No More Learning

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.
O maiden! if those charms are mine,
Veil, veil, from all those charms of thine;
For it were madness should they move
Other impassioned youths to love.
All other ills I'll calmly share, --
Injury and insult I can bear;
But not to see another dwell
In thine eyes' sunshine, -- that were hell.
Twelfth Maiden.
Sweet village! peace and joy's retreat!
Oh, who shall tune thy praise of song?
Oh, who shall wake a music meet
Thy smiles, thy pleasures to prolong!
Bliss dwells within thy solitude,
Which selfish avarice never stains;*
Where thought and habit make us good,
And sweet contentment gilds our gains.
Let others seek a dazzling court,
Where treachery poisons eye and ear;
Or to the troubled sea resort,
With death and danger ever near.
Let others sell their tongues for hire,
With falsehood and with trick delude;
Or fame or victory's wreath acquire
By deeds of darkness and of blood.
* Usury was considered a most degrading vice among the old
Slavonians.
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? 52 POETS AND POETEY OF POLAND.
The ploughman tills the fertile field,
His children bless his daily care ;
While the rich fruits his labors yield,
His well-contented household share.
For him the bee its honey stocks,
For him its gifts the orchard holds;
For him are shorn the fleecy flocks ;
For him the lambkins fill the folds.
He gathers from the generous meads
Their offering to his annual store,
And winter with her snow-storms leads
Repose and pleasure to his door.
Around the fire they tell their tales,
The songs are sung with smiles and glee;
The lively dance * again prevails,
The cenar and the goniony, f
At twilight's hour the swains repair
To where the crafty foxes hie ;
The hare, the thoughtless fowls they snare,
And aye! return with full supply.
Or in the stream the baited hook,
The light and treacherous net they fling ;
While near the gently echoing brook
The warblers of the forest sing.
The cattle seek the watery mead,
The shepherd sits in solitude,
While to his gay and rustic reed
Dance all the nymphs that grace the wood.
* Bowing dance. The old Polonaise, something like a minuet.
f Amusements of the Poles. The Cenar perhaps may be trans-
lated Blind Harry, which is now called in Poland S? lepa Babka, and
in Lithuania Zmurki. Goniony may be rendered Hide and Seek.
The whole of this poem is popular throughout Poland.
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? KOCHANOWSKI. 53
At home the housewife's busy hands
The evening's frugal meal provide:
'Tis all the produce of her lands;
No wish is breathed for aught beside.
She counts the herds; she knows the sheep
When from the pasture meads they come;
Her busy eyes can never sleep;
Abroad they watch, -- direct at home.
The little children reverent bow
And ask an aged grandsire's love,
Who tenderly instructs them how
In peace and virtue's path to move.
So rolls the day, -- but many a sun
Would sink his chariot in the sea,
Were I to end the tale begun
Of rural joy and revely.
EXCERPTS.
However poor and scanty be your fare,
Forsake not smiling hope for deep despair.
That sets to-day the last sun do not fear,
A brighter day to-morrow may appear.
The nightingale sings on the tree, although
? Her heart is aching, -- full of tender woe;
'Tis often thus with man, O Lord! he cheers
His sinking heart with hope and sings through tears.
(*) All things in this poor world of ours, 'tis true,
Are tangled mysteries without a clue ;
And he, however wise, who attempts to solve them will
Encounter darker, deeper, stranger mysteries still.
* Translation of the four lines under the portrait of Kochanowski.
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? 54 POETS AND POETEY OF POLAND.
KLONOWICZ.
" Fabian Sebastian Klonowicz (Acernus) was per-
haps the greatest Polish satirist of the sixteenth cen-
tury. He united Kochanowski's feeling with Key's
satiric spirit, but was superior to both in the arrange-
ment of subject-matter. The most noted of his literary
productions are " Memoirs of Polish Kings and Princes
in Epigrams," " Judas's Bags; or, The Acquisition of
Wealth Dishonestly," u Sepulchral Complaints on the
Death of John Kochanowski," "Flis; or, The Floating
of Vessels Down the Eiver Vistula," " The Conflagra-
tion, and the Exhortation To Quench the Same; or,
the Prophecy as to the Downfall of the Turkish
Power. "
A disinterested lover of truth, Klonowicz boldly at-
tacked misdeeds without regard to persons or their
social connections. Persecution did not affect his
moral powers nor stifle his inclination to satirize, on the
contrary, it only incited him the more and strength-
ened his spirit of criticism. Strong in didactic poetry,
he possessed no great talent for the lyrics. In his
didactics he exhibits superiority of reason over imagi-
nation and feeling; with him thought was superior to
the manner of expression.
In his " Flis," that is, watermen floating boats down
the Vistula, we perceive altogether a different phase of
this poet's writing. The subject being out of the com-
mon track of his former experiences, his mind becomes
more easy and lively, and his poetical figures more pict-
uresque. He describes his impressions and his feelings
caused by witnessing this novel sight, and unlike his
former compositions there is not a shadow of satire in
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? KLONOWICZ. 55
the whole poem. It is supposed that there is not a
poem in the Polish language, written during the reign
of Sigismunds, which preserves the national features
and the coloring stronger than the " Flis. "
" The Bags of Judases " is a peculiar satire, paint-
ing with an artistic brush different sorts of people,
who by usurious and dishonest practices, their power,
artfulness, flattery and stratagems, and by assumed
magnanimity deceive and cheat the weaker part of
humanity.
Zealous and ardent in the defense of what was good
and noble, he boldly attacked misrule and abuse of
power of the officials, bribery and avaricious cupidity
of the high dignitaries; in fact he pursued with his sat-
ires all who were defrauding the republic.
His "Complaints" are only imitations of Kocha-
nowski's Threns on the death of his daughter Ursula,
with this difference, Kochanowski's complaints flowed
from an aching heart overflowing with grief that only
a father can feel, but Klonowicz wrote them straight
along, preserving the apparent coolness; for that rea-
son his complaints do not touch the feeling nor call forth
even a sigh -- because sighs did not produce them, nor
were they bedewed with tears.
Klonowicz was born in 1551, in Great Poland, in a
village called Sulmierzyce, in the palatinate of Kalish,
and received his education in the Academy of Cracow,
where he was made doctor of philosophy. He traveled
in Hungary and Bohemia, Dantzig and Lemberg, where
he spent four years. In 1580 he went to the city of
Lublin, where he was a counsellor and judge of Jewish
affairs, and finally became the mayor. He also held
an office at Isary, the property of Benedictine monks,
wherein sprung a great friendship between the
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? 56 POETS AND POETKY OF POLAND.
abbot and afterward a bishop of Kijew, Wereszczyn? -
ski, and it is to this intimacy that we are indebted for
the production of his "Flis. " Having written against
the Jesuits he was bitterly persecuted by them and
somewhat apostatized from the faith. Then again he
incurred the displeasure of the inferior nobility, his
former companions, and the Jews. As if to complete
his misfortunes he was constantly harassed by his
wasteful and wayward wife, who poisoned his life and
brought him to abject poverty. He died in an hospital
in 1608.
His works were published in Cracow, Leipsic, and
Che? mno. The latest editions are those of Turowski,
1858, and Weritzlewski, 1861.
MERITS OF POLAND.
Poland is rich in green and fertile lands
That in God's bosom, as it were, seem thrown,
What cares the Pole for ocean or its strands?
Content, he ploughs his own.
Here Ceres, harvest goddess, wandered by
After she left her own Sicilian plain,
Here fields of rye abound, and bastion high
Loom up the stacks of grain.
In Poland, high, commodious barns arise,
With harvest bounty amply filled and stored,
Here, for the jolly peasant will suffice
Of rye, a goodly hoard !
Let who will praise the fertile Asian fields,
The yellow maize of Egypt and the Nile,
Upon our shore the oat abundance yields,
For many a mile and mile.
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? KLONOWICZ. 57
Game is abundant, cattle horned abound,
Fat oxen, horses, sheep with lengthy coat,
And heifers graze within the meadows 'round,
Beside the frisky goat !
From out his herds the farmer gets his teams,
Makes clothing for himself, and servants, too,
And of fresh meat, and milk-meat as it seems,
There is no end thereto.
Then, who could count the flocks of cackling geese,
The greedy ducks the swan whose whiteness charms,
The chickens, too, whose brood each day increase,
And travel 'round the farms.
Of dishes rich a great variety
We get, and dainty food the dovecot gives,
How pleasant 'tis the bacon flitch to see
Suspended 'neath the eaves!
Then, too, the things we gather in the wood,
God's bounty to the open-handed Pole,
He who desires to use these gifts of good
Are welcome to the dole.
Through field and wood flit herds of graceful deer,
On trees the birds sing out their countless lives,
And the industrious bee his honey'd cheer
Bears homeward to the hives.
As to the fish, a million of them speed
Through pond and lake and river seaward bound,
Nor lack the Poles for anything they need,
With much abundance crowned.
Hence, I know not why you should grasp for more
My brother Pole, with such productive soil, --
Why should you seek to gather to your store
Of foreign lands the spoil?
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? 58 POETS AND POETEY OF POLAND.
MIASKOWSKI.
Kaspar Miaskowski, a flowery poetical writer.
Although his style is somewhat hard and less correct
than that of some of his contemporaries, he excels
them in bold poetic flights. The most eminent of his
compositions are: "The Slavonian Hercules," "The
Pilgrim of Easter-Day," "Penitential Elegy," "Duma
on the Death of John Zamoyski," " Invitation to Sor-
row," etc. He sings of wars and warriors, and com-
plains of misrule of the country, impunity and pleas-
ures; but his religious songs are superior to his worldly
ones, yet he exhibits more ardor than simplicity and
gracefulness. His religious compositions are perme-
ated with a true and sincere spirit of piety. As to his
language, it is strong and pithy; but occasionally he
is misty and expresses himself in an unusual way.
Miaskowski was born in 1549 in Great Poland. He
lived in close friendship with Ge? bicki, bishop of
Kujawy, Opalin? ski, bishop of Posen, and Herburt, the
proprietor of Dobromil. He died in 1622.
His writings entitled ' ' Collection of Rhymes " were
published in Cracow in 1612, in Posen 1622, and the
latest in Posen 1855 and in 1861.
DIALOGUE BETWEEN DEATH AND A YOUNG
MAIDEN.
Young M. Death! why dost thou whet thy scythe anew?
Death. To cut the flower that blithely drinks the dew.
Young M. Why wilt thou cut it now so ruthlessly,
Nor wait awhile its perfect charm to see?
Death. Such early flowers most fragrant are and sweet,
To me most grateful for my chaplet meet.
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? MIASKOWSKI.
59
Young M. Know'st thou the sickle reaps but ripened grain?
Death. After the storm green herbage on the plain
Is likewise leveled.
Young M. Not magnanimous
Is it to fell a tender blossom thus.
Death. It were transgression did I leave the one
That God has called for ; nay, it must be done.
Young M. The pangs of death youth can but ill endure.
Death. But the more innocent youth is, and pure,
Swift as the arrow flying to the mark
Will it be wafted up beyond the dark.
Young M. But I have scarce begun to pay the debt
Unto my parents for their kindness yet,
Because my years have been so very few ;
Let me remaining love and serve them too,
Nor leave them in their sorrow mourning me.
Death. *That is not much for them, -- but as for thee,
Thou wilt the better reach them through thy love
When in God's presence thou shalt kneel above
With hands uplifted in unceasing prayer
Before the throne, and ask for them His care,
That they may close their eyes in peace at last,
Untroubled by the shadows I cast.
Young M. If so, O Death ! I put away my fear,
My hope grows stronger and my sight more clear.
Death. Then I will pause no more, -- to Paradise
This stroke shall send thee ! thus the body dies,
But the pure soul with living faith astir
Is wafted heavenward, there to minister.
WHO IS A TRUE SAILOR?
He is not a sailor true who sails
Over tranquil waters with favoring gales;
But he who can skillfully storms outride
Is the conqueror true with courage tried.
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? 60 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
SZYMONOWICZ.
Simon Szymonowicz was the first Polish poet who
wrote pastorals in his native tongue. Not following
the poetic bend of Kochanowski he chose his own origi-
nal way, and wrote upward of twenty pastoral poems.
He did not imitate Yirgil, Spanish, or the poets of
southern France, but took as his specimen Theocritus,
and at the same time continuing to fall in his own way
he created an original manner of his own. Szymono-
wicz composed purely national pastorals, full of truth
and harmony. After Theocritus he may be considered
as one of the greatest writers of idyllics. Sometimes
he exceeds even Yirgil. He understood very well that
in order to create an original pastoral it was necessary
for him to approach the national songs. But he did
not exactly make them lyrical; on the contrary, he bent
them down more to the dramatic form. As to his ver-
sification it has a great resemblance to the versification
of to-day. He turns easily from line to line, but cares
not for the richness in rhyme.
Szymonowicz deserves all the praise for the sweet-
ness of language and great facility of expression. He
mixes in the conversation of Polish shepherds the songs
of Theocritus, and in a curious way painting the customs
of his age and country mixes the Greek mythology.
This fault will show itself less striking when we remem-
ber that many learned Poles in those days were well
acquainted with ancient literature, and it was for them
Szymonowicz mostly sung.
Szymonowicz was born in 1557, at Lemberg, and
was educated at the Academy of Cracow. He traveled
much, and visited Rome. King Stephen crowned him
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? SZYMONOWICZ. 61
with a poetic wreath. He afterward became the secre-
tary of Chancellor Zamoyski, who conferred upon
him the estate of Czernce, near the city of Zamos? c? , and
when dying he intrusted the education of his son
Thomas to him. Pope Clement VIII sent him in 1593
a wreath, and Sigismund III ennobled him, and made
him poet laureate. He died in 1629.
Szymonowicz published several religious dramas, of
which { ' Joseph the Chaste " obtained the most celebrity.
SIELANKA* I. (PASTORAL. )
PASTORAL ECLOGUE.
" Kozy, ucieszne kozy, ma trzodo jedyna! "
DAPHNIS.
Goats of my flock, my sole possessions come,
'Mid meadows, nut tree, brushwood make your home;
Eat the green leaves, the tender sprouts, and here
By the still waters I'll repose me near,
And lull to rest my grief by sleep, or song ;
My Phyllis has disturb'd the calming throng
Of gentle thoughts. cruel! whatsoe'er
Fate rules, the heart must feed on and must bear.
Thou hast forgotten all, my broken joy,
My soul's distraction, and the sharp annoy
Of a corroding chain; desire intense,
Faith-plighted, passionate love and confidence.
For thee my orchards bore their fruits: I bid
My folds supply the milk, and every kid
And every snowy lamb was thine. For thee
I track'd through the woods the honey-bearing bee.
And I was wholly thine. My ceaseless lays
Waked thousand shepherds' voices in thy praise.
* Derived from sie? o (village).
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? 62 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
For thou wert erst unknown, or unesteem'd;
They called thee a mean maiden, and they deem'd
Thy bright eyes a black gypsy's ; but my lyre
Gave glory to thy stately footsteps, fire
To thy shrewd glances ; thou wert tall and straight
As the unchanging fir-tree, and thy gait
Became majestic; roses and snow-milk
Painted thy cheeks ; thy hair was softest silk,
Coral thy lips, and pearls thy teeth: applause
Everywhere greeted thee; -- and I the cause --
I tuned thy charms to song: and my reward
Is thy contempt, and the enamored bard
Is left to misery. While the noontide ray
Gilds with its brightness all the charms of day,
While in the woodlands birds and flocks repose,
And from its toils the weary heifer goes,
While the green lizards 'round their dwellings green
Play joyous, I am left to mourn unseen
O'er shattered hopes and shipwreck'd thoughts. I try
To appease their busy tumult fruitlessly.
The lion hunts the wolf -- the wolf pursues
The goat -- the goat is pleased among the dews
Of the red heath: my sorrow clings to thee; --
All have their passions and pursuits ;-- none free
From the indwelling worm of grief. I caught
A pair of lovely deer, to whom I taught
Obedience; from my goats they drank their food;
I weaned them from their savage solitude;
And many a maiden covets them ; -- but thou
Think'st all my offerings poor and worthless now.
Hark! for the woods are full of music! See
O'er the gay fields the flocks sport joyously!
How blest we here might dwell ; how calmly go
To the cold boundary of life's toils below.
Wouldst thou but smile upon my humble cot,
And from thy gentle bosom chase me not.
?