This work is issued in
accordance
with her desires, and
as a tribute of honor to disinterested labor and love of
abstract justice.
as a tribute of honor to disinterested labor and love of
abstract justice.
Krasinski - The Undivine Comedy
"
As he spake, he caught in his arms the Houri of the
foreign race ; he fastened his burning lips upon her rose-
bud mouth ; and by the magic of her breath she drew
him on to the Hall of the Throne!
There sat the Master of Life and Death, with tjie flags
43
502
TEMPTATION.
and standards of the conquered nations floating around
and above him. As the youth and maiden entered,
I again heard the great bell toll the hour. Throngs
of courtiers stood around the Throne. Slowly the cur-
tain of inwrought tapestry rose from the platina door.
Those who had been waiting beyond its threshold for
admittance, were summoned by the Heralds to appear.
Ambassadors from the Kings of the East and the Kings
of the West entered the Presence Chamber. On they
filed in long and solemn procession. They all bowed as
they passed the Throne, each one depositing an urn of
pure gold at the feet of the Monarch. The urns were
filled with the ashes of those who had fallen in battle,
heroes killed in holy causes, patriots and martyrs from
different parts of the world. The Grand Duke entered
last in the train ; he was clad in the ermine only worn by
Princes, and as he bowed his head, he placed the last urn
on the floor. The young man started, — the name of the
murdered Mother was deeply graven on the sculptured
swells. Then all grew dark before him ; he saw neither
the Throne of the Monarch nor the fair girl still cling-
ing to his arm. But his ear quickened as his eye grew
dim, and the question of the Monarch rang loudly-
through his brain: "Are they all really dead, and will
they rise from the grave no more? "
And as if with one voice answered the Ambassadors :
** They are all surely dead and will rise no more forever. "
At a sign from the Monarch, the courtiers approached,
took up the urns, and solemnly deposited them upon the
columns of black marble ranged on either side of the
Hall. Flaming torches were then handed by the attend-
ants, taken by those high in the favor of the court, and
held over the open crypt of the urn. The ashes within
kindled, and burned with a dim, bluish flame. The pale
smoke rose from the shrine, spread through the air, and
wafted the smell of Death to the nostrils of the Lord !
It now seemed to the young man as if all he had seen
at the hour of twilight was but a dream ; he looked
upon these throngs as the sole masters of the world, and
on their Monarch as omnipotent and eternal. At that
moment the table of festival rose in the Hall, everywhere
TEMPTA TION.
503
surrounded by the blazing funereal urns. The maiden
begged the bridegroom to take his seat at tlie banquet ;
the Master, descending from his Throne, placed his arm
in his, and led him to the post of honor, at his side.
The great bell again tolled the hour. The guests also
took their places at the feast.
Directly in front of the young man stood the column
of black marble bearing the urn containing the ashes of
his Mother. And whenever he saw her holy name, his
long lashes veiled his sinking eyes; but his bride con-
stantly recalled his attention to the blue flames of the
crypt.
More and more madly, fiercely, fearfully, his reeling
and wretched soul struggled to regain its ancient faith, to
return to its early hopes ; but temptation was around
him ; his brain was bewildered ; his understanding dark-
ened ; and madness within.
Healths poisonous to his heart went round, and he was
forced to drain them in honor of the Master. An inward
shivering disjointed his members, unstrung his nerves;
heart and frame fainted into weakness, a dew cold as
death covered his temples, and his head fell wearily upon
his breast ; the walls, the floors, the ceilings, the men,
the burning urns, danced, reeled, and tottered in wild
confusion before him ! The murmuring voices, the buzz
of sound, the swell of the triumphant music, the strange
words of the foreign bride, mingled and boomed like the
roar of the sea in the ears of the swooning man, — and so
the last hours passed away !
He still lived, if life be measured by the wild throbs of
the heart. Like the clap of doom the last hour struck
upon his ear. He opened his heavy eyelids, the blue
flames from the urns were dying out. The Master of
Life and Death, graciously smiling and courteously in-
clining toward him, said: "Guest of my Banquet, the
hour has struck in which thou art to swear to serve me;
in which thou must abjure thine ancient faith and name. "
As he spake, he threw to him across the table jeweled
orders and diamond crosses, saying: "Wear these in
memory of me! " The Herald then drew near, and read
to him from the Black Book the form of abjuration. The
504
TEMPTATION.
agonizing and swooning man mechanically repeated the
words one by one after him, not even hearing the sound
of his own voice. His head had fallen on the bosom of
his bride, his lips still moved, but his eyes were glaring in
the whiteness of death, — and so he uttered all the pre-
scribed words until the very last was said !
Scarcely had he finished, when the Master of Life and
Death arose and said: "Servant of my servants art thou
now, — beware ! shouldst thou prove false to thy oath, the
rope of the hangman surely awaits thee. " Then he broke
into a loud, coarse laugh of triumph!
The unfortunate man raised his wretched head, and his
first look fell upon the urn of his murdered Mother. In
place of her name of glory another word was standing
now: "Infamy! " "Infamy," — he looked again; he
shrieked aloud, "Infamy;" and started from his seat with
the last effort of his failing strength. "Infamy! " shouted
the thousands from before, behind, from either side. " In-
famy! " sounded from the ceilings of the Palace, the Hall
of the Throne, the deep mines and limitless Treasury I
Some among the crowd hastened to greet him by his new
name, while others fastened to his garments the glittering
orders and diamond crosses. Some commanded him to
bow before them, while others ordered him to trample
underfoot the still smouldering ashes of his Mother!
That thought sends the blood back in hot torrents to
Ills heart. He breaks through the surrounding throng,
rushes on, flees from the Presence Chamber, eagerly look-
ing for his bride. He sees her leaning on the arm of
another, mocking and jeering with the rest. He glides
on behind the statues, steals along the recesses, is discov-
ered, and again flies before the enemy. The Palace winds
before him into countless labyrinths — nowhere is shelter
to be found — sneers, menaces, insults are everywhere
around him, — but, worse than all, the curse is now within
his owfi soul. '
Then he suddenly turns to meet his enemies; he baffles
them at first, but countless numbers are upon him. They
hurl him to the ground, trample him underfoot, and pass
on singing a song from the land of his Mother. As he
rises, fresh numbers assail him; he bids defiance to them
TEMP TA TION. 505
all, struggles, advances, until foaming, bleeding, sinking,
he is again driven back, again forced to seek an outlet
from the Palace. Thus fighting, running, falling, fainting,
he makes his way until the first dim dawn of day, and, as
it breaks, he falls heavily down the brazen staircase, and
rolls below into the court of the Palace. There strong
arms seize him, and bear him rapidly away to the steps of
the church, — the same church which he had left in the
evening twilight.
It is the hour of the young dawn, but the sun of this
earth will never rise for him again ! Light will awake the
world, but it will shine into his blue eyes no more!
He awakes to consciousness on the steps of the church,
and finds himself face to face alone with the Wanderer.
He is mute in his despair. The Wanderer, regarding him
sternly, says: "In other times and scenes thou mightst
perchance have been a hero, but the Fates doomed thee to
heavy trial, and thou wert not strong enough to preserve
thy virtue! The visible reality prevailed with thee above
the invisible, holy, and eternal truth ! Alas, thou art lost ! ' '
"Give me back my horse! " cried the young man, as
life again began to flow>through his veins. "Give me the
free dress of the steppes, give me my arms, and thou shalt
see that I know how to revenge the wrongs inflicted on
my brethren, to redress my own infamy! "
He grasped the hand of his friend, and threw himself
into his arms, quivering with rage. Far more sadly than
before, the Wanderer replied:
"The hour for bold and open defiance is not yet near.
It is the time for silent sacrifice. But even shouldst thou
live until the Day of Judgment, the hour of Resurrection,
thy brethren will always number thee among those who
have renounced the Mother. Hark ! thy enemies are in
pursuit of thee, already near. Should they capture thee,
thou must be the slave of their wills, the partner of their
crimes, the sport and butt of all their bitter jests through-
out the remnant of thy wretched life. One only refuge
remains for thee ! " And, as he spoke, he drew his glitter-
ing sword.
The young man understood his meaning. With daunt-
less courage he tore aside the covering frou^ his breast.
43*
So6
TEMPTA TION.
"Strike! " he exclaimed. "I die as a true son of the
many times murdered Mother, — honor to her holy name
for ever and ever! "
" The Wanderer groaned from the depths of his soul. He
plunged the sharp, cold steel into the young naked heart.
The unfortunate victim fell without a moan. He fell in
the first rays of the rising sun, and in the same hour in
which but yesterday, full of strength and hope, he had
mounted his swift horse from the green home-turf, urging
him down the hill to push eagerly over the broad steppe
of life.
He fell in silence, but his dying eye again flashed forth
a light rivaling the young beam of Day.
The Wanderer knelt beside him, and, lifting his clasped
hands to Heaven, said: "O Heavenly Father! Thou
knowest that I loved him better than aught else on earth !
As long as it was possible I shielded him from the Temp-
tation of Hell, and in the first moment of his fall, I tore
his soul from the grasp of the enemy, and sent it back to
Thee! Save it in eternity, merciful Father! Let the
crimson tide, poured out by me, be joined to that sea of
innocent blood which is ever wailing and moaning at the
foot of Thy Tlirone! Let it with that sea fall upon the
head of the Tempters! "
After these words I saw him, with the point of the same
sword, draw blood from under his own heart, and write
with the sharp, red blade on the stone above the head of
the dead : Sent home by the hand of a friend!
The echoing steps and voices of the pursuers fell loudly
on the ear; tiiey were close at hand. The Wanderer
arose, and rapidly disappeared from my eyes in the sanc-
tuary of the ancient church.
Thus passed and ended that one day of my vision !
O Mother, many times murdered ! When thou shalt
waken from sleep, and again rest on the long grass of the
home-turf, again hear the holy whispers of thy unhewn
forests green from sea to sea, again feel thy youth return-
ing upon thee, thou wilt remember thy long night of
death, the terrible jjhantoms of thy protracted agonies.
TEMPTATION.
507
Weep not then, O Mother ! weep not for those who fell in
glorious battle, nor for those who perished on alien soil, —
although their flesh was torn by the vulture and devoured
by the wolf, they were still happy ! Neither weep for those
who died in the dark and silent dungeon underground by
the hand of the executioner, though the dismal prison-
lamp was their only star, and the harsh words of the op-
pressor the last farewell they heard on earth, — they too
were happy !
But drop a tear, O Mother ! one tear of tender pity
for those who were deceived by thy Murderers, misled by
their tissues of glittering falsehood, blinded by misty veils
woven of specious deceptions, when the command of the
tyrant had no power to tear their true hearts from thee !
Alas, Mother, these victims have suffered the most of all
thy martyred children ! Deceitful hopes, born but to die,
like blades of naked steel forever pierced their breasts !
Thousands of fierce combats, unknown to fame, were
waging in their souls ; combats fuller of bitter suffering
than the bloody battles thundering on in the broad light
of the sun, clashing with the gleam of steel, and booming
with the roar of artillery. No glory shone on the dim
paths of thy deceived sons; thy reproachful phantom
walked ever beside them, as part of their own shadow !
The glittering eye of the enemy lured them to the steep
slopes of ice, down into the abyss of eternal snow, and at
every step into the frozen depths, their tears fell f:\st for
thee! They waited until their hearts withered in the
misery of hope long deferred ; until their hands sank in
utter weariness ; until they could no longer move their
emaciated limbs in the fetters of their invisible chain;
still conscious of life, they moved as living corpses with
frozen hearts — alone amidst a hating People — alone even
in the sanctuary of their own homes — alone forever on
the face of the earth !
My Mother ! When thou shalt again live in thy olden
glory, shed a tear over their wretched fate, over the agony
of agonies ; and whisper upon their dark and silent graves,
the sublime word : Pardon.
RESURRECTURIS.
WRITTEN IN 1846.
Amid this slough kneaded with blood and tears,
This world where none his Golgotha avoids,
In vain the spirit struggles when the hand
Of sorrow strikes. Against the storms of life
No port of refuge here is ever found.
At every moment we are mocked by Fate ;
The brave engulfed within the dark abyss ;
The loved, the saintly, die, — the hated, live;
All eddies in a maze without a clue :
Pale Death is near, and far — so far — away
Across the loitering waves of future ages.
Yet scarcely breaks the Resurrection's dawn.
Must we then grow inert, insensible,
And still the voice of conscience? 'Mid the vile
Grow viler, murder with the murderers,
Lie, hate, blaspheme, and kill? . . . Unto this world
Return the evil it hath wrought on us?
At such price Poiver is ours, — else wield we none !
Then let us eat and drink, the body sate,
And, chasing from the brain each noble thought,
Swell high the list of fortunate, and fools!
Oh, no ! Pause ! Pause, my soul ! Not with such arms
Can those who guide humanity meet evil !
There is no force but that of sacrifice
Able to crush the fate that crushes us !
508
RESURRECTURIS.
It is the sole unconquerable power
In this world's history.
Servility and j^ride are idle straws
A passing breath may sweep to nothingness.
Oh, learn to know thyself! Seek not to grow
Omnipotent, like Him who is in Heaven I
Ne'er give consent to bend thee like a brute,
Knowing no good save some fat pasture-land !
This side the tomb, ere breaks the distant dawn
Of Resurrection, be thou constant Will,
Immovable though worlds should crash around !
Be tireless Patience which, amid misfortune,
Can slowly rear from naught the edifice,
And which, unshaken by defeat, prepares
The future, certain, final victory !
Be thou Tranquillity amid the storm;
Order in chaos; Harmony in discord;
Amid the eternal combat of this life.
Be thou the eternal Beauty !
For cowards and for Pharisees, be Wrath
And Menace, or the Silence of contempt I
Angelic Inspiration be for men ;
The Nourishment that nourishes the heart !
A Sister's Tear be for the suffering ;
A Manly Voice, when long-tried courage reels !
For wandering exiles be their Home of Birth ;
Be Hope for the despairing, Thunder to wake
The drowsy souls lulled in a corpse's sleep;
Always and everywhere be thou the Force
That reconciles, — the force of Self-devotion,
Stronger than death : and in the unending strife
Against the abyss of this mad world of Hate,
Be thou the Abyss of Love !
Ne'er cease to give
Thyself unto thy brethren under form
Of teaching and example. Still multiply
Thyself by //V'///§- acts ; and thus alone
Thou shalt outweigh thousands of other men !
Even in irons never cease to act !
509
5IO
RESURRECTURIS.
Learn to bear pain and bitterest agony ;
Be thy whole Nation living in thy breast !
Be thou the miracle joins Heaven to earth !
The holy Labarum in slavery !
Haste not toward death, till, like the buried seed,
Thy thought be sown and germing in the hearts
Of thy compatriots; till martyrdom
Shall be the pledge of certain victory !
The crown of false vainglory leave to fools I
The loftiest souls heed not the siren voice.
But when the tocsin of events shall ring
The signal for thy final holocaust
With sad, wild peal, — and from thy native land, —
Kneel down upon the threshold of Eternity !
When deep within thy soul, contrite and humble
Thou hear'st the voice that only comes from God, —
Rise like a strong athlete who wins the goal !
Shake off thy feet the clinging dust of earth !
With infinite love, stretch forth thine arms to Heaven!
Without complaint, wail, inward bitterness,
March forth to meet thine executioners,
Saluting them with inmost, pitying glance
Of immortality !
Thus for the future shall thy sacrifice
A fruitful witness be, and from thy death
Will spring the germ of life for other men !
Those hopes the world deems folly, idle dreams,
Incorporate in actuality,
In faith, in justice, something palpable.
Which, like a probe, shall sink in all men's hearts,
And dwell forever there, although it touch
Them lightly in a breath, a quivering sigh ! . . .
And then the world, thy murderer, will kneel
Before thee, and confess that brutal force
Is impotent to strike Country, or God,
From the conscience of the nations !
Behold ! the blood that floweth froiii thy wounds
Hath sanctified thy Thought : that Thought will draw
RESURRECTURIS. 511
The dazzling light of God's sure judgment down
From highest heaven upon the impious throng !
And neither troops, nor bayonets, nor lies.
Corruption, kings, nor peoples shall prevail
Against that Thought.
And when the Third Day breaks, above the gulf
Of thy past agonies, and on the tomb
Of thine own martyrdom, shall spring at last
The boon thy Nation long has waited for :
Justice, — the child of God 1
IN MEMORIAAI.
This volume was prepared by the gifted translator as
an offering to departed worth and genius, in the person
of its author, Count Sigismund Krasinski, and also as
opening to her compatriots a glimpse into the rich and
peculiar literature of that most unfortunate of modern
nations, unhappy Poland.
The translation was with her a labor of love, and its
only reward, the pleasure of well-doing and the hope
that the work might bear fruit in the hearts of her coun-
trymen. She had been warned repeatedly that the chords
were too finely strung to awaken many echoes, but she
felt confident that there must be a considerable number
of Americans to whom the volume would speak in tones
readily understood and warmly welcomed.
She did not live to oversee the issuing of the work, and
hence there may remain imperfections which her taste
and judgment would finally have eliminated. It seems
fitting that we should in this place say a few words with
regard to one who labored so assiduously and conscien-
tiously in the cause of simple justice.
Mrs. Martha Walker Cook was born in 1S07, at Nor-
thumberland, Penna. Her father was Judge J. H. Walker,
one of the pioneers of civilization and legal and classical
learning in Western Pennsylvania. The career of her
brother, Hon. Robert J. Walker, is identified with the
history of his country during many eventful years, and
the State of New Jersey will not soon forget the varied
services of her husband. General William Cook. Rather
shrinking from, than occupying, the place thus naturally
open to her in the great world, she devoted much time
to the improvement of her mind and the instruction of
512
IN MEMORIAM.
513
her children. Accomplished in many ways, her epis-
tolary and conversational gifts were of the highest order.
She possessed the rare quality of drawing forth from her
associates the best that was in them, and the meanest in-
telligence expanded in her presence as in the sunshine of
sympathy and ready comprehension.
Having had her attention called many years ago to the
actual condition of Polish music and literature, she was nat-
urally led to a study of the people and their history. The
knowledge thus acquired determined her to spare no pains
in the diffusion of correct ideas on a subject regarding
which there are but few sources of information in the
English tongue. Not only did she advocate the cause of
Poland by every means in her power, but she always stood
ready to welcome the Polish emigrant to America, giving
sympathy, friendly counsel, and such aid as the limited
circle of her influence would permit. It was one of her
most heartfelt gratifications to know that her name was
held in esteem and veneration by the Poles on both sides
of the Atlantic.
She passed away from the scene of her activity on the
15th of September, 1874.
This work is issued in accordance with her desires, and
as a tribute of honor to disinterested labor and love of
abstract justice.
As he spake, he caught in his arms the Houri of the
foreign race ; he fastened his burning lips upon her rose-
bud mouth ; and by the magic of her breath she drew
him on to the Hall of the Throne!
There sat the Master of Life and Death, with tjie flags
43
502
TEMPTATION.
and standards of the conquered nations floating around
and above him. As the youth and maiden entered,
I again heard the great bell toll the hour. Throngs
of courtiers stood around the Throne. Slowly the cur-
tain of inwrought tapestry rose from the platina door.
Those who had been waiting beyond its threshold for
admittance, were summoned by the Heralds to appear.
Ambassadors from the Kings of the East and the Kings
of the West entered the Presence Chamber. On they
filed in long and solemn procession. They all bowed as
they passed the Throne, each one depositing an urn of
pure gold at the feet of the Monarch. The urns were
filled with the ashes of those who had fallen in battle,
heroes killed in holy causes, patriots and martyrs from
different parts of the world. The Grand Duke entered
last in the train ; he was clad in the ermine only worn by
Princes, and as he bowed his head, he placed the last urn
on the floor. The young man started, — the name of the
murdered Mother was deeply graven on the sculptured
swells. Then all grew dark before him ; he saw neither
the Throne of the Monarch nor the fair girl still cling-
ing to his arm. But his ear quickened as his eye grew
dim, and the question of the Monarch rang loudly-
through his brain: "Are they all really dead, and will
they rise from the grave no more? "
And as if with one voice answered the Ambassadors :
** They are all surely dead and will rise no more forever. "
At a sign from the Monarch, the courtiers approached,
took up the urns, and solemnly deposited them upon the
columns of black marble ranged on either side of the
Hall. Flaming torches were then handed by the attend-
ants, taken by those high in the favor of the court, and
held over the open crypt of the urn. The ashes within
kindled, and burned with a dim, bluish flame. The pale
smoke rose from the shrine, spread through the air, and
wafted the smell of Death to the nostrils of the Lord !
It now seemed to the young man as if all he had seen
at the hour of twilight was but a dream ; he looked
upon these throngs as the sole masters of the world, and
on their Monarch as omnipotent and eternal. At that
moment the table of festival rose in the Hall, everywhere
TEMPTA TION.
503
surrounded by the blazing funereal urns. The maiden
begged the bridegroom to take his seat at tlie banquet ;
the Master, descending from his Throne, placed his arm
in his, and led him to the post of honor, at his side.
The great bell again tolled the hour. The guests also
took their places at the feast.
Directly in front of the young man stood the column
of black marble bearing the urn containing the ashes of
his Mother. And whenever he saw her holy name, his
long lashes veiled his sinking eyes; but his bride con-
stantly recalled his attention to the blue flames of the
crypt.
More and more madly, fiercely, fearfully, his reeling
and wretched soul struggled to regain its ancient faith, to
return to its early hopes ; but temptation was around
him ; his brain was bewildered ; his understanding dark-
ened ; and madness within.
Healths poisonous to his heart went round, and he was
forced to drain them in honor of the Master. An inward
shivering disjointed his members, unstrung his nerves;
heart and frame fainted into weakness, a dew cold as
death covered his temples, and his head fell wearily upon
his breast ; the walls, the floors, the ceilings, the men,
the burning urns, danced, reeled, and tottered in wild
confusion before him ! The murmuring voices, the buzz
of sound, the swell of the triumphant music, the strange
words of the foreign bride, mingled and boomed like the
roar of the sea in the ears of the swooning man, — and so
the last hours passed away !
He still lived, if life be measured by the wild throbs of
the heart. Like the clap of doom the last hour struck
upon his ear. He opened his heavy eyelids, the blue
flames from the urns were dying out. The Master of
Life and Death, graciously smiling and courteously in-
clining toward him, said: "Guest of my Banquet, the
hour has struck in which thou art to swear to serve me;
in which thou must abjure thine ancient faith and name. "
As he spake, he threw to him across the table jeweled
orders and diamond crosses, saying: "Wear these in
memory of me! " The Herald then drew near, and read
to him from the Black Book the form of abjuration. The
504
TEMPTATION.
agonizing and swooning man mechanically repeated the
words one by one after him, not even hearing the sound
of his own voice. His head had fallen on the bosom of
his bride, his lips still moved, but his eyes were glaring in
the whiteness of death, — and so he uttered all the pre-
scribed words until the very last was said !
Scarcely had he finished, when the Master of Life and
Death arose and said: "Servant of my servants art thou
now, — beware ! shouldst thou prove false to thy oath, the
rope of the hangman surely awaits thee. " Then he broke
into a loud, coarse laugh of triumph!
The unfortunate man raised his wretched head, and his
first look fell upon the urn of his murdered Mother. In
place of her name of glory another word was standing
now: "Infamy! " "Infamy," — he looked again; he
shrieked aloud, "Infamy;" and started from his seat with
the last effort of his failing strength. "Infamy! " shouted
the thousands from before, behind, from either side. " In-
famy! " sounded from the ceilings of the Palace, the Hall
of the Throne, the deep mines and limitless Treasury I
Some among the crowd hastened to greet him by his new
name, while others fastened to his garments the glittering
orders and diamond crosses. Some commanded him to
bow before them, while others ordered him to trample
underfoot the still smouldering ashes of his Mother!
That thought sends the blood back in hot torrents to
Ills heart. He breaks through the surrounding throng,
rushes on, flees from the Presence Chamber, eagerly look-
ing for his bride. He sees her leaning on the arm of
another, mocking and jeering with the rest. He glides
on behind the statues, steals along the recesses, is discov-
ered, and again flies before the enemy. The Palace winds
before him into countless labyrinths — nowhere is shelter
to be found — sneers, menaces, insults are everywhere
around him, — but, worse than all, the curse is now within
his owfi soul. '
Then he suddenly turns to meet his enemies; he baffles
them at first, but countless numbers are upon him. They
hurl him to the ground, trample him underfoot, and pass
on singing a song from the land of his Mother. As he
rises, fresh numbers assail him; he bids defiance to them
TEMP TA TION. 505
all, struggles, advances, until foaming, bleeding, sinking,
he is again driven back, again forced to seek an outlet
from the Palace. Thus fighting, running, falling, fainting,
he makes his way until the first dim dawn of day, and, as
it breaks, he falls heavily down the brazen staircase, and
rolls below into the court of the Palace. There strong
arms seize him, and bear him rapidly away to the steps of
the church, — the same church which he had left in the
evening twilight.
It is the hour of the young dawn, but the sun of this
earth will never rise for him again ! Light will awake the
world, but it will shine into his blue eyes no more!
He awakes to consciousness on the steps of the church,
and finds himself face to face alone with the Wanderer.
He is mute in his despair. The Wanderer, regarding him
sternly, says: "In other times and scenes thou mightst
perchance have been a hero, but the Fates doomed thee to
heavy trial, and thou wert not strong enough to preserve
thy virtue! The visible reality prevailed with thee above
the invisible, holy, and eternal truth ! Alas, thou art lost ! ' '
"Give me back my horse! " cried the young man, as
life again began to flow>through his veins. "Give me the
free dress of the steppes, give me my arms, and thou shalt
see that I know how to revenge the wrongs inflicted on
my brethren, to redress my own infamy! "
He grasped the hand of his friend, and threw himself
into his arms, quivering with rage. Far more sadly than
before, the Wanderer replied:
"The hour for bold and open defiance is not yet near.
It is the time for silent sacrifice. But even shouldst thou
live until the Day of Judgment, the hour of Resurrection,
thy brethren will always number thee among those who
have renounced the Mother. Hark ! thy enemies are in
pursuit of thee, already near. Should they capture thee,
thou must be the slave of their wills, the partner of their
crimes, the sport and butt of all their bitter jests through-
out the remnant of thy wretched life. One only refuge
remains for thee ! " And, as he spoke, he drew his glitter-
ing sword.
The young man understood his meaning. With daunt-
less courage he tore aside the covering frou^ his breast.
43*
So6
TEMPTA TION.
"Strike! " he exclaimed. "I die as a true son of the
many times murdered Mother, — honor to her holy name
for ever and ever! "
" The Wanderer groaned from the depths of his soul. He
plunged the sharp, cold steel into the young naked heart.
The unfortunate victim fell without a moan. He fell in
the first rays of the rising sun, and in the same hour in
which but yesterday, full of strength and hope, he had
mounted his swift horse from the green home-turf, urging
him down the hill to push eagerly over the broad steppe
of life.
He fell in silence, but his dying eye again flashed forth
a light rivaling the young beam of Day.
The Wanderer knelt beside him, and, lifting his clasped
hands to Heaven, said: "O Heavenly Father! Thou
knowest that I loved him better than aught else on earth !
As long as it was possible I shielded him from the Temp-
tation of Hell, and in the first moment of his fall, I tore
his soul from the grasp of the enemy, and sent it back to
Thee! Save it in eternity, merciful Father! Let the
crimson tide, poured out by me, be joined to that sea of
innocent blood which is ever wailing and moaning at the
foot of Thy Tlirone! Let it with that sea fall upon the
head of the Tempters! "
After these words I saw him, with the point of the same
sword, draw blood from under his own heart, and write
with the sharp, red blade on the stone above the head of
the dead : Sent home by the hand of a friend!
The echoing steps and voices of the pursuers fell loudly
on the ear; tiiey were close at hand. The Wanderer
arose, and rapidly disappeared from my eyes in the sanc-
tuary of the ancient church.
Thus passed and ended that one day of my vision !
O Mother, many times murdered ! When thou shalt
waken from sleep, and again rest on the long grass of the
home-turf, again hear the holy whispers of thy unhewn
forests green from sea to sea, again feel thy youth return-
ing upon thee, thou wilt remember thy long night of
death, the terrible jjhantoms of thy protracted agonies.
TEMPTATION.
507
Weep not then, O Mother ! weep not for those who fell in
glorious battle, nor for those who perished on alien soil, —
although their flesh was torn by the vulture and devoured
by the wolf, they were still happy ! Neither weep for those
who died in the dark and silent dungeon underground by
the hand of the executioner, though the dismal prison-
lamp was their only star, and the harsh words of the op-
pressor the last farewell they heard on earth, — they too
were happy !
But drop a tear, O Mother ! one tear of tender pity
for those who were deceived by thy Murderers, misled by
their tissues of glittering falsehood, blinded by misty veils
woven of specious deceptions, when the command of the
tyrant had no power to tear their true hearts from thee !
Alas, Mother, these victims have suffered the most of all
thy martyred children ! Deceitful hopes, born but to die,
like blades of naked steel forever pierced their breasts !
Thousands of fierce combats, unknown to fame, were
waging in their souls ; combats fuller of bitter suffering
than the bloody battles thundering on in the broad light
of the sun, clashing with the gleam of steel, and booming
with the roar of artillery. No glory shone on the dim
paths of thy deceived sons; thy reproachful phantom
walked ever beside them, as part of their own shadow !
The glittering eye of the enemy lured them to the steep
slopes of ice, down into the abyss of eternal snow, and at
every step into the frozen depths, their tears fell f:\st for
thee! They waited until their hearts withered in the
misery of hope long deferred ; until their hands sank in
utter weariness ; until they could no longer move their
emaciated limbs in the fetters of their invisible chain;
still conscious of life, they moved as living corpses with
frozen hearts — alone amidst a hating People — alone even
in the sanctuary of their own homes — alone forever on
the face of the earth !
My Mother ! When thou shalt again live in thy olden
glory, shed a tear over their wretched fate, over the agony
of agonies ; and whisper upon their dark and silent graves,
the sublime word : Pardon.
RESURRECTURIS.
WRITTEN IN 1846.
Amid this slough kneaded with blood and tears,
This world where none his Golgotha avoids,
In vain the spirit struggles when the hand
Of sorrow strikes. Against the storms of life
No port of refuge here is ever found.
At every moment we are mocked by Fate ;
The brave engulfed within the dark abyss ;
The loved, the saintly, die, — the hated, live;
All eddies in a maze without a clue :
Pale Death is near, and far — so far — away
Across the loitering waves of future ages.
Yet scarcely breaks the Resurrection's dawn.
Must we then grow inert, insensible,
And still the voice of conscience? 'Mid the vile
Grow viler, murder with the murderers,
Lie, hate, blaspheme, and kill? . . . Unto this world
Return the evil it hath wrought on us?
At such price Poiver is ours, — else wield we none !
Then let us eat and drink, the body sate,
And, chasing from the brain each noble thought,
Swell high the list of fortunate, and fools!
Oh, no ! Pause ! Pause, my soul ! Not with such arms
Can those who guide humanity meet evil !
There is no force but that of sacrifice
Able to crush the fate that crushes us !
508
RESURRECTURIS.
It is the sole unconquerable power
In this world's history.
Servility and j^ride are idle straws
A passing breath may sweep to nothingness.
Oh, learn to know thyself! Seek not to grow
Omnipotent, like Him who is in Heaven I
Ne'er give consent to bend thee like a brute,
Knowing no good save some fat pasture-land !
This side the tomb, ere breaks the distant dawn
Of Resurrection, be thou constant Will,
Immovable though worlds should crash around !
Be tireless Patience which, amid misfortune,
Can slowly rear from naught the edifice,
And which, unshaken by defeat, prepares
The future, certain, final victory !
Be thou Tranquillity amid the storm;
Order in chaos; Harmony in discord;
Amid the eternal combat of this life.
Be thou the eternal Beauty !
For cowards and for Pharisees, be Wrath
And Menace, or the Silence of contempt I
Angelic Inspiration be for men ;
The Nourishment that nourishes the heart !
A Sister's Tear be for the suffering ;
A Manly Voice, when long-tried courage reels !
For wandering exiles be their Home of Birth ;
Be Hope for the despairing, Thunder to wake
The drowsy souls lulled in a corpse's sleep;
Always and everywhere be thou the Force
That reconciles, — the force of Self-devotion,
Stronger than death : and in the unending strife
Against the abyss of this mad world of Hate,
Be thou the Abyss of Love !
Ne'er cease to give
Thyself unto thy brethren under form
Of teaching and example. Still multiply
Thyself by //V'///§- acts ; and thus alone
Thou shalt outweigh thousands of other men !
Even in irons never cease to act !
509
5IO
RESURRECTURIS.
Learn to bear pain and bitterest agony ;
Be thy whole Nation living in thy breast !
Be thou the miracle joins Heaven to earth !
The holy Labarum in slavery !
Haste not toward death, till, like the buried seed,
Thy thought be sown and germing in the hearts
Of thy compatriots; till martyrdom
Shall be the pledge of certain victory !
The crown of false vainglory leave to fools I
The loftiest souls heed not the siren voice.
But when the tocsin of events shall ring
The signal for thy final holocaust
With sad, wild peal, — and from thy native land, —
Kneel down upon the threshold of Eternity !
When deep within thy soul, contrite and humble
Thou hear'st the voice that only comes from God, —
Rise like a strong athlete who wins the goal !
Shake off thy feet the clinging dust of earth !
With infinite love, stretch forth thine arms to Heaven!
Without complaint, wail, inward bitterness,
March forth to meet thine executioners,
Saluting them with inmost, pitying glance
Of immortality !
Thus for the future shall thy sacrifice
A fruitful witness be, and from thy death
Will spring the germ of life for other men !
Those hopes the world deems folly, idle dreams,
Incorporate in actuality,
In faith, in justice, something palpable.
Which, like a probe, shall sink in all men's hearts,
And dwell forever there, although it touch
Them lightly in a breath, a quivering sigh ! . . .
And then the world, thy murderer, will kneel
Before thee, and confess that brutal force
Is impotent to strike Country, or God,
From the conscience of the nations !
Behold ! the blood that floweth froiii thy wounds
Hath sanctified thy Thought : that Thought will draw
RESURRECTURIS. 511
The dazzling light of God's sure judgment down
From highest heaven upon the impious throng !
And neither troops, nor bayonets, nor lies.
Corruption, kings, nor peoples shall prevail
Against that Thought.
And when the Third Day breaks, above the gulf
Of thy past agonies, and on the tomb
Of thine own martyrdom, shall spring at last
The boon thy Nation long has waited for :
Justice, — the child of God 1
IN MEMORIAAI.
This volume was prepared by the gifted translator as
an offering to departed worth and genius, in the person
of its author, Count Sigismund Krasinski, and also as
opening to her compatriots a glimpse into the rich and
peculiar literature of that most unfortunate of modern
nations, unhappy Poland.
The translation was with her a labor of love, and its
only reward, the pleasure of well-doing and the hope
that the work might bear fruit in the hearts of her coun-
trymen. She had been warned repeatedly that the chords
were too finely strung to awaken many echoes, but she
felt confident that there must be a considerable number
of Americans to whom the volume would speak in tones
readily understood and warmly welcomed.
She did not live to oversee the issuing of the work, and
hence there may remain imperfections which her taste
and judgment would finally have eliminated. It seems
fitting that we should in this place say a few words with
regard to one who labored so assiduously and conscien-
tiously in the cause of simple justice.
Mrs. Martha Walker Cook was born in 1S07, at Nor-
thumberland, Penna. Her father was Judge J. H. Walker,
one of the pioneers of civilization and legal and classical
learning in Western Pennsylvania. The career of her
brother, Hon. Robert J. Walker, is identified with the
history of his country during many eventful years, and
the State of New Jersey will not soon forget the varied
services of her husband. General William Cook. Rather
shrinking from, than occupying, the place thus naturally
open to her in the great world, she devoted much time
to the improvement of her mind and the instruction of
512
IN MEMORIAM.
513
her children. Accomplished in many ways, her epis-
tolary and conversational gifts were of the highest order.
She possessed the rare quality of drawing forth from her
associates the best that was in them, and the meanest in-
telligence expanded in her presence as in the sunshine of
sympathy and ready comprehension.
Having had her attention called many years ago to the
actual condition of Polish music and literature, she was nat-
urally led to a study of the people and their history. The
knowledge thus acquired determined her to spare no pains
in the diffusion of correct ideas on a subject regarding
which there are but few sources of information in the
English tongue. Not only did she advocate the cause of
Poland by every means in her power, but she always stood
ready to welcome the Polish emigrant to America, giving
sympathy, friendly counsel, and such aid as the limited
circle of her influence would permit. It was one of her
most heartfelt gratifications to know that her name was
held in esteem and veneration by the Poles on both sides
of the Atlantic.
She passed away from the scene of her activity on the
15th of September, 1874.
This work is issued in accordance with her desires, and
as a tribute of honor to disinterested labor and love of
abstract justice.
