' The
solution
also is the same:
## p.
## p.
Warner - World's Best Literature - v15 - Kab to Les
8727 (#343) ###########################################
KARL THEODOR KÖRNER
8727
MY NATIVE LAND
-
W***
HERE is the minstrel's native land ? —
Where sparks of noble soul flashed high,
Where garlands bloomed in Honor's eye,
Where manly bosoms glowed with joy,
Touched by Religion's altar brand,
There was my native land!
APELA
Name me th minstrel's native land. -
Though now her sons lie slain in heaps,
Though, wounded and disgraced, she weeps,
Beneath her soil the freeman sleeps.
The land of oaks — the German land-
They called my native land!
Why weeps the minstrel's native land ? -
To see her people's princes cower
Before the wrathful tyrant's power;
She weeps, that in the stormy hour
No soul at her high call will stand.
That grieves my native land!
Whom calls the minstrel's native land ? -
She calls the voiceless gods; her cries
Like thunder-storms assail the skies;
She bids her sons, her freemen, rise;
On righteous Heaven's avenging hand
She calls — my native land!
.
-
What will the minstrel's native land ? -
She'll crush the slaves of despot power,
Drive off the bloodhounds from her shore,
And suckle free-born sons once more,
Or lay them free beneath the sand:
That will my native land!
And hopes the minstrel's native land ? -
She hopes — she hopes! Her cause is just.
Her faithful sons will wake — they must.
In God Most High she puts her trust;
On his great altar leans her hand,
And hopes — my native land!
Translation of C. T. Brooks.
## p. 8728 (#344) ###########################################
8728
KARL THEODOR KÖRNER
PRAYER DURING THE BATTLE
F
ATHER, I call on thee!
Clouds from the thunder-voiced cannon enveil me,
Lightnings are flashing, death's thick darts assail
me:
Ruler of battles, I call on thee!
Father, oh, lead thou me!
Father, oh, lead thou me!
Lead me to victory, or to death lead me;
With joy I accept what thou hast decreed me.
God, as thou wilt, so lead thou me!
God, I acknowledge thee!
God, I acknowledge thee!
Where, in still autumn, the sear leaf is falling,
Where peals the battle, its thunder appalling:
Fount of all grace, I acknowledge thee!
Father, oh, bless thou me!
Father, oh, bless thou me!
Into thy hand my soul I resign, Lord;
Deal as thou wilt with the life that is thine, Lord.
Living or dying, oh, bless thou me!
Father, I praise thy name!
Father, I praise thy name!
Not for earth's wealth or dominion contend we;
The holiest rights of the freeman defend we.
Victor or vanquished, praise I thee!
God, in thy name I trust!
God, in thy name I trust!
When in loud thunder my death-note is knelling,
When from my veins the red blood is welling,
God, in thy holy name I trust!
Father, I call on thee!
Translation of J. S. Blackie.
## p. 8729 (#345) ###########################################
KARL THEODOR KÖRNER
8729
SUMMONS
M
Y PEOPLE, wake! The signal-fires are smoking;
Bright breaks the light of Freedom from the north;
'Tis time thy steel in foemen's hearts was reeking.
My people, wake! The signal-fires are smoking;
The fields are white: ye reapers, hasten forth!
The last, the highest hope lies in the sword;
Home to thy bleeding breast their lances strain;
Make way for Freedom! Let thy blood be poured,
To cleanse thy German land from every stain.
Ours is no war of which crowned heads are dreaming;
'Tis a crusade, a holy war we wage!
Faith, virtue, conscience, truth, and honor mourn;
These has the tyrant from thy bosom torn;
Thy Freedom's victory saves them from his rage.
The moanings of thy aged cry, "Awake!
Thy homes in ashes curse the invading brood,
Thy daughters in disgrace for vengeance shriek,
The ghosts of slaughtered sons shriek wild for blood.
Gang
Break up the plowshare, let the chisel fall,
The lyre be hushed, the shuttle cease its play;
Forsake thy courts, leave giddy Pleasure's hall:
He in whose sight thy banners flutter, all,
Will see his people now in war's array.
For thou shalt build a mighty altar soon
In his eternal Freedom's morning sky;
With thy good sword shall every stone be hewn;
On heroes' graves the temple's base shall lie.
Ye maidens and ye wives, for whom the Lord
Of Hosts the dreadful sword hath never steeled,
When 'mid your spoilers’ ranks we gladly leap,
And bare our bosoms to the strife, why weep
That you may not stand forth on glory's field ? -
Before God's altar joyfully repair ;
The pangs of anxious love your wounds must be;
To you He gives, in every heartfelt prayer,
The spirit's pure and bloodless victory.
Then pray that God would wake the slumbering fire,
And rouse his old heroic race to life;
## p. 8730 (#346) ###########################################
8730
KARL THEODOR KÖRNER
And oh, as stern avenging spirits, call
The buried German martyrs, one and all,
As holy angels of the holy strife!
Spirit of Ferdinand, lead thou the van!
Louisa, faithful to thy spouse, be nigh!
And all ye shades of German heroes, on,
With us, with us, where'er our banners fly!
The night of Heaven is with us; Hell must cower:
On, valiant people! on! 'Tis Freedom's cry!
Thy heart beats high, high up thy old oaks tower:
Heed not thy hills of slain in victory's hour;
Plant Freedom's banner there to float on high.
And now, my people, when thou standest free,
Robed in the brightness of thy old renown,
Let not the faithful dead forgotten be,
And place upon our urn the oaken crown!
Translation of C. T. Brooks.
LÜTZOW'S WILD CHASE
WHAT
HAT gleams from yon wood in the sunbeams' play?
Hark! hark! It sounds nearer and nearer;
It winds down the mountain in gloomy array,
And the blast of its trumpets is bringing dismay
To the soul of the manliest hearer.
Go, read it in each dark comrade's face-
« That is Lützow's wild and desperate chase. ”
»
What glances so swiftly through forest, o'er fell,
From mountain to mountain flying?
In ambush like midnight it lies in the dell;
The hurrah rings, and the rifle's knell
Proclaims the French beadles are dying.
Go, read it in each dark hunter's face —
« That is Lützow's wild and desperate chase. ”
Where the rich grapes glow and the Rhine waves roar,
The tyrant thought safely to hide him;
With the swiftness of lightning it flies to the shore.
Leaps in, and with sinewy arm swims o'er,
And springs to the bank beside him.
Go, read it in each dark swimmer's face-
« That is Lützow's wild and desperate chase. ”
## p. 8731 (#347) ###########################################
KARL THEODOR KÖRNER
8731
Why roars in yon valley the din of fight,
And broadswords tumultuously clashing ?
Stern horsemen are battling with dreadful delight,
And the live spark of liberty, wakeful and bright,
In bloody-red flames is fast flashing.
Go, read it in each dark horseman's face-
« That is Lützow's wild and desperate chase. ”
Lo, smiling farewell 'mid the foe's dying wail,
Who lies there with bare bosom streaming ?
Death lays his hand on that young brow, pale;
But never shall one of those true hearts quail,
For the star of their country is beaming.
Go, read it in each pale, marble face-
“That was Lützow's wild and desperate chase! »
The wild, wild chase, and the German chase
'Gainst hangmen and tyrants, is ended.
Come then, ye who love us, wipe tears from each face,
For the country is free, and the morn dawns apace,
Though our forms in the grave be extended.
Children's children shall cry, as our story they trace
« That was Lützow's wild and desperate chase. ”
iz LIDARI
Translation of C. T. Brooks.
SWORD SONG
S"
WORD, on my left side gleaming,
What means thy bright eye's beaming?
It makes my spirit dance
To see thy friendly glance.
Hurrah!
“A valiant rider bears me;
A freeborn German wears me:
That makes my eye so bright;
That is the sword's delight. ”
Hurrah!
Yes, good sword, I am free,
And love thee heartily,
And clasp thee to my side
E'en as a plighted bride.
Hurrah!
## p. 8732 (#348) ###########################################
8732
KARL THEODOR KÖRNER
“And I to thee, by Heaven,
My light steel life have given:
When shall the knot be tied ?
When wilt thou take thy bride ? ?
Hurrah!
The trumpet's solemn warning
Shall hail the bridal morning.
When cannon-thunders wake,
Then my true love I take.
Hurrah!
«Oh, blessed, blessed meeting!
My heart is wildly beating:
Come, bridegroom, come for me;
My garland waiteth thee. ”
Hurrah!
Why, in the scabbard rattle,
So wild, so fierce for battle?
What means this restless glow ?
My sword, why clatter so?
Hurrah!
“Well may thy prisoner rattle;
My spirit yearns for battle:
Rider, 'tis war's wild glow
That makes me tremble so. ”
Hurrah!
Stay in thy chamber near,
My love: what wilt thou here?
Still in thy chamber bide:
Soon, soon I take my bride.
Hurrah!
“Let me not longer wait:
Love's garden blooms in state
With roses bloody-red,
And many a bright death-bed. ”
Hurrah!
Now, then, come forth, my bride;
Come forth, thou rider's pride!
Come out, my good sword, come,
Forth to thy father's home!
Hurrah!
## p. 8733 (#349) ###########################################
KARL THEODOR KÖRNER
8733
1
«Oh, in the field to prance
The glorious wedding dance!
How in the sun's bright beams,
Bride-like the clear steel gleams! »
Hurrah!
Then forward, valiant fighters!
And forward, German riders!
And when the heart grows cold,
Let each his love enfold.
Hurrah !
Once on the left it hung,
And stolen glances flung;
Now clearly on your right
Doth God each fond bride plight.
Hurrah !
Then let your hot lips feel
That virgin cheek of steel;
One kiss — and woe betide
Him who forsakes the bride.
Hurrah!
Now let the loved one sing;
Now let the clear blade ring,
Till the bright sparks shall ily,
Heralds of victory!
Hurrah!
For hark! the trumpet's warning
Proclaims the marriage morning :
It dawns in festal pride;
Hurrah, thou Iron Bride!
Hurrah !
Translation of C. T. Brooks.
## p. 8734 (#350) ###########################################
8734
KARL THEODOR KÖRNER
THE THREE STARS
T".
HERE are three cheering stars of light
O'er life's dark path that shine;
And these fair orbs, so pure and bright,
Are song, and love, and wine!
For oh! the soul of song hath power
To charm the feeling heart,
To soothe the mourner's sternest hour,
And bid his griefs depart!
And wine can lend to song its mirth,
Can joys unwonted bring,
And paint this fair and lovely earth
In charms of deathless spring.
But thou, O love! of all the throng
Art fairest seen to shine;
For thou canst soothe the soul like song,
And cheer the heart like wine!
Then deign, fair orbs! to shed your ray
Along my path of gloom,
To guide me through life's lonely way,
And shine upon my tomb!
For oh! the song, the cup, the kiss
Can make the night divine;
Then blest be he who found the bliss
Of song, and love, and wine!
Translation of G. F. Richardson.
## p. 8735 (#351) ###########################################
8735
SIGISMUND KRASINSKI
(1812-1859)
RASINSKI was one of the three great poets of Poland through
whom the spirit of the submerged commonwealth found its
fullest expression. The golden age of Poland's literature
was coincident with the period of her deepest political humiliation,
and every Polish poet was a Polish patriot. It was a literature of
emigrants and exiles who found their poetic inspiration, and the main-
spring of all endeavor, in the love of country and the hope of see-
ing her restored to her ancient greatness. In the trio of poets who
represent this age Mickiewicz stands first,
and by his side the Dioscuri Slowacki and
Krasinski. Krasinski's position was a pecul-
iar and difficult one. He was the heir of
an old aristocratic family; his mother was
a princess of the house of Radziwill, and
he was brought up in the midst of feudal
traditions. In his breast burned the purest
patriotic fire, and merely to possess his
works exposed a man to Siberia or death;
and yet he was the only one of all the
patriot poets that taught the philosophy
of non-resistance and self-abnegation. With
serene confidence he left the future in the SIGISMUND KRASINSKI
hands of eternal justice, and insisted that
the moral regeneration of Poland must precede her political re-estab-
lishment. In all his works this note of lofty morality is struck, and
Christianity is put forward as the only reconciling power between
conflicting forces.
Sigismund Krasinski was born at Paris on February 19th, 1812.
His father, Count Vincent Krasinski, was an adjutant of Napoleon's:
when the hopes of Poland were shattered by the abdication of the
Emperor, Krasinski, acting under orders from the Czar, returned with
his family to Warsaw. Their home was the centre to which flocked
all the eminent men in literary and political life. In this circle
young Krasinski grew up, and the most loving care was bestowed
upon his education. At the age of fourteen he wrote two novels in
the style of his favorite author, Walter Scott; but his literary ambi-
tion was not encouraged, and he was destined for the law.
## p. 8736 (#352) ###########################################
8736
SIGISMUND KRASINSKI
>
It was about this time that the crisis came which affected his
whole career. The leaders who in 1825 conspired against the Rus-
sian government were brought to trial in Warsaw; and from all
quarters of Europe the Polish members of the high tribunal hastened
to the capital to give their votes for their compatriots. Count
Krasinski was the only Pole that cast a vote in the Russian interest.
The relations between father and son remained cordial, and the poet
lived to see his father's appointment to the governorship of Poland
received with approbation by his countrymen; but from the ignominy
of his father's act he never recovered. His only reference to it is
in the touching appeal to Poland with which his weird vision entitled
(Temptation ends. Krasinski's works were all published anony-
mously or under assumed names; and it was years before the admir-
ing people learned the true name of the inspired teacher whom they
revered as “the anonymous poet of Poland. ”
Krasinski's frail state of health made long residence in the rigor-
ous climate of his native land impossible, even had the political con-
ditions been less unhappy. At Geneva in 1830 he met Mickiewicz,
who exerted a powerful influence upon his genius, and turned his
mind to poetry. In 1833 appeared his first poetic tale, Agay Han';
and in the same year in Rome he wrote one of his greatest works,
Nieboska Komedya' (The Undivine Comedy). It is a symbolic poem
in the dramatic form, and deals with the loftiest themes of social
and spiritual life: the deviation from the path of plain duty in pur-
suit of a phantom ideal; the conflict between the old world of aris-
tocracy and the new world of democracy, the futility of the triumph
of one over the other; the ultimate salvation wrought by Christianity,
through which reconciliation comes. The old aristocracy with its
spiritual ideals is represented by Count Henry; the aims and inspi-
rations of the materialized democracy are embodied in the character
of Pancras. The monologue in which for a moment Pancras doubts
the genuineness of his mission has been pronounced by Mickiewicz
one of the great soliloquies of the world's literature.
In this poem
Krasinski's philosophy is brought before us in concrete forms, with
sublime imagery and an insight into the future almost apocalyptic.
It is said that after the disasters of 1846 Krasinski exclaimed, “Ah!
why was I not a false prophet ? ”
The work which is regarded as the poet's highest achievement is ·
the half epic, half dramatic poem, Iridion. It was written likewise
in Rome and published in 1836. In glowing colors are contrasted the
degeneracy of Rome under the Cæsars and the enthusiastic patriotisın
of the Greeks who are plotting to avenge subjugated Hellas. In con-
ception and execution is displayed the same exalted originality tiiat
distinguished "The Undivine Comedy.
' The solution also is the same:
## p. 8737 (#353) ###########################################
SIGISMUND KRASINSKI
8737
Rome is pagan and the Greeks disregard Christianity, through which
alone their salvation can be wrought. Poland is always before the
poet's eye, and the application to her case is obvious. Krasinski was
no lover of art for art's sake; poetry must have a living purpose, and
in this spirit the Invocation to the Muse was written which opens
(The Undivine Comedy): «Thou ruinest wholly those who consecrate
themselves, with all they are, to thee alone, who solely live the voices
of thy glory. ”
Krasinski also wrote several prose works of a symbolic character,
but the prose is dithyrambic and impassioned. Pokusa' (Temptation)
has already been mentioned: a strange vision of grief and hope with
passages of thrilling power. Noc Letnia' (Summer Night) appeared
in the same year, 1841. In 1843 Krasinski returned to verse; and in
a series of beautiful canzone entitled Przedswit' (The Dawn) he
sang the praises of the moral elements of the Polish past, and again
proclaimed the necessity of reviving them. In the three famous
(Psalms of the Future (1845 and 1848) Krasinski glorified the heroism
of self-sacrifice and martyrdom. It was this that called forth the vio-
lent opposition of Slowacki and of the more ardent but less astute
patriots. Slowacki denounced the Psalms) as “lyric cowardice);
but Krasinski's teachings sank deep into the heart of his distressed
countrymen. The strange scene which took place at Warsaw in 1861
was typical of his influence. Infuriated by the sight of an unfurled
Polish banner, the Russian troops fired upon the populace; and the
Polish women and children and unarmed men bared their breasts to
the bullets in a frenzy of patriotic self-sacrifice. It has been said of
Krasinski that «he modified the character of an entire people. ”
He died in Paris on February 23d, 1859; and with him was extin-
guished the last star in the triad of great Polish poets.
___
(All the following selections are made from «The Undivine Comedy, and Other
Poems. Translated by Martha Walker Cook. Copyrighted 1875, by
J. B. Lippincott & Co. ]
INVOCATION
To POETRY
From «The Undivine Comedy)
TARS circle round thy head; and at thy feet
S,
A rainbow glides before thee, cleaving the clouds!
Whate'er thou look'st upon is thine! Coasts, ships,
Men, mountains, cities, all belong to thee!
XV-547
## p. 8738 (#354) ###########################################
8738
SIGISMUND KRASINSKI
Master of Heaven as earth, it seems as naught
Could equal thee in glory!
-
To ears which heed thy lays, thou givest joys,
Raptures ineffable! Thou weavest hearts
Together, then untwin'st them like a wreath,
As wild caprice may guide thy flame-lit fingers!
Thou forcest tears, then driest them with a smile;
Thou scar'st away the smile from paling lips,
Perhaps but for a moment, a few hours,
Perhaps for evermore!
But thou ! - What dost thou feel, and what create ?
A living stream of beauty flows through thee,
But Beauty thou art not! woe, woe, to thee!
The weeping child upon its mother's breast,
The field-flower knowing not its perfumed gift,
More merit have before the Lord than thou!
Whence com'st thou, fleeting shadow ? to the Light
Still bearing witness, though thou know'st it not,
Hast never seen it, nor wilt ever see!
In anger or in mockery wert thou made ?
So full of self-deceit that thou canst play
The angel to the moment when thou fall'st,
And crawlest like a reptile upon earth,
Stifled in mud, or feeding upon dust!
Thou and the woman have like origin!
Alas! thou sufferest too, although thy pangs
Bring naught to birth, nothing create, nor serve!
The groans of the unfortunate are weighed;
The lowest beggar's sighs counted in heaven,
Gathered and sung upon celestial harps:
But thy despair and sighs fall to the earth,
Where Satan gathers them; adds them with joy
To his own lies, illusions, mockeries!
The Lord will yet disown them, as they have
Ever disowned the Lord!
Not that I rise against thee, Poetry,-
Mother of Beauty, of ideal Life!
But I must pity him condemned to dwell
Within the limits of these whirling worlds,
In dying agonies, or yet to be
Doomed to sad memories, or prophecies,
Perchance remorse, or vague presentiments,–
## p. 8739 (#355) ###########################################
SIGISMUND KRASINSKI
8739
1
Who gives himself to thee! for everywhere
Thou ruinest wholly those who consecrate
Themselves, with all they are, to thee alone,
Who solely live the voices of thy glory!
Blessed is he in whom thou mak'st thy home,
As God dwelt in the world, concealed, unknown,
But grand and mighty in each separate part:
The unseen God, before whom creatures bow,
And kneeling cry, “Behold Him! He is here ! »
A guiding star, he bears thee on his brow,
And no unfaithful word will sever him
From thy true love! He will love men, and be
A man himself, encircled by his brothers!
From him who keeps not with thee perfect faith,
Betrays thee to the hour, or his own needs,
Devotes thee to man's perishable joys,
Painting the sensual with thy hues divine,
Thou turn'st away thy face, while scattering
Perchance upon his brow some fading flowers,
Of which he strives to twine a funeral crown,
Spending his life to weave a wreath of death!
He and the woman have one origin!
Translation of Martha Walker Cook
izá vipaa
PANCRAS'S MONOLOGUE
21
From The Undivine Comedy)
>
WY
Hy does the boldness of this haughty Count
Still trouble me? Me, ruler of the millions !
Compared with mine, his force is but a shadow.
'Tis true, indeed, some hundreds of his serfs
Cling round him, as the dog stays by his master
In trusting confidence. That is sheer folly! . .
But why do I so long to see this Count,
To subjugate him, win him to our side ?
Has my clear spirit for the first time met
An equal ? Does he bar its onward fight?
Arrest it in its full development ?
The only obstacle before me now
Is his resistance: that I must o'ercome!
And then . . . and afterwards . . . and then . . .
## p. 8740 (#356) ###########################################
8740
SIGISMUND KRASINSKI
O cunning intellect, canst thou deceive
Thyself as thou dost others ? . . . Canst not ? - No? . . .
O wretchedness! . . . Why dost thou doubt thyself?
Shame! . . . thou shouldst know thy power! Thou art
the thought,
The reason of the people; Sovereign Lord!
Thou canst control the millions, make their wills,
With all their giant forces, one with thine!
The might of All incarnate is in thee;
Thou art authority and government!
What would be crime in others, is in thee
Glory and fame! Thou givest name and place
To men unknown; a voice, a faith to brutes
Almost deprived of mental, moral worth !
In thine own image thou hast made a world,
An age created, - art thyself its god!
And yet thou hesitatest,- doubt'st thyself ?
No, no! a hundred times! . . . Thou art sublime!
Translation of Martha Walker Cook.
COUNT HENRY'S MONOLOGUE
From «The Undivine Comedy)
M
IDNIGHT! It was at this same solemn hour,
Surrounded by like perils and like thoughts,
The latest Brutus met his Evil Genius;
And such an apparition I await!
A man who has no name, no ancestors,
Who has no guardian angel, faith, nor God,
Whose mission is destruction to the past,
Will yet — unless I'm strong enough to hurl
Him back into his primal nothingness-
Destroy society, its laws and faith;
Found a new era in the fate of man!
Such is the modern Cæsar I await!
Eagle of glory, hear! Souls of my sires,
Inspire me with that fiery force which made
You rulers of the world. Oh, give to me
The lion heart which throbbed within your breasts!
Your austere majesty gird round my brow!
Rekindle in my soul your burning, blind,
l'nconquerable faith in Christ, his Church,
## p. 8741 (#357) ###########################################
SIGISMUND KRASINSKI
8741
The inspiration of your deeds on earth,
Your hopes in heaven! Light it again in me,
And I will scathe our foes with fire and sword;
Will conquer and destroy all who oppose me,
The myriads of the children of the dust.
I, the last son of hundred generations,
Sole heir of all your virtues, thoughts, and faults!
PER
INTRODUCTION TO THE LAST ACT
From "The Undivine Comedy)
ERCHED like an eagle, high among the rocks,
Stands the old fortress, Holy Trinity. ”
Now from its bastions nothing can be seen,
To right, to left, in front, or in the rear,
A spectral image of that Deluge wrath
Which, as its wild waves rose to sweep o’er earth,
Once broke o'er these steep cliffs, these time-worn rocks.
No glimpses can be traced of vale beneath,
Buried in ghastly waves of ice-cold sea,
Wrapping it as the shroud winds round the dead.
No crimson rays of coming sun yet light
The clammy, pallid winding-sheet of foam.
Upon a bold and naked granite peak,
Above the spectral mist, the castle stands,
A solitary island in this sea.
Its bastions, parapets, and lofty towers
Built of the rock from which they soar, appear
During the lapse of ages to have grown
Out of its stony heart (as human breast
Springs from the centaur's back), - the giant work
Of days long past.
A single banner floats
Above the highest tower; it is the last,
The only Banner of the Cross on earth!
A shudder stirs and wakes the sleeping mist,
The bleak winds sigh, and silence rules no more;
The vapor surges, palpitates, and drifts,
In the first rays shot by the coming sun.
The breeze is chill; the very light seems frost,
Curdling the clouds that form and roll and drift
## p. 8742 (#358) ###########################################
8742
SIGISMUND KRASINSKI
Above this tossing sea of fog and foam.
With Nature's tumult other sounds arise,
And human voices mingling with the storm
Articulate their wail, as it sweeps on.
Borne on and upward by the lifting waves
Of the cloud-surge, they break against the towers,
The castle's granite walls — voices of doom!
Long golden shafts transpierce the sea of foam;
The clinging shroud of mist is swiftly riven;
Through vaporous walls that line the spectral chasin
Are glimpses seen of deep abyss below.
How dark it looks athwart the precipice!
Myriads of heads in wild commotion surge;
The valley swarms with life, as ocean's sands
With writhing things that creep and twist and sting.
The sun! the sun! he mounts above the peaks!
The driven, tortured vapors rise in blood;
More and more clearly grow upon the eye
The threatening swarms fast gathering below.
The quivering mist rolls into crimson clouds;
It scales the craggy cliffs, and softly melts
Into the depths of infinite blue sky.
The valley glitters like a sea of light,
Throws back the sunshine in a dazzling glare;
For every hand is armed with sharpened blade,
And bayonets and points of steel flash fire;
Millions are pouring through the living depths, -
As numberless as they at last will throng
Into the valley of Jehoshaphat,
When called to answer on the Judgment Day.
Translation of Martha Walker Cook.
ARISTOCRACY'S LAST STAND
From «The Undivine Comedy)
AT
T LAST I see you, hated enemies!
With my whole power I trace your cunning plans,
Surround you with my scorn. No more we meet
Within the realm of idle words, of poetry,
But in the real world of deadly combat,
Sharp sword to sword, the rattling hail of bullets
## p. 8743 (#359) ###########################################
SIGISMUND KRASINSKI
8743
Winged by the concentration of my hate!
No more with single arm and voice I meet you
The strength of many centres in my will.
It is a joyous thing to govern, rule,
Even were it solely at the price of death;
To feel myself the sovereign arbiter,
The master of so many wills and lives;
To see there at my feet my enemies
Leaping and howling at me from the abyss,
But all bereft of power to reach me here:
So like the damned, who vainly lift their heads
Toward Heaven!
I know . . . I know, a few hours more of time,
And I and thousands of yon craven wretches
Who have forgot their fathers and their God
Will be no more forever! Be it so!
At least I have a few days more of life,
To satiate myself with joy of combat -
The ecstasy of full command o’er others,
The giddy daring, struggle, victory, loss!
Thou, my last song, swell to a chant of triumph,
For death's the latest foe a man can conquer!
The sun sets fast behind the needled cliffs,
Sinks in a darksome cloud of threatening vapors;
His crimson rays light luridly the valley. -
Precursor of the bloody death before me,
I greet you with a fuller, gladder heart
Than I have e'er saluted ye, vain hopes
And promises of joy or blissful love!
Not through intrigue, through base or cunning skill,
Have I attained the aim of my desires;
But by a sudden bound I've leaped to fame,
As my persistent dreams told me I must.
Ruler o'er those but yesterday my equals,
Conqueror of death, since willingly I seek him,
I stand upon the brink; – eternal life, or sleep!
Translation of Martha Walker Cook.
## p. 8744 (#360) ###########################################
8744
SIGISMUND KRASINSKI
THE TRIUMPH OF CHRISTIANITY
From The Undivine Comedy)
ANCRAS - The hour of rest has not yet struck for me!
The last sad sign of my last enemy
Marks the completion of but half my task.
Look at these spaces, these immensities,
Stretching between my thoughts and me.
Earth's deserts must be peopled, rocks removed,
Swamps drained, and mountains tunneled; trees hewn down;
Seas, lakes, and rivers everywhere connected,
Roads girdle earth, that produce circulate,
And commerce bind all hearts with links of gold.
Each man must own a portion of the soil;
Thought move on lightning wings rending old veils;
The living must outnumber all the hosts
Of those who've perished in this deadly strife;
Life and prosperity must fill the place
Of death and ruin,- ere our work of blood
Can be atoned for! Leonard, this must be done!
If we are not to inaugurate an age
Of social bliss, inaterial ease and wealth,
Our deeds of havoc, devastation, woe,
Will have been worse than vain!
Leonard — The God of liberty will give us power
For these gigantic tasks!
Pancras-
You speak of God!
Do you not see that it is crimson here?
Slippery with gore in which we stand knee-deep ?
Whose gushing blood is this beneath our feet ?
Naught is behind us save the castle court;
Whatever is, I see, and there is no one near. -
We are alone - and yet there surely stands
Another here between us. '
Leonard — I can see nothing but this bloody corpse!
Pancras -- The corpse of his old faithful servant - dead!
It is a living spirit haunts this spot!
This is his cap and belt; look at his arms;
There is the rock o'erhanging the abyss;
And on that spot it was his great heart broke!
Leonard — Pancras, how pale you grow!
Pancras -
Do you not see it ?
'Tis there! up there!
## p. 8745 (#361) ###########################################
SIGISMUND KRASINSKI
8745
Leonard -
I see a mass of clouds
Wild-drifting o'er the top of that steep rock
O'erhanging the abyss. How high they pile!
Now they turn crimson in the sunset rays.
Pancras — There is a fearful symbol burning there!
Leonard – Your sight deceives you.
Pancras
Where are now my people ?
The millions who revered and who obeyed me?
Leonari - You hear their acclamations, — they await you.
Pancras, look not again on yon steep cliff, -
Your eyes die in their sockets as you gaze!
Pancras - Children and women often said that He
Would thus appear,— but on the last day only!
Leonard — Who? Where?
Pancras
Like a tall column there he stands,
In dazzling whiteness o'er yon precipice!
With both his hands he leans upon his cross,
As an avenger on his sword! Leonard,
His crown of thorns is interlaced with lightning -
Leonard — What is the matter? - Pancras, answer me!
Pancras — The dazzling flashes of his eyes are death!
Leonard — You're ghastly pale!
KARL THEODOR KÖRNER
8727
MY NATIVE LAND
-
W***
HERE is the minstrel's native land ? —
Where sparks of noble soul flashed high,
Where garlands bloomed in Honor's eye,
Where manly bosoms glowed with joy,
Touched by Religion's altar brand,
There was my native land!
APELA
Name me th minstrel's native land. -
Though now her sons lie slain in heaps,
Though, wounded and disgraced, she weeps,
Beneath her soil the freeman sleeps.
The land of oaks — the German land-
They called my native land!
Why weeps the minstrel's native land ? -
To see her people's princes cower
Before the wrathful tyrant's power;
She weeps, that in the stormy hour
No soul at her high call will stand.
That grieves my native land!
Whom calls the minstrel's native land ? -
She calls the voiceless gods; her cries
Like thunder-storms assail the skies;
She bids her sons, her freemen, rise;
On righteous Heaven's avenging hand
She calls — my native land!
.
-
What will the minstrel's native land ? -
She'll crush the slaves of despot power,
Drive off the bloodhounds from her shore,
And suckle free-born sons once more,
Or lay them free beneath the sand:
That will my native land!
And hopes the minstrel's native land ? -
She hopes — she hopes! Her cause is just.
Her faithful sons will wake — they must.
In God Most High she puts her trust;
On his great altar leans her hand,
And hopes — my native land!
Translation of C. T. Brooks.
## p. 8728 (#344) ###########################################
8728
KARL THEODOR KÖRNER
PRAYER DURING THE BATTLE
F
ATHER, I call on thee!
Clouds from the thunder-voiced cannon enveil me,
Lightnings are flashing, death's thick darts assail
me:
Ruler of battles, I call on thee!
Father, oh, lead thou me!
Father, oh, lead thou me!
Lead me to victory, or to death lead me;
With joy I accept what thou hast decreed me.
God, as thou wilt, so lead thou me!
God, I acknowledge thee!
God, I acknowledge thee!
Where, in still autumn, the sear leaf is falling,
Where peals the battle, its thunder appalling:
Fount of all grace, I acknowledge thee!
Father, oh, bless thou me!
Father, oh, bless thou me!
Into thy hand my soul I resign, Lord;
Deal as thou wilt with the life that is thine, Lord.
Living or dying, oh, bless thou me!
Father, I praise thy name!
Father, I praise thy name!
Not for earth's wealth or dominion contend we;
The holiest rights of the freeman defend we.
Victor or vanquished, praise I thee!
God, in thy name I trust!
God, in thy name I trust!
When in loud thunder my death-note is knelling,
When from my veins the red blood is welling,
God, in thy holy name I trust!
Father, I call on thee!
Translation of J. S. Blackie.
## p. 8729 (#345) ###########################################
KARL THEODOR KÖRNER
8729
SUMMONS
M
Y PEOPLE, wake! The signal-fires are smoking;
Bright breaks the light of Freedom from the north;
'Tis time thy steel in foemen's hearts was reeking.
My people, wake! The signal-fires are smoking;
The fields are white: ye reapers, hasten forth!
The last, the highest hope lies in the sword;
Home to thy bleeding breast their lances strain;
Make way for Freedom! Let thy blood be poured,
To cleanse thy German land from every stain.
Ours is no war of which crowned heads are dreaming;
'Tis a crusade, a holy war we wage!
Faith, virtue, conscience, truth, and honor mourn;
These has the tyrant from thy bosom torn;
Thy Freedom's victory saves them from his rage.
The moanings of thy aged cry, "Awake!
Thy homes in ashes curse the invading brood,
Thy daughters in disgrace for vengeance shriek,
The ghosts of slaughtered sons shriek wild for blood.
Gang
Break up the plowshare, let the chisel fall,
The lyre be hushed, the shuttle cease its play;
Forsake thy courts, leave giddy Pleasure's hall:
He in whose sight thy banners flutter, all,
Will see his people now in war's array.
For thou shalt build a mighty altar soon
In his eternal Freedom's morning sky;
With thy good sword shall every stone be hewn;
On heroes' graves the temple's base shall lie.
Ye maidens and ye wives, for whom the Lord
Of Hosts the dreadful sword hath never steeled,
When 'mid your spoilers’ ranks we gladly leap,
And bare our bosoms to the strife, why weep
That you may not stand forth on glory's field ? -
Before God's altar joyfully repair ;
The pangs of anxious love your wounds must be;
To you He gives, in every heartfelt prayer,
The spirit's pure and bloodless victory.
Then pray that God would wake the slumbering fire,
And rouse his old heroic race to life;
## p. 8730 (#346) ###########################################
8730
KARL THEODOR KÖRNER
And oh, as stern avenging spirits, call
The buried German martyrs, one and all,
As holy angels of the holy strife!
Spirit of Ferdinand, lead thou the van!
Louisa, faithful to thy spouse, be nigh!
And all ye shades of German heroes, on,
With us, with us, where'er our banners fly!
The night of Heaven is with us; Hell must cower:
On, valiant people! on! 'Tis Freedom's cry!
Thy heart beats high, high up thy old oaks tower:
Heed not thy hills of slain in victory's hour;
Plant Freedom's banner there to float on high.
And now, my people, when thou standest free,
Robed in the brightness of thy old renown,
Let not the faithful dead forgotten be,
And place upon our urn the oaken crown!
Translation of C. T. Brooks.
LÜTZOW'S WILD CHASE
WHAT
HAT gleams from yon wood in the sunbeams' play?
Hark! hark! It sounds nearer and nearer;
It winds down the mountain in gloomy array,
And the blast of its trumpets is bringing dismay
To the soul of the manliest hearer.
Go, read it in each dark comrade's face-
« That is Lützow's wild and desperate chase. ”
»
What glances so swiftly through forest, o'er fell,
From mountain to mountain flying?
In ambush like midnight it lies in the dell;
The hurrah rings, and the rifle's knell
Proclaims the French beadles are dying.
Go, read it in each dark hunter's face —
« That is Lützow's wild and desperate chase. ”
Where the rich grapes glow and the Rhine waves roar,
The tyrant thought safely to hide him;
With the swiftness of lightning it flies to the shore.
Leaps in, and with sinewy arm swims o'er,
And springs to the bank beside him.
Go, read it in each dark swimmer's face-
« That is Lützow's wild and desperate chase. ”
## p. 8731 (#347) ###########################################
KARL THEODOR KÖRNER
8731
Why roars in yon valley the din of fight,
And broadswords tumultuously clashing ?
Stern horsemen are battling with dreadful delight,
And the live spark of liberty, wakeful and bright,
In bloody-red flames is fast flashing.
Go, read it in each dark horseman's face-
« That is Lützow's wild and desperate chase. ”
Lo, smiling farewell 'mid the foe's dying wail,
Who lies there with bare bosom streaming ?
Death lays his hand on that young brow, pale;
But never shall one of those true hearts quail,
For the star of their country is beaming.
Go, read it in each pale, marble face-
“That was Lützow's wild and desperate chase! »
The wild, wild chase, and the German chase
'Gainst hangmen and tyrants, is ended.
Come then, ye who love us, wipe tears from each face,
For the country is free, and the morn dawns apace,
Though our forms in the grave be extended.
Children's children shall cry, as our story they trace
« That was Lützow's wild and desperate chase. ”
iz LIDARI
Translation of C. T. Brooks.
SWORD SONG
S"
WORD, on my left side gleaming,
What means thy bright eye's beaming?
It makes my spirit dance
To see thy friendly glance.
Hurrah!
“A valiant rider bears me;
A freeborn German wears me:
That makes my eye so bright;
That is the sword's delight. ”
Hurrah!
Yes, good sword, I am free,
And love thee heartily,
And clasp thee to my side
E'en as a plighted bride.
Hurrah!
## p. 8732 (#348) ###########################################
8732
KARL THEODOR KÖRNER
“And I to thee, by Heaven,
My light steel life have given:
When shall the knot be tied ?
When wilt thou take thy bride ? ?
Hurrah!
The trumpet's solemn warning
Shall hail the bridal morning.
When cannon-thunders wake,
Then my true love I take.
Hurrah!
«Oh, blessed, blessed meeting!
My heart is wildly beating:
Come, bridegroom, come for me;
My garland waiteth thee. ”
Hurrah!
Why, in the scabbard rattle,
So wild, so fierce for battle?
What means this restless glow ?
My sword, why clatter so?
Hurrah!
“Well may thy prisoner rattle;
My spirit yearns for battle:
Rider, 'tis war's wild glow
That makes me tremble so. ”
Hurrah!
Stay in thy chamber near,
My love: what wilt thou here?
Still in thy chamber bide:
Soon, soon I take my bride.
Hurrah!
“Let me not longer wait:
Love's garden blooms in state
With roses bloody-red,
And many a bright death-bed. ”
Hurrah!
Now, then, come forth, my bride;
Come forth, thou rider's pride!
Come out, my good sword, come,
Forth to thy father's home!
Hurrah!
## p. 8733 (#349) ###########################################
KARL THEODOR KÖRNER
8733
1
«Oh, in the field to prance
The glorious wedding dance!
How in the sun's bright beams,
Bride-like the clear steel gleams! »
Hurrah!
Then forward, valiant fighters!
And forward, German riders!
And when the heart grows cold,
Let each his love enfold.
Hurrah !
Once on the left it hung,
And stolen glances flung;
Now clearly on your right
Doth God each fond bride plight.
Hurrah !
Then let your hot lips feel
That virgin cheek of steel;
One kiss — and woe betide
Him who forsakes the bride.
Hurrah!
Now let the loved one sing;
Now let the clear blade ring,
Till the bright sparks shall ily,
Heralds of victory!
Hurrah!
For hark! the trumpet's warning
Proclaims the marriage morning :
It dawns in festal pride;
Hurrah, thou Iron Bride!
Hurrah !
Translation of C. T. Brooks.
## p. 8734 (#350) ###########################################
8734
KARL THEODOR KÖRNER
THE THREE STARS
T".
HERE are three cheering stars of light
O'er life's dark path that shine;
And these fair orbs, so pure and bright,
Are song, and love, and wine!
For oh! the soul of song hath power
To charm the feeling heart,
To soothe the mourner's sternest hour,
And bid his griefs depart!
And wine can lend to song its mirth,
Can joys unwonted bring,
And paint this fair and lovely earth
In charms of deathless spring.
But thou, O love! of all the throng
Art fairest seen to shine;
For thou canst soothe the soul like song,
And cheer the heart like wine!
Then deign, fair orbs! to shed your ray
Along my path of gloom,
To guide me through life's lonely way,
And shine upon my tomb!
For oh! the song, the cup, the kiss
Can make the night divine;
Then blest be he who found the bliss
Of song, and love, and wine!
Translation of G. F. Richardson.
## p. 8735 (#351) ###########################################
8735
SIGISMUND KRASINSKI
(1812-1859)
RASINSKI was one of the three great poets of Poland through
whom the spirit of the submerged commonwealth found its
fullest expression. The golden age of Poland's literature
was coincident with the period of her deepest political humiliation,
and every Polish poet was a Polish patriot. It was a literature of
emigrants and exiles who found their poetic inspiration, and the main-
spring of all endeavor, in the love of country and the hope of see-
ing her restored to her ancient greatness. In the trio of poets who
represent this age Mickiewicz stands first,
and by his side the Dioscuri Slowacki and
Krasinski. Krasinski's position was a pecul-
iar and difficult one. He was the heir of
an old aristocratic family; his mother was
a princess of the house of Radziwill, and
he was brought up in the midst of feudal
traditions. In his breast burned the purest
patriotic fire, and merely to possess his
works exposed a man to Siberia or death;
and yet he was the only one of all the
patriot poets that taught the philosophy
of non-resistance and self-abnegation. With
serene confidence he left the future in the SIGISMUND KRASINSKI
hands of eternal justice, and insisted that
the moral regeneration of Poland must precede her political re-estab-
lishment. In all his works this note of lofty morality is struck, and
Christianity is put forward as the only reconciling power between
conflicting forces.
Sigismund Krasinski was born at Paris on February 19th, 1812.
His father, Count Vincent Krasinski, was an adjutant of Napoleon's:
when the hopes of Poland were shattered by the abdication of the
Emperor, Krasinski, acting under orders from the Czar, returned with
his family to Warsaw. Their home was the centre to which flocked
all the eminent men in literary and political life. In this circle
young Krasinski grew up, and the most loving care was bestowed
upon his education. At the age of fourteen he wrote two novels in
the style of his favorite author, Walter Scott; but his literary ambi-
tion was not encouraged, and he was destined for the law.
## p. 8736 (#352) ###########################################
8736
SIGISMUND KRASINSKI
>
It was about this time that the crisis came which affected his
whole career. The leaders who in 1825 conspired against the Rus-
sian government were brought to trial in Warsaw; and from all
quarters of Europe the Polish members of the high tribunal hastened
to the capital to give their votes for their compatriots. Count
Krasinski was the only Pole that cast a vote in the Russian interest.
The relations between father and son remained cordial, and the poet
lived to see his father's appointment to the governorship of Poland
received with approbation by his countrymen; but from the ignominy
of his father's act he never recovered. His only reference to it is
in the touching appeal to Poland with which his weird vision entitled
(Temptation ends. Krasinski's works were all published anony-
mously or under assumed names; and it was years before the admir-
ing people learned the true name of the inspired teacher whom they
revered as “the anonymous poet of Poland. ”
Krasinski's frail state of health made long residence in the rigor-
ous climate of his native land impossible, even had the political con-
ditions been less unhappy. At Geneva in 1830 he met Mickiewicz,
who exerted a powerful influence upon his genius, and turned his
mind to poetry. In 1833 appeared his first poetic tale, Agay Han';
and in the same year in Rome he wrote one of his greatest works,
Nieboska Komedya' (The Undivine Comedy). It is a symbolic poem
in the dramatic form, and deals with the loftiest themes of social
and spiritual life: the deviation from the path of plain duty in pur-
suit of a phantom ideal; the conflict between the old world of aris-
tocracy and the new world of democracy, the futility of the triumph
of one over the other; the ultimate salvation wrought by Christianity,
through which reconciliation comes. The old aristocracy with its
spiritual ideals is represented by Count Henry; the aims and inspi-
rations of the materialized democracy are embodied in the character
of Pancras. The monologue in which for a moment Pancras doubts
the genuineness of his mission has been pronounced by Mickiewicz
one of the great soliloquies of the world's literature.
In this poem
Krasinski's philosophy is brought before us in concrete forms, with
sublime imagery and an insight into the future almost apocalyptic.
It is said that after the disasters of 1846 Krasinski exclaimed, “Ah!
why was I not a false prophet ? ”
The work which is regarded as the poet's highest achievement is ·
the half epic, half dramatic poem, Iridion. It was written likewise
in Rome and published in 1836. In glowing colors are contrasted the
degeneracy of Rome under the Cæsars and the enthusiastic patriotisın
of the Greeks who are plotting to avenge subjugated Hellas. In con-
ception and execution is displayed the same exalted originality tiiat
distinguished "The Undivine Comedy.
' The solution also is the same:
## p. 8737 (#353) ###########################################
SIGISMUND KRASINSKI
8737
Rome is pagan and the Greeks disregard Christianity, through which
alone their salvation can be wrought. Poland is always before the
poet's eye, and the application to her case is obvious. Krasinski was
no lover of art for art's sake; poetry must have a living purpose, and
in this spirit the Invocation to the Muse was written which opens
(The Undivine Comedy): «Thou ruinest wholly those who consecrate
themselves, with all they are, to thee alone, who solely live the voices
of thy glory. ”
Krasinski also wrote several prose works of a symbolic character,
but the prose is dithyrambic and impassioned. Pokusa' (Temptation)
has already been mentioned: a strange vision of grief and hope with
passages of thrilling power. Noc Letnia' (Summer Night) appeared
in the same year, 1841. In 1843 Krasinski returned to verse; and in
a series of beautiful canzone entitled Przedswit' (The Dawn) he
sang the praises of the moral elements of the Polish past, and again
proclaimed the necessity of reviving them. In the three famous
(Psalms of the Future (1845 and 1848) Krasinski glorified the heroism
of self-sacrifice and martyrdom. It was this that called forth the vio-
lent opposition of Slowacki and of the more ardent but less astute
patriots. Slowacki denounced the Psalms) as “lyric cowardice);
but Krasinski's teachings sank deep into the heart of his distressed
countrymen. The strange scene which took place at Warsaw in 1861
was typical of his influence. Infuriated by the sight of an unfurled
Polish banner, the Russian troops fired upon the populace; and the
Polish women and children and unarmed men bared their breasts to
the bullets in a frenzy of patriotic self-sacrifice. It has been said of
Krasinski that «he modified the character of an entire people. ”
He died in Paris on February 23d, 1859; and with him was extin-
guished the last star in the triad of great Polish poets.
___
(All the following selections are made from «The Undivine Comedy, and Other
Poems. Translated by Martha Walker Cook. Copyrighted 1875, by
J. B. Lippincott & Co. ]
INVOCATION
To POETRY
From «The Undivine Comedy)
TARS circle round thy head; and at thy feet
S,
A rainbow glides before thee, cleaving the clouds!
Whate'er thou look'st upon is thine! Coasts, ships,
Men, mountains, cities, all belong to thee!
XV-547
## p. 8738 (#354) ###########################################
8738
SIGISMUND KRASINSKI
Master of Heaven as earth, it seems as naught
Could equal thee in glory!
-
To ears which heed thy lays, thou givest joys,
Raptures ineffable! Thou weavest hearts
Together, then untwin'st them like a wreath,
As wild caprice may guide thy flame-lit fingers!
Thou forcest tears, then driest them with a smile;
Thou scar'st away the smile from paling lips,
Perhaps but for a moment, a few hours,
Perhaps for evermore!
But thou ! - What dost thou feel, and what create ?
A living stream of beauty flows through thee,
But Beauty thou art not! woe, woe, to thee!
The weeping child upon its mother's breast,
The field-flower knowing not its perfumed gift,
More merit have before the Lord than thou!
Whence com'st thou, fleeting shadow ? to the Light
Still bearing witness, though thou know'st it not,
Hast never seen it, nor wilt ever see!
In anger or in mockery wert thou made ?
So full of self-deceit that thou canst play
The angel to the moment when thou fall'st,
And crawlest like a reptile upon earth,
Stifled in mud, or feeding upon dust!
Thou and the woman have like origin!
Alas! thou sufferest too, although thy pangs
Bring naught to birth, nothing create, nor serve!
The groans of the unfortunate are weighed;
The lowest beggar's sighs counted in heaven,
Gathered and sung upon celestial harps:
But thy despair and sighs fall to the earth,
Where Satan gathers them; adds them with joy
To his own lies, illusions, mockeries!
The Lord will yet disown them, as they have
Ever disowned the Lord!
Not that I rise against thee, Poetry,-
Mother of Beauty, of ideal Life!
But I must pity him condemned to dwell
Within the limits of these whirling worlds,
In dying agonies, or yet to be
Doomed to sad memories, or prophecies,
Perchance remorse, or vague presentiments,–
## p. 8739 (#355) ###########################################
SIGISMUND KRASINSKI
8739
1
Who gives himself to thee! for everywhere
Thou ruinest wholly those who consecrate
Themselves, with all they are, to thee alone,
Who solely live the voices of thy glory!
Blessed is he in whom thou mak'st thy home,
As God dwelt in the world, concealed, unknown,
But grand and mighty in each separate part:
The unseen God, before whom creatures bow,
And kneeling cry, “Behold Him! He is here ! »
A guiding star, he bears thee on his brow,
And no unfaithful word will sever him
From thy true love! He will love men, and be
A man himself, encircled by his brothers!
From him who keeps not with thee perfect faith,
Betrays thee to the hour, or his own needs,
Devotes thee to man's perishable joys,
Painting the sensual with thy hues divine,
Thou turn'st away thy face, while scattering
Perchance upon his brow some fading flowers,
Of which he strives to twine a funeral crown,
Spending his life to weave a wreath of death!
He and the woman have one origin!
Translation of Martha Walker Cook
izá vipaa
PANCRAS'S MONOLOGUE
21
From The Undivine Comedy)
>
WY
Hy does the boldness of this haughty Count
Still trouble me? Me, ruler of the millions !
Compared with mine, his force is but a shadow.
'Tis true, indeed, some hundreds of his serfs
Cling round him, as the dog stays by his master
In trusting confidence. That is sheer folly! . .
But why do I so long to see this Count,
To subjugate him, win him to our side ?
Has my clear spirit for the first time met
An equal ? Does he bar its onward fight?
Arrest it in its full development ?
The only obstacle before me now
Is his resistance: that I must o'ercome!
And then . . . and afterwards . . . and then . . .
## p. 8740 (#356) ###########################################
8740
SIGISMUND KRASINSKI
O cunning intellect, canst thou deceive
Thyself as thou dost others ? . . . Canst not ? - No? . . .
O wretchedness! . . . Why dost thou doubt thyself?
Shame! . . . thou shouldst know thy power! Thou art
the thought,
The reason of the people; Sovereign Lord!
Thou canst control the millions, make their wills,
With all their giant forces, one with thine!
The might of All incarnate is in thee;
Thou art authority and government!
What would be crime in others, is in thee
Glory and fame! Thou givest name and place
To men unknown; a voice, a faith to brutes
Almost deprived of mental, moral worth !
In thine own image thou hast made a world,
An age created, - art thyself its god!
And yet thou hesitatest,- doubt'st thyself ?
No, no! a hundred times! . . . Thou art sublime!
Translation of Martha Walker Cook.
COUNT HENRY'S MONOLOGUE
From «The Undivine Comedy)
M
IDNIGHT! It was at this same solemn hour,
Surrounded by like perils and like thoughts,
The latest Brutus met his Evil Genius;
And such an apparition I await!
A man who has no name, no ancestors,
Who has no guardian angel, faith, nor God,
Whose mission is destruction to the past,
Will yet — unless I'm strong enough to hurl
Him back into his primal nothingness-
Destroy society, its laws and faith;
Found a new era in the fate of man!
Such is the modern Cæsar I await!
Eagle of glory, hear! Souls of my sires,
Inspire me with that fiery force which made
You rulers of the world. Oh, give to me
The lion heart which throbbed within your breasts!
Your austere majesty gird round my brow!
Rekindle in my soul your burning, blind,
l'nconquerable faith in Christ, his Church,
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The inspiration of your deeds on earth,
Your hopes in heaven! Light it again in me,
And I will scathe our foes with fire and sword;
Will conquer and destroy all who oppose me,
The myriads of the children of the dust.
I, the last son of hundred generations,
Sole heir of all your virtues, thoughts, and faults!
PER
INTRODUCTION TO THE LAST ACT
From "The Undivine Comedy)
ERCHED like an eagle, high among the rocks,
Stands the old fortress, Holy Trinity. ”
Now from its bastions nothing can be seen,
To right, to left, in front, or in the rear,
A spectral image of that Deluge wrath
Which, as its wild waves rose to sweep o’er earth,
Once broke o'er these steep cliffs, these time-worn rocks.
No glimpses can be traced of vale beneath,
Buried in ghastly waves of ice-cold sea,
Wrapping it as the shroud winds round the dead.
No crimson rays of coming sun yet light
The clammy, pallid winding-sheet of foam.
Upon a bold and naked granite peak,
Above the spectral mist, the castle stands,
A solitary island in this sea.
Its bastions, parapets, and lofty towers
Built of the rock from which they soar, appear
During the lapse of ages to have grown
Out of its stony heart (as human breast
Springs from the centaur's back), - the giant work
Of days long past.
A single banner floats
Above the highest tower; it is the last,
The only Banner of the Cross on earth!
A shudder stirs and wakes the sleeping mist,
The bleak winds sigh, and silence rules no more;
The vapor surges, palpitates, and drifts,
In the first rays shot by the coming sun.
The breeze is chill; the very light seems frost,
Curdling the clouds that form and roll and drift
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SIGISMUND KRASINSKI
Above this tossing sea of fog and foam.
With Nature's tumult other sounds arise,
And human voices mingling with the storm
Articulate their wail, as it sweeps on.
Borne on and upward by the lifting waves
Of the cloud-surge, they break against the towers,
The castle's granite walls — voices of doom!
Long golden shafts transpierce the sea of foam;
The clinging shroud of mist is swiftly riven;
Through vaporous walls that line the spectral chasin
Are glimpses seen of deep abyss below.
How dark it looks athwart the precipice!
Myriads of heads in wild commotion surge;
The valley swarms with life, as ocean's sands
With writhing things that creep and twist and sting.
The sun! the sun! he mounts above the peaks!
The driven, tortured vapors rise in blood;
More and more clearly grow upon the eye
The threatening swarms fast gathering below.
The quivering mist rolls into crimson clouds;
It scales the craggy cliffs, and softly melts
Into the depths of infinite blue sky.
The valley glitters like a sea of light,
Throws back the sunshine in a dazzling glare;
For every hand is armed with sharpened blade,
And bayonets and points of steel flash fire;
Millions are pouring through the living depths, -
As numberless as they at last will throng
Into the valley of Jehoshaphat,
When called to answer on the Judgment Day.
Translation of Martha Walker Cook.
ARISTOCRACY'S LAST STAND
From «The Undivine Comedy)
AT
T LAST I see you, hated enemies!
With my whole power I trace your cunning plans,
Surround you with my scorn. No more we meet
Within the realm of idle words, of poetry,
But in the real world of deadly combat,
Sharp sword to sword, the rattling hail of bullets
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8743
Winged by the concentration of my hate!
No more with single arm and voice I meet you
The strength of many centres in my will.
It is a joyous thing to govern, rule,
Even were it solely at the price of death;
To feel myself the sovereign arbiter,
The master of so many wills and lives;
To see there at my feet my enemies
Leaping and howling at me from the abyss,
But all bereft of power to reach me here:
So like the damned, who vainly lift their heads
Toward Heaven!
I know . . . I know, a few hours more of time,
And I and thousands of yon craven wretches
Who have forgot their fathers and their God
Will be no more forever! Be it so!
At least I have a few days more of life,
To satiate myself with joy of combat -
The ecstasy of full command o’er others,
The giddy daring, struggle, victory, loss!
Thou, my last song, swell to a chant of triumph,
For death's the latest foe a man can conquer!
The sun sets fast behind the needled cliffs,
Sinks in a darksome cloud of threatening vapors;
His crimson rays light luridly the valley. -
Precursor of the bloody death before me,
I greet you with a fuller, gladder heart
Than I have e'er saluted ye, vain hopes
And promises of joy or blissful love!
Not through intrigue, through base or cunning skill,
Have I attained the aim of my desires;
But by a sudden bound I've leaped to fame,
As my persistent dreams told me I must.
Ruler o'er those but yesterday my equals,
Conqueror of death, since willingly I seek him,
I stand upon the brink; – eternal life, or sleep!
Translation of Martha Walker Cook.
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SIGISMUND KRASINSKI
THE TRIUMPH OF CHRISTIANITY
From The Undivine Comedy)
ANCRAS - The hour of rest has not yet struck for me!
The last sad sign of my last enemy
Marks the completion of but half my task.
Look at these spaces, these immensities,
Stretching between my thoughts and me.
Earth's deserts must be peopled, rocks removed,
Swamps drained, and mountains tunneled; trees hewn down;
Seas, lakes, and rivers everywhere connected,
Roads girdle earth, that produce circulate,
And commerce bind all hearts with links of gold.
Each man must own a portion of the soil;
Thought move on lightning wings rending old veils;
The living must outnumber all the hosts
Of those who've perished in this deadly strife;
Life and prosperity must fill the place
Of death and ruin,- ere our work of blood
Can be atoned for! Leonard, this must be done!
If we are not to inaugurate an age
Of social bliss, inaterial ease and wealth,
Our deeds of havoc, devastation, woe,
Will have been worse than vain!
Leonard — The God of liberty will give us power
For these gigantic tasks!
Pancras-
You speak of God!
Do you not see that it is crimson here?
Slippery with gore in which we stand knee-deep ?
Whose gushing blood is this beneath our feet ?
Naught is behind us save the castle court;
Whatever is, I see, and there is no one near. -
We are alone - and yet there surely stands
Another here between us. '
Leonard — I can see nothing but this bloody corpse!
Pancras -- The corpse of his old faithful servant - dead!
It is a living spirit haunts this spot!
This is his cap and belt; look at his arms;
There is the rock o'erhanging the abyss;
And on that spot it was his great heart broke!
Leonard — Pancras, how pale you grow!
Pancras -
Do you not see it ?
'Tis there! up there!
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Leonard -
I see a mass of clouds
Wild-drifting o'er the top of that steep rock
O'erhanging the abyss. How high they pile!
Now they turn crimson in the sunset rays.
Pancras — There is a fearful symbol burning there!
Leonard – Your sight deceives you.
Pancras
Where are now my people ?
The millions who revered and who obeyed me?
Leonari - You hear their acclamations, — they await you.
Pancras, look not again on yon steep cliff, -
Your eyes die in their sockets as you gaze!
Pancras - Children and women often said that He
Would thus appear,— but on the last day only!
Leonard — Who? Where?
Pancras
Like a tall column there he stands,
In dazzling whiteness o'er yon precipice!
With both his hands he leans upon his cross,
As an avenger on his sword! Leonard,
His crown of thorns is interlaced with lightning -
Leonard — What is the matter? - Pancras, answer me!
Pancras — The dazzling flashes of his eyes are death!
Leonard — You're ghastly pale!
