Then give the
gorgeous
gaw
To Lawski's widow -- she who soon will be
My crowned queen.
To Lawski's widow -- she who soon will be
My crowned queen.
Poland - 1881 - Poets and Poetry of Poland
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. ? awski, disguised as a Teutonic knight, with a rose
upon his helmet and his visor down, bearing a casket.
Lutuver attending the king. ? awski stands apart.
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? 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.
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? S? OWACKI. 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,
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? 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
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? S? OWACKI. 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.
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? 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 ? awski to approach Aldona. He does so, trem-
blingly. )
Mindowe (to ? awski). Thou tremblest, Teuton !
(? awski raises his visor as he approaches Aldona. She recog-
nizes his features, shrieks, and falls. Exit ? awski. )
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,
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? S? OWACKI. 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 ? awski, 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 ? awski 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
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? 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-
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? GARCZYN? SKI. 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.
Garczyn? ski 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-
czyn? ski' 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 Umin? ski, 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.
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? 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.
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? GARCZYN? SKI. 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.
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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. ? awski, disguised as a Teutonic knight, with a rose
upon his helmet and his visor down, bearing a casket.
Lutuver attending the king. ? awski stands apart.
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? 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.
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? S? OWACKI. 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,
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? 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
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? S? OWACKI. 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.
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? 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 ? awski to approach Aldona. He does so, trem-
blingly. )
Mindowe (to ? awski). Thou tremblest, Teuton !
(? awski raises his visor as he approaches Aldona. She recog-
nizes his features, shrieks, and falls. Exit ? awski. )
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,
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? S? OWACKI. 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 ? awski, 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 ? awski 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
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? 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-
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? GARCZYN? SKI. 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.
Garczyn? ski 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-
czyn? ski' 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 Umin? ski, 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.
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? 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.
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? GARCZYN? SKI. 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.
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