieri. Happy he whose life thus flows ; he lives
in eternity ! What has happened to thee, Henry? What
means this blood upon thy breast and on the handle of
thy knife?

Young Man. Alighieri, a little more, and I must have
perished ! This is not the blood of a bounding roe or
innocent chamois. I will tell thee all as we wend our
way below, for I sent the hunters on in advance, and we
must hasten if we would overtake them before night-fall.

Alighieri. I will listen as I follow thee.

Young Man. Hearken, then, and I will tell thee all.
I fire upon a chamois; it falls and rolls to the bottom of
a precipice. I call my Tyrolese, show them the spot, but
they see nothing. Consequently, I must descend myself
to find my prey. Three of them follow me ; we make a
long, winding descent, ever lower and lower, until we
reach a dense wood, a thick forest of pines. But as we
advance we observe something moving in the thicket be-



JNTR OD UCTION.



135



fore us, within range of our bullets, — it may be a deer, a
stag. I look eagerly towards it, but in my haste have
forgotten to reload my gun. I seize a cartridge, but in
this very moment a bear starts from the thicket, stops,
and scents the air. Ah ! he has discovered us ! My men
instantly fire upon him ; their balls only graze his hide ;
rising and roaring, he rushes upon us ! They, crying
loudly upon me to follow, take to flight. Still shouting
as long as breath lasts them, they climb upon the
branches of a tall pine.
I know not why I remain alone ;
what possible glory can a man achieve in a wild struggle with a beast ? I know not why I was ashamed to run.
But my fathers never fled, whether before the wild beast
or upon the field of battle !

I throw away my gun, rapidly tear my knife from my
belt, — it is time, for the velvety king of the forests is
already upon my breast. As if he were human, he clasps
me in his arms ; he buries his claws in my quivering
flesh ! I strike him instantly in the breast ; it avails
not, and again I strike him ! He topples over at the
third blow, bears me with him to the earth, and lies
heavy and dead upon me. Throwing a glance of con-
tempt at my hunters, I leave the skin of my victim to
them in memory of their cowardice.

Alighieri. The Lord has saved thee ; hast thou ren-
dered thanks to him?

Voting Man. Not in words, but truly from my heart.
When I rose, shaking off the bear, and glad to find my-
self still living, I lifted my hands gratefully to Heaven.

Alighieri. There are moments in which the Lord ex-
acts no more.

Voting Man. It is strange that I feel no weariness ; I
am as fresh as I was at sunrise. Look, Alighieri, how
rapidly we descend. We cannot now be far from the
dwellings of man, for here is a young girl passing near
us. Ha ! good-evening, my Beauty ! Do you not hear
me? What do you fear? Do stay, and give me the lily
you bear in your hand !

T/ie Voting Girl {in passing). I will not give it to
you, but to the other !

Voting Man. And wherefore ?



136 THE '' fragment:'

The Young Girl. Because he looks like the white
angel which stands on our great altar to the right of the
Mother of God; but you do not belong to this country,
have never been in our church, and so have never seen
our angel ! {To Aiighieri. ) Good-evening ! I pray you,
sir, accept these flowers !

Alighieri. Tiianks, ray child. May you be happy !

Young Man. I suppose, then, I must be very ugly, fair
maiden ?

The Young Girl. You too are beautiful, but not like
our angel !

{She passes on. ^

Young Man. Give me the half of those flowers ; I will
keep them in memory of the fact that this simple young
girl felt the same impression which I experienced the first
time I saw thee. What she says is true, — very true, — and
it is not only thy face which is so much finer than mine,
but thy high soul, Alighieri. Dost thou remember the
hour in which we first met ? It is as present to me as if
it had been but yesterday.

Alighieri. To me too, Henry, for in that hour I be-
came thy friend.

Young Man. Yes, I still see the old building in whose
halls a thousand of my companions sat, and the professors
wlio instructed us from their high desks. I see the wind-
ing staircase and its embrasure, with its steps of stone, on
which thou first appearedst to me: — am I not right? I
was a proud boy, though still a mere child and very feeble.
I had just left my father's house, and was passing through
the throng of students, with pride upon my brow, for I
felt they hated me, though I knew not why. They crowded
round me, they pressed against me, they nearly stifled
me, they shouted " the little aristocrat," — as if I ought to
blush because I had more than one ancestor who had given
his life for his country and the church in which he was to
repose ! O God ! then first was hell born in my infant
breast ! i clung to the balustrade of iron while they i)ulled
me down by my hands, my feet, and the folds of my
mantle. Perhaps I should have rolled under their feet
hadst thou not then appeared : thou descendedst from
above, as pale, as slight, as thou art to day, but thine eyes



INTRODUCTION.



137



flashed fire ! No one knew thee, but they must have seen
thee from time to time and remembered the expression of
thy brow. Thou gavest a cry ; and they fell from me like
dead leaves ! Give me thy hand, Alighieri ! Ah ! I
can never, never forget that moment !

Alighieri. Thou mayst forget it, Henry ; but never
forget the words then spoken to thee, and the first I ever
addressed to thee !

Young Man. Ah ! I still feel thee embrace me ; I
still hear thy voice : ''They are unjust. Thou must be
more than just ; pardon them in thy soul, and love them
in thy deeds! " Then we descended together, and as
thou passedst through them, thou repeatedst, with a tran-
quil voice : " Shame ! shame ! "

Alighieri. And since that hour we have been insepar-
able !

Young Man. And will be until death ! for since that
hour I have felt thee my superior ; therefore is it I so love
thee.

Alighieri. Thou sayest : ''even until death" ?

Young Man. Yes.

Alighieri. But I must die before thee.

Young Man. Sadden not this tranquil hour with a pre-
sentiment so dark ! Rather let us with full eyes drink in
this softened light ; with full breasts breathe this balmy
air, perfumed by mountain roses. Look at the last rays
of light upon those peaks of snow, at that star rising above
yon crest of rocks ; the smile of God is upon us, — and thou
with me — and I with thee, — what would we more ?

Alighieri. I must, however, repeat it : I will die before
thee.

Young Man. Nay, thou art not kind ! Thou knowest
my father is already dead, — my mother and sister sleep in
the grave, — many of those among whom I grew up left
me long, long ago, — their graves ache for me in our poor
and distant country ! I am alone — the last of my race, —
and thou wilt abandon me, — thou too, Alighieri ! Thou
wilt go there, where it is happier to be ; thou wilt not
remain with me? No, oh, no, Alighieri !

Alighieri. I feel a germ of death in my breast ; but
canst thou only love the living ? My spirit will not die



138



THE "FRAGMENT:



in thee because my body leaves thee. In every heart into
which it passes thought takes new life !

That for which I have prayed, which I have desired,
thou wilt accomplish, — and I have desired that thou
shouldst be a hero among men, an angel among the
celestial spirits !

Looking upon these mountains in this glowing light,
this lovely sky, these trembling stars, wouldst thou not
be glad to stay the course of time? Thou exclaimest,
"How beautiful! " But, Henry, think what a miracle
in this world a soul would be which no mortal could see
without crying: " How beautiful ! "

Give such a bliss to thy Brothers ! Be in their midst a
Master-Work !

Young Man. Art thou thus expressing to me thy last
wishes? Cease, Alighieri, cease! I cannot bear it!
With a breath thou hast dimmed for me the transparency
of these bright skies ; a veil is darkening before my eyes ;
— speak! Where are we ? What can this mean? Were
we not already near the valley ? When at day-break this
morning we passed this place together, I saw somewhere
here, upon our right, a cross, — what can have become of
it?

Alighieri. Follow me !

Young Alan. Knowest thou this place better than I do ?
But look, friend, the moon rises, and she will solve this
mystery.

Alighieri. That is well. Let us wait.

Young Man. By the living God, the more light we
have the more does this country seem utterly unknown to
me! If these mists would only disperse ! — there — far —
far below — is a road which seems to whiten. No — it is
only a belt of fog across the plain. Ho ! Halloo ! Is
there no one there below us ? Halloo ! Answer ! I will
fire my gun ; perhaps some one will hear it.

Alighieri. The mountains hear and reply.

Young Man. Yes, in a voice of thunder. I cannot
imagine how it is possible we could have gone so far
astray. It seems to me we have never ceased to advance
in the right direction, and yet these rocks seem doubling
around us. The very sky has changed ; an ocean of cloud



INTROD UCTION.



139



surges up through the ravine ! It glitters like a motion-
less glacier !

On this side now the vapors rise; they blind, they
stifle me ! My head reels ! I can almost feel the dark-
ness ! Look, Alighieri ! The moon mounts higher, but
tawny and ghastly is her light, painful to look at, and
more perplexing than the darkness ! Alighieri, I cannot
extricate myself from this chaos !

Alighieri. Why, then, dost thou linger? Follow me !

Young Man. Down this steep, narrow gorge to our
left?

Alighieri. Such is my inspiration.

Young Man. Lead me as thou wilt ! I will follow,
seek, wind, climb down below, — do all thou mayst de-
sire ! But all will be in vain ; we are lost, and can do
nothing but wander about until the dawn of day. I have
never seen so strange, so wild, a night. To find the way
now, one must be the supreme master of these solitudes,
or the chamois which rule these rocks !

Ho ! Where art thou ? Answer !

Alighieri. Here ! Near thee !

Young Man. This bewildering fog ! It rises now di-
rectly under my feet ; it darkens my sight ; I cannot see
thee ! Ha ! now it breaks, it sails above and joins its
sister bands on high !

Look, Alighieri ! Is that not an old, long-bearded
king upon his throne, his sceptre in his hand ? After him
comes an immense serpent — no — rather a dragon — no —
now it is a cherub with four great wings. Look down
there ! Oh, far, far down, in the intervale among the
rocks ! there throngs a whole nation of spirits, hastening
to the Last Judgment ! Alighieri, what is this before me ?
Against what have I bruised myself?

Alighieri. It is the gateway of an ancient cemetery.

Young Man. Look at the moon ! It burns like a pale
purgatory of souls above the graves where their bodies rest.

But a moment ago I was so strong, so fresh, light as the
air, and now I am so weary, — so ill at ease, — and I know
not how nor why, unless the old dead here have cast their
spells upon me ! If I do not sit down upon this stone I
believe I will fall asleep.



X40



THE "FRAGMENTS



Alighieri. Lean upon me, Henry.

Young Man. Yes, — for my eyelids close; — I must rest
here !

Alighieri. Come but a few steps farther : only as far
as this White Chapel.

Young Man. I will. We will be more quiet under its
roof than out here in the open air.

A/ighieri. Why do you stop? Goon!

Young Man. Have these mists really blinded me?