What wilt Thou for Thy gifts from us
For Thy unmeasured goodness bounteous ?
For Thy unmeasured goodness bounteous ?
Poland - 1881 - Poets and Poetry of Poland
org/access_use#pd
? 34 POETS AND POETEY OF POLAND.
ski, Wasilewski, Groza, Kondratowicz (Syrokomla),
Berwlnski, Zmorski, Gaszyn? ski, Lenartowicz and
Hedwige ? uszczewska (Deotyma).
We come now to a period when the Polish muse
takes another decided turn. Krasin? ski, shuddering at
the premonitions of death's alarms, reveals to the
world in his " Psalms " the mystery of Resurrection,
and Ujejski, following in his wake, proclaims his
"Lamentations. " The heroic poetry, too, inscribes
upon the pages of immortality the names of Iasinski,
Godebski, Korsak, Suchodolski and Romanowski.
If the poetry of to-day does not flow in any other
channel than heretofore, it certainly adds to it the
great play upon the feelings, and beautifies it by
variegated shadings of the picturesque ; keeping always
in the wake of national traditions, it also keeps pace
with the inward fitness of national spirit, thereby
awakening constant admiration and furnishing material
for the tuneful lyre of the Polish bards.
Polish Poetry during the reign of Sigismunds is
characterized by classic conciseness and pleasing sim-
plicity. During the time of Stanislaus Augustus, it is
marked by accuracy and branching out in the richness
of the language. In our times it is distinguished by
still greater purity, taste, and general improvement,
which may be considered as a remarkable augury of
eminent progression, especially so when we consider
that the writers, after having regained the original purity
of the vernacular tongue, will in future do away with
all foreign words which have a tendency to weaken
the expression and dignity of poetic compositions in
the Polish language. And the object will be fully ac-
complished if they will avoid imitating the manner of
foreign style of composition.
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? POETRY OF POLAND. 35
As regards the present spirit of the Polish Poetry,
we see the love of country pervades everywhere.
Zealous admiration of noble deeds, tempered ecstasy,
free imagination untainted by fantastic conceits, mild
in tenderness, simplicity, morality of poetical philoso-
phy, and beautiful pictures of rural life and family in-
tercourse.
In this, as it were improvised, literature, the course
of which has been lively and rapid, are expressed the
feelings of a great people's national records, and the
spirit of Poland long ago, but these have not yet reached
their journey's end, -- not to their final destination. It
still goes Onward and Upward.
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? 36 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
KEY.
Nicholas Rey may be considered as the father of
Polish poetry. Following in the train of the age he
lived in, which was theological Polemics, he partici-
pated in all its delusions and its errors. As a poet he
was only mediocre, lacking in what is termed the poet-
ical inspiration ; and yet although the reader cannot
recognize Rey as a genius, he will discover in his writings
sober and substantial thought, healthy and forcible
manner, and fresh expressions, somewhat colored but
invariably pithy. If his poetical compositions are
devoid of high imagery, they show, nevertheless, and
pointedly too, that he wished to demonstrate to the
book-learned teachers and professional poets the exist-
ence of a people's literature, and thereby awaken in
them the spirit of inquiry in regard to plebeian or popu-
lar poetry, -- that important link -- writing for the first
time the plebeian literature and the literature of the
learned.
Rey was indeed a true bard, and did much toward
the elevation of the Polish Muse. King Sigismund
Augustus held Rey in the highest esteem, and not only
patronized and enriched him, but conferred upon him
many marks of distinction.
Rey was born in 1505, and passed his youth in frolic
and pleasure. He went to school for about five years,
but it seems he did not learn there much of any thing --
not till the twentieth year of his life, when through
the influence of his uncle he obtained a place with a
very wealthy family of Tenczyn? ski, who generally
spent their time in Italy, and associating with the mem-
bers of the Imperial family, knew how to prize learn-
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? KEY. 37
ing and learned people, and understood how to assimi-
late the customs of their country with European civili-
zation. Rey being connected with a family of such
high standing, began to acquire facility in the writing
of Polish letters and learned a little Latin. He amused
himself with study and music and began to compose
verses, but he never could stay in one place ; chiefly
spending his time in hunting he cast his lot with
Hetman Sieniawski and traveled in different parts of
Poland, frequenting political assemblies, courts of jus-
tice and meetings of all sorts, being everywhere
received with much eclat as a man of good cheer and
ready wit, fond of good wine and a sumptuous table.
Not mixing in any quarrels or contentions of any kind,
he was welcome and received hospitality no matter
where he turned. Being liked by all except by strict
Roman Catholics, he passed his time at the courts of
both Sigismuncls, who bestowed upon him good pay and
munificent gifts. Although he was present at every
assembly and almost at every political and religious
meeting, he never would accept of any office.
Amidst all the allurements of social circles he did
not neglect his calling as a poet, and kept improving
as he grew older. He died in 1569.
VIRTUE.
Virtue is the earth's gem of gems,
Rich and poor the diadems.
Though all emeralds formed one star,
Virtue's light is brighter far !
For earth's marts man has not made
Balance which this gem hath weighed,
All other blessings pass or fade --
Virtue till death is undismayed.
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? 38 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
VICE.
Vice is a serpent, lying through all weather,
Coiled up unseen beside life's wayside stone.
When knave and fool carousing come together,
With warning hiss it makes its venom known.
The following is Key's description of what Poland
was three hundred and forty years ago :
Cast your eyes around you and behold our glorious king-
dom ! Strong within itself, Poland needs no assistance from
other nations. It is one of the most powerful nations in
Europe, and in martial character is preeminent. . The Lord
of all has placed it here, and endowed her people with many
rare qualities. Is there a nation on earth equal to ours in
bravery and endurance? The intrepidity, the unyielding per-
severance and daring heroism of Polish soldiers surpasses
anything in the annals of history.
In knowledge and progress Poland stands equal if not
superior to other nations. In her most brilliant eras she has
produced many men eminent in science, among whom we can
count at this present time Copernicus, the discoverer of the
true system of the universe. Other nations may possess more
gold and silver, spices, silks, etc. , but can they compete with
us in virtue and excellence, in valor and prowess ? What
nation can stand against the indomitable courage of our
valiant soldiers? Many nations now in our memory have
called upon us to assist them in time of war, and when they
saw our soldiers in their ranks they felt assured of victory.
A Polish soldier fights to win, and wherever he shows his
open face and brave heart the e*iemy is forced to yield.
A THOUGHT.
For the improvement of his mind it is necessary that a
man should read.
ANECDOTES.
Rey was very witty, and one day while he was fishing a
neighbor sent a boy to him with his compliments, and an
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? KEY. 39
empty dish for some fish. Rey understood the drift and
remarked : " I will return compliments for compliments, but
for the fish I must have money, not compliments. "
It so happened that the poet was outwitted by an ignorant
peasant. While traveling Rey came to a certain village, and
meeting a peasant the following dialogue took place :
Rey. Who holds possession of this village?
Peasant. The earth and fences.
Rey. Who is master here?
Peasant. He who has the most money.
Rey. Who is the elder of this place?
Peasant. The oldest person in the place is a man who is
one hundred years old, if that is what you mean.
Rey. I mean who occupies the highest place?
Peasant. Oh ! yonder linden tree by the church.
Rey. How far is it to noon?
Peasant. It has not passed here yet, so I couldn't tell you.
Rey. It seems to me, fellow, that you are rather impu-
dent, and deserve a slap in your mouth.
Peasant. I wouldn't like that, as I am no dog ; but if you
would slap something into my hand it would be all right.
Rey. " As I live," said the poet, " I have never met so pert
a peasant before. "
Useless the yield of well worked fields
If but to waste the housewife yields.
The poet tells us that the above has a twofold meaning.
One is: no matter how many victories we gain over our ene-
mies in the field, they will be productive of no good if there
is discord and misrule at home. And another is : no matter
how hard a farmer works in the field if his wife is wasteful,
idle and improvident, the farming operations must come to
? ruin. Which is proven by another proverb:
A wasteful housewife can carry out with her apron more
than the farmer can haul in with a wagon.
The light of Holy Truth can never be extinguished.
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? KOCHANOWSKI.
"Wszystko sie dziwnie plecie
Na tym tu biednym s? wiecie.
A-ktoby chcia? wszystkiego rozumem dochodzic? ,
I zginie, a nie be? dzie umia? w to ugcdzic? .
Translation on the last page of Kochanowski (*).
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? KOCHANOWSKI. 41
KOCHANOWSKI.
John Kochanowski, who attained great celebrity as
a poet, is the type and true representative of the Polish
muse of the sixteenth century, for in him were united
all the rhythmical elements of that epoch. From the
many of his lyrical creations could be mentioned " So-
bo? tka," or the song of St. John's Eve, " Threns (or
Laments) on Ursula's Death," "Reconciliation," "Epi-
taphs," "Inscriptions," "Psalms," "Translations from
the Songs of Anacreon," and "Chess. "
Kochanowski having had no specimens of Polish
literature before him, had himself to break through the
first difficulties of rhythmical art. He had himself to
invent the form, language, and poetical style. In his
compositions as well as his life, two separate and
characteristic epochs are perceptible: one of frenzy,
frivolity, love matters and pleasure, the other presents
peace of the soul, resignation, and a serene, religious
feeling.
He was born in Siczyn, in 1530, in Great Poland.
Desiring more information he traveled in the south of
Europe, in order to get a better knowledge of classical
antiquity, and after his return was advanced to many
high offices of the state, but he resigned them all for
the sake of retirement and peace.
Kochanowski wrote also in Latin, and his poetry in
that language was considered superior to that of any of
his contemporaries. His poems are full of beauty, and
the melodious flow of his verse is truly delightful.
Although his writings are various, his reputation is prin-
cipally founded upon his " Laments " (Treny), in which
he mourns the loss of his little daughter Ursula, whom
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? 42 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
he represents as gifted, intelligent and lovely; his com-
positions overflow with expressions of passionate grief.
Other gems, like the song on " St. John's Eve,"
" Nothing Sure in this World," etc. , are admired to the
present day. He also wrote songs from Horace and
from Greek anthology, translated Virgil's "JEneid,"
and Tasso's "Jerusalem Delivered. " His poem on
John Tarnowski, the celebrated Polish hero, is an epic
which entitles him to the highest rank as an author of
heroic poetry. Kochanowski also printed a drama,
"The Greek Ambassadors," in hexameter measure.
His prose works are scarcely less numerous than his
poetical, and are equally distinguished for their grace
and purity of style. He died in 1584.
THE GREATNESS OF GOD.
O God!
What wilt Thou for Thy gifts from us
For Thy unmeasured goodness bounteous ?
No church contains Thee, for Thou fillest space --
Ocean and Earth, and Heaven Thy dwelling place.
We cannot give Thee gold, for gold is Thine,
All earthly treasures bear Thy seal divine.
Praise we can give Thee from a grateful heart,
Thou who above us and beyond us art!
Thou art the master of the world -- hast reared
The heavens with all its starry orbs ensphered.
And Earth's foundations, at Thy word straightway
Arose from nothingness in green array.
The sea, at Thy commands, despite its fret,
Remains within the bounds Thy hand has set.
The countless rivers at Thy mandate flow,
Thou bid'st the night and day to come and go.
For Thee the Spring with flowers her brow adorn,
For Thee the Summer binds her ears of corn-
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? KOCHANOWSKI. 43
To Thee the Autumn yields both fruit and vine,
And winter wreathes red holly for Thy shrine.
The withered herbage 'neath Thy dew revives,
Beneath Thy rain the parched up grain-field thrives.
From out Thy hand all creatures take their food,
And through Thy bounty all things are renewed.
everlasting God! be praised therefor --
Grant us Thy grace and bounty evermore:
Shield us while here from every evil thing.
And fold us close beneath a Father's wing.
THREN I.
Come gather 'round my dwelling, tears and sighs,
Eloquent woes, and loud-voiced miseries ;
All tones of sorrow, anguish, and regret,
Hand- wringing grief, and pangs the cheeks that wet, --
Yes! gather 'round my dwelling all, and join
Your plaint, your passion, with these plaints of mine,
O'er that sweet child whom most unholy death
Hath smitten, and in one outrageous breath
Dispers'd all joy! -- as when a dragon springs
On Philomela's nest, who sits and sings
Heedless, till roused by cries she flaps her wings,
Flutters around her home, and shrieking tries
To arrest the spoiler, -- idle strife! She flies
On wearied wing ; in vain -- the abandoned one
Becomes in turn a prey -- I'll weep alone,
Weep bitterest tears. Vain too, 'tis vain I know, --
All is irreparably vain below; --
We only grasp delusions, life's a cheat
Of new deceit, but link'd to old deceit.
1 know not which is vainer, -- if to bear
And struggle with our grief in mute despair,
Or give the anguish passionate vent, as here.
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? 44 POETS AND POETEY OF POLAND.
THREN VII.
Thou angel child! thy mournful dress before me
Throws bitter sorrow o'er me;
Thy little ornaments of joy and gladness
Awake a deeper sadness.
Never again to wear your splendors, -- never;
All hope is fled forever!
A sleep, a hard and iron sleep, hath bound thee,
Dark night has gather'd round thee.
Thy golden belt is dim; thy flower-wreathed tresses
Scattered. Thy summer dresses
Which thy poor mother wrought; she had array' d thee
For love, and we have laid thee
In the tomb's bridal bed; and now thy dower
Is a funeral flower,--
A little shroud, -- a grave. Sweet child! thy father
Some odorous hay shall gather,
To pillow thy cold head. Death's dormitory
Holds thee, and all thy glory.
THREN IX.
My gentle child! and art thou vanished? Thou
Hast left a dreary blank of sadness now;
Our house though full is desolate and lone
Since thy gay spirit and its smiles are gone !
We heard thy*tongue's sweet prattle, and thy song
Echoed in every corner all day long.
Thy mother never grieved, and anxious care
Ne'er rack'd thy father's thoughts while thou wert there ;
Now hers -- now mine -- thy childish, fond caress --
The overflow of youth and tenderness.
But all is vacant now, -- all dull and dead;
All peace, and hope, and laughing joy are fled;
Our home possess'd by ever present grief,
And the tired spirit vainly seeks relief.
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? KOCHANOWSKI. 45
THREN X.
Whither, O whither fled ! in what bright sphere
Art thou, my Ursula, a wanderer?
Say, has thou wing'd above yon heavens thy flighty
A cherub midst the cherubim of light?
Dwell'st thou in Eden's garden? -- or at rest
Reposing midst the islands of the blest?
Doth Charon waft thee o'er the gloomy lake,
And bid thee waters of oblivion take?
I know not; but I know my misery
Is all unknown, is all a blank to thee --
Thy gentle form, thy angel thoughts, where now?
A nightingale of paradise art thou ;
Thy moral taints all purified -- if taint
Could stain the spirit of so fair a saint;
Thou art returned to that same hallow'd spot
Thou didst make holy when earth knew thee not.
But wheresoe'er thou be, compassionate
My misery. If this terrestrial state
Be closed upon thee -- pity still -- and be
A dream, a shadow, something yet to me!
THREN XIII.
Would thou hadst ne'er been born -- or being born
Hadst left me not, sweet infant ! thus forlorn ;
I have paid lasting woe for fleeting bliss --
A dark farewell, a speechless pang like this;
Thou wert the brightest, fairest dream of sleep;
And as the miser cherishes his heap
Of gold, I held thee ; soon 'twas fled, and nought
Left but the dreary vacancies of thought,
That once was blessedness. And tlwii are fled.
Whose fairy vision floated in my head
And play'd around my heart. And thou art gone,
Gone with my joys; and I am left alone;
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? 46 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
Half of my soul took flight with thee, the rest
Clings to thy broken shadow in my breast.
Come raise her tombstone, sculptor. Let there be
This simple offer to her memory.
" Her father's love, -- his Ursula lies here,
His love, alas! his tears, his misery.
Thine was a barbarous mandate, death ! The tear
I drop for her, she should have shed for me. "
The following epitaph was written on his elder
daughter, who soon followed Ursula to the tomb:
Thou Anna! too, thy sister's track has trod,
And prematurely sought death's dark abode;
Grief soon shall call your father to his God,
To brighter worlds beyond life's dismal road.
FROM CANTO XIII.
Sweet sleep! sure man might learn to die from thee,
Who dost unravel all death's mystery;
Come, spread thy balmy influence o'er my soul,
And let it soar, beyond the world's control,
Up to the realms where morning has its birth,
Down to the abyss whence darkness wraps the earth,
Where time has piled its everlasting snows,
Where parch'd by sunbeams not a fountain flows;
Oh, let it count each bright and wandering star,
Or trace its mazy pilgrimage afar;
Sit in the center, while each circling sphere
Pours its aerial music on the ear ;
Drink of the o'erflowing cup of joy and peace,
While the tired body sleeps in weariness;
No dreams to hang upon its mortal breath ;
And so -- undying -- let it taste of death.
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? KOCHANOWSKI 47
TALES OF ST. JOHN'S EVE; OR, SOBO? TKA FIRE. *
When the first sunbeams Cancer fill
And tuneful nightingale is still,
In Czarny las\ from older days
Sobotka's fire is wont to blaze.
The neighboring swain, the distant guest,
Around the sacred fire have prest;
The orchards with the joyous sound
Of three gay fiddlers laugh around.
On the green turf they take their seat, .
Where twice six maidens fair and neat,
Their ornaments and dress as one,
And girdled with the same bright zone,
And skill'd in dance, are all the throng;
And all are skill'd in gentle song;
To all the call of music rings,
And thus the foremost maiden sings:
First Maiden.
Sisters! the fire is blazing high,
And all proclaims festivity;
Now join your friendly hands to mine,
And let our mirthful voices join.
* In Poland, as in most Catholic countries, St. John's Day is a
time of great festivity, and in the evening the Poles are accustomed
in their meadows, and particularly by the side of rivers, to light
large fires, and to dance round them singing ancient songs. Koch-
anowski, to whom the Black Forest belonged as an hereditary pos-
session, used to gather the youths and maidens together in order to
celebrate the festival in the very manner in which he has described
it. Niemcewiz has published a drama called " Kochanowski," and
there introduced the old poet with the nymphs singing around him.
f Czarny las-- the Black Forest,
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? 48 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
Sweet night! be fair and tranquil now,
No rain-storm rage, no tempest blow; --
Sweet night ! where we may watch and wake
Until the dawn of morning break,
We learnt it from our mothers -- they
From theirs, -- for centuries far away;
Upon St. John's joy-rousing night
Sobotka's festal fire to light.
Youths, reverence now, while ye behold
Mementoes of the days of old ;
Let gleeful hours breathe joy again,
And gladness revel now and then.
Their festal moments they enjoy'd,
Yet wisely all their time employ'd;
Each bore its fruits and gratitude,
Pour'd forth its praise to heaven all-good.
But now both late and hard we toil,
Our festivals are but turmoil:
Our gains are neither much nor sure,
And though not pious we are poor.
Come sister! then, this holy night
Is with old time's resplendence bright;
Blaze! blaze anew, Sobotka's fire!
Till lull'd by song the night retire.
Second Maiden.
This is my fault; I'll guilty plead.
I love to dance, -- I love indeed.
Come, tell me, neighbors, does the love '
Of dancing all your spirits move?
I see your smiles, -- your smiles betray
Your sympathy in what I say;
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? KOCHANOWSKI. 49
Come, join the round; why sit ye still?
And dance and leap with hearty will.
I spring, I leap, I cannot be
A statue; and 'tis sweet to rne
To hear the beating tambourine;
No mortal could keep still, I ween.
Oh, thou art mighty, graceful one,
That wakest music's thrilling tone;
The village listens to thy lay,
It calls, we hear, and swift obey.
Here, midst the crowd, each maid may start,
Who is the empress of thy heart: --
Say, is she here? Oh, why inquire?
She is not here, -- thy heart's desire.
No! join our song; thy twinkling feet
Some other twinkling one's may meet;
And here, amidst our joyous band,
Some maid may yet invite thy hand.
To man, to man alone, has heaven
The privilege of laughter given ;
And this, and this alone, has he
In proof of noble ancestry.
Oh, it were foolish, -- it were vain,
So high a privilege to disdain;
And let the wretch go whine and weep
Who mirth's gay revel dares not keep.
Laugh on ! laugh on ! and though at nought,
Still laughter is a pleasant thought:
Laugh at my folly, or my sense ;
Laugh on! laugh on! on some pretense.
3
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? 50 POETS AND POETEY OF POLAND.
I am not sad ; I can't be sad.
Be, maidens all, like me, -- be glad;
For sorrow wrinkles o'er the brow
Ere time tells when, or thought knows how.
But health and youth delight to stay-
Where youth is glad and age is gay;
Where years may hasten as they will,
And eld is in its boyhood still.
Come follow, circle -- all around,
Let the light song of joy rebound;
And maiden sing! be ready, -- thine
The task to waken notes like mine.
Fourth Maiden.
The fairest flow'rets of the mead
I wreathe in garlands for thy head :
For thee, for none but thee, who art
The very empress of my heart.
Oh, place upon thy graceful brow
The blooming wreath I offer now ;
So let me in thy bosom rest
As thou dost well within my breast.
There's not a moment but doth bring
Thy memory upon its wing;
Sleep cannot drive thy thoughts from me,
For when I sleep I dream of thee.
And may I hope thou dost not deem
Me worthless of thy heart's esteem;
That thou wilt hear my passion's tone
And recompense it with thine own?
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? KOCHANOWSKI. 51
But oh, my tongue cannot conceal
The thoughts, the fears, the doubts I feel,
That other longing eyes may stray
O'er charms so beautiful, so gay.
? 34 POETS AND POETEY OF POLAND.
ski, Wasilewski, Groza, Kondratowicz (Syrokomla),
Berwlnski, Zmorski, Gaszyn? ski, Lenartowicz and
Hedwige ? uszczewska (Deotyma).
We come now to a period when the Polish muse
takes another decided turn. Krasin? ski, shuddering at
the premonitions of death's alarms, reveals to the
world in his " Psalms " the mystery of Resurrection,
and Ujejski, following in his wake, proclaims his
"Lamentations. " The heroic poetry, too, inscribes
upon the pages of immortality the names of Iasinski,
Godebski, Korsak, Suchodolski and Romanowski.
If the poetry of to-day does not flow in any other
channel than heretofore, it certainly adds to it the
great play upon the feelings, and beautifies it by
variegated shadings of the picturesque ; keeping always
in the wake of national traditions, it also keeps pace
with the inward fitness of national spirit, thereby
awakening constant admiration and furnishing material
for the tuneful lyre of the Polish bards.
Polish Poetry during the reign of Sigismunds is
characterized by classic conciseness and pleasing sim-
plicity. During the time of Stanislaus Augustus, it is
marked by accuracy and branching out in the richness
of the language. In our times it is distinguished by
still greater purity, taste, and general improvement,
which may be considered as a remarkable augury of
eminent progression, especially so when we consider
that the writers, after having regained the original purity
of the vernacular tongue, will in future do away with
all foreign words which have a tendency to weaken
the expression and dignity of poetic compositions in
the Polish language. And the object will be fully ac-
complished if they will avoid imitating the manner of
foreign style of composition.
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? POETRY OF POLAND. 35
As regards the present spirit of the Polish Poetry,
we see the love of country pervades everywhere.
Zealous admiration of noble deeds, tempered ecstasy,
free imagination untainted by fantastic conceits, mild
in tenderness, simplicity, morality of poetical philoso-
phy, and beautiful pictures of rural life and family in-
tercourse.
In this, as it were improvised, literature, the course
of which has been lively and rapid, are expressed the
feelings of a great people's national records, and the
spirit of Poland long ago, but these have not yet reached
their journey's end, -- not to their final destination. It
still goes Onward and Upward.
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? 36 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
KEY.
Nicholas Rey may be considered as the father of
Polish poetry. Following in the train of the age he
lived in, which was theological Polemics, he partici-
pated in all its delusions and its errors. As a poet he
was only mediocre, lacking in what is termed the poet-
ical inspiration ; and yet although the reader cannot
recognize Rey as a genius, he will discover in his writings
sober and substantial thought, healthy and forcible
manner, and fresh expressions, somewhat colored but
invariably pithy. If his poetical compositions are
devoid of high imagery, they show, nevertheless, and
pointedly too, that he wished to demonstrate to the
book-learned teachers and professional poets the exist-
ence of a people's literature, and thereby awaken in
them the spirit of inquiry in regard to plebeian or popu-
lar poetry, -- that important link -- writing for the first
time the plebeian literature and the literature of the
learned.
Rey was indeed a true bard, and did much toward
the elevation of the Polish Muse. King Sigismund
Augustus held Rey in the highest esteem, and not only
patronized and enriched him, but conferred upon him
many marks of distinction.
Rey was born in 1505, and passed his youth in frolic
and pleasure. He went to school for about five years,
but it seems he did not learn there much of any thing --
not till the twentieth year of his life, when through
the influence of his uncle he obtained a place with a
very wealthy family of Tenczyn? ski, who generally
spent their time in Italy, and associating with the mem-
bers of the Imperial family, knew how to prize learn-
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? KEY. 37
ing and learned people, and understood how to assimi-
late the customs of their country with European civili-
zation. Rey being connected with a family of such
high standing, began to acquire facility in the writing
of Polish letters and learned a little Latin. He amused
himself with study and music and began to compose
verses, but he never could stay in one place ; chiefly
spending his time in hunting he cast his lot with
Hetman Sieniawski and traveled in different parts of
Poland, frequenting political assemblies, courts of jus-
tice and meetings of all sorts, being everywhere
received with much eclat as a man of good cheer and
ready wit, fond of good wine and a sumptuous table.
Not mixing in any quarrels or contentions of any kind,
he was welcome and received hospitality no matter
where he turned. Being liked by all except by strict
Roman Catholics, he passed his time at the courts of
both Sigismuncls, who bestowed upon him good pay and
munificent gifts. Although he was present at every
assembly and almost at every political and religious
meeting, he never would accept of any office.
Amidst all the allurements of social circles he did
not neglect his calling as a poet, and kept improving
as he grew older. He died in 1569.
VIRTUE.
Virtue is the earth's gem of gems,
Rich and poor the diadems.
Though all emeralds formed one star,
Virtue's light is brighter far !
For earth's marts man has not made
Balance which this gem hath weighed,
All other blessings pass or fade --
Virtue till death is undismayed.
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? 38 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
VICE.
Vice is a serpent, lying through all weather,
Coiled up unseen beside life's wayside stone.
When knave and fool carousing come together,
With warning hiss it makes its venom known.
The following is Key's description of what Poland
was three hundred and forty years ago :
Cast your eyes around you and behold our glorious king-
dom ! Strong within itself, Poland needs no assistance from
other nations. It is one of the most powerful nations in
Europe, and in martial character is preeminent. . The Lord
of all has placed it here, and endowed her people with many
rare qualities. Is there a nation on earth equal to ours in
bravery and endurance? The intrepidity, the unyielding per-
severance and daring heroism of Polish soldiers surpasses
anything in the annals of history.
In knowledge and progress Poland stands equal if not
superior to other nations. In her most brilliant eras she has
produced many men eminent in science, among whom we can
count at this present time Copernicus, the discoverer of the
true system of the universe. Other nations may possess more
gold and silver, spices, silks, etc. , but can they compete with
us in virtue and excellence, in valor and prowess ? What
nation can stand against the indomitable courage of our
valiant soldiers? Many nations now in our memory have
called upon us to assist them in time of war, and when they
saw our soldiers in their ranks they felt assured of victory.
A Polish soldier fights to win, and wherever he shows his
open face and brave heart the e*iemy is forced to yield.
A THOUGHT.
For the improvement of his mind it is necessary that a
man should read.
ANECDOTES.
Rey was very witty, and one day while he was fishing a
neighbor sent a boy to him with his compliments, and an
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? KEY. 39
empty dish for some fish. Rey understood the drift and
remarked : " I will return compliments for compliments, but
for the fish I must have money, not compliments. "
It so happened that the poet was outwitted by an ignorant
peasant. While traveling Rey came to a certain village, and
meeting a peasant the following dialogue took place :
Rey. Who holds possession of this village?
Peasant. The earth and fences.
Rey. Who is master here?
Peasant. He who has the most money.
Rey. Who is the elder of this place?
Peasant. The oldest person in the place is a man who is
one hundred years old, if that is what you mean.
Rey. I mean who occupies the highest place?
Peasant. Oh ! yonder linden tree by the church.
Rey. How far is it to noon?
Peasant. It has not passed here yet, so I couldn't tell you.
Rey. It seems to me, fellow, that you are rather impu-
dent, and deserve a slap in your mouth.
Peasant. I wouldn't like that, as I am no dog ; but if you
would slap something into my hand it would be all right.
Rey. " As I live," said the poet, " I have never met so pert
a peasant before. "
Useless the yield of well worked fields
If but to waste the housewife yields.
The poet tells us that the above has a twofold meaning.
One is: no matter how many victories we gain over our ene-
mies in the field, they will be productive of no good if there
is discord and misrule at home. And another is : no matter
how hard a farmer works in the field if his wife is wasteful,
idle and improvident, the farming operations must come to
? ruin. Which is proven by another proverb:
A wasteful housewife can carry out with her apron more
than the farmer can haul in with a wagon.
The light of Holy Truth can never be extinguished.
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? KOCHANOWSKI.
"Wszystko sie dziwnie plecie
Na tym tu biednym s? wiecie.
A-ktoby chcia? wszystkiego rozumem dochodzic? ,
I zginie, a nie be? dzie umia? w to ugcdzic? .
Translation on the last page of Kochanowski (*).
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? KOCHANOWSKI. 41
KOCHANOWSKI.
John Kochanowski, who attained great celebrity as
a poet, is the type and true representative of the Polish
muse of the sixteenth century, for in him were united
all the rhythmical elements of that epoch. From the
many of his lyrical creations could be mentioned " So-
bo? tka," or the song of St. John's Eve, " Threns (or
Laments) on Ursula's Death," "Reconciliation," "Epi-
taphs," "Inscriptions," "Psalms," "Translations from
the Songs of Anacreon," and "Chess. "
Kochanowski having had no specimens of Polish
literature before him, had himself to break through the
first difficulties of rhythmical art. He had himself to
invent the form, language, and poetical style. In his
compositions as well as his life, two separate and
characteristic epochs are perceptible: one of frenzy,
frivolity, love matters and pleasure, the other presents
peace of the soul, resignation, and a serene, religious
feeling.
He was born in Siczyn, in 1530, in Great Poland.
Desiring more information he traveled in the south of
Europe, in order to get a better knowledge of classical
antiquity, and after his return was advanced to many
high offices of the state, but he resigned them all for
the sake of retirement and peace.
Kochanowski wrote also in Latin, and his poetry in
that language was considered superior to that of any of
his contemporaries. His poems are full of beauty, and
the melodious flow of his verse is truly delightful.
Although his writings are various, his reputation is prin-
cipally founded upon his " Laments " (Treny), in which
he mourns the loss of his little daughter Ursula, whom
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? 42 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
he represents as gifted, intelligent and lovely; his com-
positions overflow with expressions of passionate grief.
Other gems, like the song on " St. John's Eve,"
" Nothing Sure in this World," etc. , are admired to the
present day. He also wrote songs from Horace and
from Greek anthology, translated Virgil's "JEneid,"
and Tasso's "Jerusalem Delivered. " His poem on
John Tarnowski, the celebrated Polish hero, is an epic
which entitles him to the highest rank as an author of
heroic poetry. Kochanowski also printed a drama,
"The Greek Ambassadors," in hexameter measure.
His prose works are scarcely less numerous than his
poetical, and are equally distinguished for their grace
and purity of style. He died in 1584.
THE GREATNESS OF GOD.
O God!
What wilt Thou for Thy gifts from us
For Thy unmeasured goodness bounteous ?
No church contains Thee, for Thou fillest space --
Ocean and Earth, and Heaven Thy dwelling place.
We cannot give Thee gold, for gold is Thine,
All earthly treasures bear Thy seal divine.
Praise we can give Thee from a grateful heart,
Thou who above us and beyond us art!
Thou art the master of the world -- hast reared
The heavens with all its starry orbs ensphered.
And Earth's foundations, at Thy word straightway
Arose from nothingness in green array.
The sea, at Thy commands, despite its fret,
Remains within the bounds Thy hand has set.
The countless rivers at Thy mandate flow,
Thou bid'st the night and day to come and go.
For Thee the Spring with flowers her brow adorn,
For Thee the Summer binds her ears of corn-
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? KOCHANOWSKI. 43
To Thee the Autumn yields both fruit and vine,
And winter wreathes red holly for Thy shrine.
The withered herbage 'neath Thy dew revives,
Beneath Thy rain the parched up grain-field thrives.
From out Thy hand all creatures take their food,
And through Thy bounty all things are renewed.
everlasting God! be praised therefor --
Grant us Thy grace and bounty evermore:
Shield us while here from every evil thing.
And fold us close beneath a Father's wing.
THREN I.
Come gather 'round my dwelling, tears and sighs,
Eloquent woes, and loud-voiced miseries ;
All tones of sorrow, anguish, and regret,
Hand- wringing grief, and pangs the cheeks that wet, --
Yes! gather 'round my dwelling all, and join
Your plaint, your passion, with these plaints of mine,
O'er that sweet child whom most unholy death
Hath smitten, and in one outrageous breath
Dispers'd all joy! -- as when a dragon springs
On Philomela's nest, who sits and sings
Heedless, till roused by cries she flaps her wings,
Flutters around her home, and shrieking tries
To arrest the spoiler, -- idle strife! She flies
On wearied wing ; in vain -- the abandoned one
Becomes in turn a prey -- I'll weep alone,
Weep bitterest tears. Vain too, 'tis vain I know, --
All is irreparably vain below; --
We only grasp delusions, life's a cheat
Of new deceit, but link'd to old deceit.
1 know not which is vainer, -- if to bear
And struggle with our grief in mute despair,
Or give the anguish passionate vent, as here.
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? 44 POETS AND POETEY OF POLAND.
THREN VII.
Thou angel child! thy mournful dress before me
Throws bitter sorrow o'er me;
Thy little ornaments of joy and gladness
Awake a deeper sadness.
Never again to wear your splendors, -- never;
All hope is fled forever!
A sleep, a hard and iron sleep, hath bound thee,
Dark night has gather'd round thee.
Thy golden belt is dim; thy flower-wreathed tresses
Scattered. Thy summer dresses
Which thy poor mother wrought; she had array' d thee
For love, and we have laid thee
In the tomb's bridal bed; and now thy dower
Is a funeral flower,--
A little shroud, -- a grave. Sweet child! thy father
Some odorous hay shall gather,
To pillow thy cold head. Death's dormitory
Holds thee, and all thy glory.
THREN IX.
My gentle child! and art thou vanished? Thou
Hast left a dreary blank of sadness now;
Our house though full is desolate and lone
Since thy gay spirit and its smiles are gone !
We heard thy*tongue's sweet prattle, and thy song
Echoed in every corner all day long.
Thy mother never grieved, and anxious care
Ne'er rack'd thy father's thoughts while thou wert there ;
Now hers -- now mine -- thy childish, fond caress --
The overflow of youth and tenderness.
But all is vacant now, -- all dull and dead;
All peace, and hope, and laughing joy are fled;
Our home possess'd by ever present grief,
And the tired spirit vainly seeks relief.
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? KOCHANOWSKI. 45
THREN X.
Whither, O whither fled ! in what bright sphere
Art thou, my Ursula, a wanderer?
Say, has thou wing'd above yon heavens thy flighty
A cherub midst the cherubim of light?
Dwell'st thou in Eden's garden? -- or at rest
Reposing midst the islands of the blest?
Doth Charon waft thee o'er the gloomy lake,
And bid thee waters of oblivion take?
I know not; but I know my misery
Is all unknown, is all a blank to thee --
Thy gentle form, thy angel thoughts, where now?
A nightingale of paradise art thou ;
Thy moral taints all purified -- if taint
Could stain the spirit of so fair a saint;
Thou art returned to that same hallow'd spot
Thou didst make holy when earth knew thee not.
But wheresoe'er thou be, compassionate
My misery. If this terrestrial state
Be closed upon thee -- pity still -- and be
A dream, a shadow, something yet to me!
THREN XIII.
Would thou hadst ne'er been born -- or being born
Hadst left me not, sweet infant ! thus forlorn ;
I have paid lasting woe for fleeting bliss --
A dark farewell, a speechless pang like this;
Thou wert the brightest, fairest dream of sleep;
And as the miser cherishes his heap
Of gold, I held thee ; soon 'twas fled, and nought
Left but the dreary vacancies of thought,
That once was blessedness. And tlwii are fled.
Whose fairy vision floated in my head
And play'd around my heart. And thou art gone,
Gone with my joys; and I am left alone;
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? 46 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
Half of my soul took flight with thee, the rest
Clings to thy broken shadow in my breast.
Come raise her tombstone, sculptor. Let there be
This simple offer to her memory.
" Her father's love, -- his Ursula lies here,
His love, alas! his tears, his misery.
Thine was a barbarous mandate, death ! The tear
I drop for her, she should have shed for me. "
The following epitaph was written on his elder
daughter, who soon followed Ursula to the tomb:
Thou Anna! too, thy sister's track has trod,
And prematurely sought death's dark abode;
Grief soon shall call your father to his God,
To brighter worlds beyond life's dismal road.
FROM CANTO XIII.
Sweet sleep! sure man might learn to die from thee,
Who dost unravel all death's mystery;
Come, spread thy balmy influence o'er my soul,
And let it soar, beyond the world's control,
Up to the realms where morning has its birth,
Down to the abyss whence darkness wraps the earth,
Where time has piled its everlasting snows,
Where parch'd by sunbeams not a fountain flows;
Oh, let it count each bright and wandering star,
Or trace its mazy pilgrimage afar;
Sit in the center, while each circling sphere
Pours its aerial music on the ear ;
Drink of the o'erflowing cup of joy and peace,
While the tired body sleeps in weariness;
No dreams to hang upon its mortal breath ;
And so -- undying -- let it taste of death.
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? KOCHANOWSKI 47
TALES OF ST. JOHN'S EVE; OR, SOBO? TKA FIRE. *
When the first sunbeams Cancer fill
And tuneful nightingale is still,
In Czarny las\ from older days
Sobotka's fire is wont to blaze.
The neighboring swain, the distant guest,
Around the sacred fire have prest;
The orchards with the joyous sound
Of three gay fiddlers laugh around.
On the green turf they take their seat, .
Where twice six maidens fair and neat,
Their ornaments and dress as one,
And girdled with the same bright zone,
And skill'd in dance, are all the throng;
And all are skill'd in gentle song;
To all the call of music rings,
And thus the foremost maiden sings:
First Maiden.
Sisters! the fire is blazing high,
And all proclaims festivity;
Now join your friendly hands to mine,
And let our mirthful voices join.
* In Poland, as in most Catholic countries, St. John's Day is a
time of great festivity, and in the evening the Poles are accustomed
in their meadows, and particularly by the side of rivers, to light
large fires, and to dance round them singing ancient songs. Koch-
anowski, to whom the Black Forest belonged as an hereditary pos-
session, used to gather the youths and maidens together in order to
celebrate the festival in the very manner in which he has described
it. Niemcewiz has published a drama called " Kochanowski," and
there introduced the old poet with the nymphs singing around him.
f Czarny las-- the Black Forest,
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? 48 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
Sweet night! be fair and tranquil now,
No rain-storm rage, no tempest blow; --
Sweet night ! where we may watch and wake
Until the dawn of morning break,
We learnt it from our mothers -- they
From theirs, -- for centuries far away;
Upon St. John's joy-rousing night
Sobotka's festal fire to light.
Youths, reverence now, while ye behold
Mementoes of the days of old ;
Let gleeful hours breathe joy again,
And gladness revel now and then.
Their festal moments they enjoy'd,
Yet wisely all their time employ'd;
Each bore its fruits and gratitude,
Pour'd forth its praise to heaven all-good.
But now both late and hard we toil,
Our festivals are but turmoil:
Our gains are neither much nor sure,
And though not pious we are poor.
Come sister! then, this holy night
Is with old time's resplendence bright;
Blaze! blaze anew, Sobotka's fire!
Till lull'd by song the night retire.
Second Maiden.
This is my fault; I'll guilty plead.
I love to dance, -- I love indeed.
Come, tell me, neighbors, does the love '
Of dancing all your spirits move?
I see your smiles, -- your smiles betray
Your sympathy in what I say;
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? KOCHANOWSKI. 49
Come, join the round; why sit ye still?
And dance and leap with hearty will.
I spring, I leap, I cannot be
A statue; and 'tis sweet to rne
To hear the beating tambourine;
No mortal could keep still, I ween.
Oh, thou art mighty, graceful one,
That wakest music's thrilling tone;
The village listens to thy lay,
It calls, we hear, and swift obey.
Here, midst the crowd, each maid may start,
Who is the empress of thy heart: --
Say, is she here? Oh, why inquire?
She is not here, -- thy heart's desire.
No! join our song; thy twinkling feet
Some other twinkling one's may meet;
And here, amidst our joyous band,
Some maid may yet invite thy hand.
To man, to man alone, has heaven
The privilege of laughter given ;
And this, and this alone, has he
In proof of noble ancestry.
Oh, it were foolish, -- it were vain,
So high a privilege to disdain;
And let the wretch go whine and weep
Who mirth's gay revel dares not keep.
Laugh on ! laugh on ! and though at nought,
Still laughter is a pleasant thought:
Laugh at my folly, or my sense ;
Laugh on! laugh on! on some pretense.
3
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? 50 POETS AND POETEY OF POLAND.
I am not sad ; I can't be sad.
Be, maidens all, like me, -- be glad;
For sorrow wrinkles o'er the brow
Ere time tells when, or thought knows how.
But health and youth delight to stay-
Where youth is glad and age is gay;
Where years may hasten as they will,
And eld is in its boyhood still.
Come follow, circle -- all around,
Let the light song of joy rebound;
And maiden sing! be ready, -- thine
The task to waken notes like mine.
Fourth Maiden.
The fairest flow'rets of the mead
I wreathe in garlands for thy head :
For thee, for none but thee, who art
The very empress of my heart.
Oh, place upon thy graceful brow
The blooming wreath I offer now ;
So let me in thy bosom rest
As thou dost well within my breast.
There's not a moment but doth bring
Thy memory upon its wing;
Sleep cannot drive thy thoughts from me,
For when I sleep I dream of thee.
And may I hope thou dost not deem
Me worthless of thy heart's esteem;
That thou wilt hear my passion's tone
And recompense it with thine own?
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? KOCHANOWSKI. 51
But oh, my tongue cannot conceal
The thoughts, the fears, the doubts I feel,
That other longing eyes may stray
O'er charms so beautiful, so gay.
