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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;
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? SIENKIEWICZ. 443
For the Pole knows a soldier's duty,
And will leave you nought but the dead.
On, true Poles! etc.
Kos? ciuszko, 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.
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? 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!
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? 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.
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? 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
"Les? aw," 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
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? 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.
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? 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 Wilczyn? ska,
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
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? 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, S? owacki, Krasin? ski, and Goszczyn? -
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.
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? 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
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? 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
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? 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
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? 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.
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? 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,
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? 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.
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? 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 Szamotu? ," 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!
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? 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!
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? 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.
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? 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.
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