No More Learning

In her elegiac poem " Why Am I So Sad ? " which
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? 452 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
is one of the most touching compositions of the kind
in the Polish language, guessing at the many probable
causes of her sadness, she intimates in the most feel-
ing and yet the most delicate manner that she loves
some one, but not being allowed to divulge the secret
to the world, she says she can confide it only to God.
Her last labor was a tale, printed in the news-
paper " Wiek " (The Age), entitled " Is This a Tale ? "
She wrote it with almost benumbed hand, and when
she was not able to write herself on account of long-
suffering pain, she dictated it from a bed of sickness,
and was very anxious and much concerned about this
last literary effort of her life, it being a testament of a
living spirit. Upon this story one could expand a
studium upon the development of her mind and its
fullness at the last hour.
With little diminutive analyses of feeling as to the
relations of every-day life, there existed in the mind of
Gabryela a lofty soaring of the -mind, encompassing
great expanse and numerous visions. She was, as she
herself says, very bashful and at the same time auda-
cious in her spirit conceptions, which gave to her
writings a stamp of independent originality. Her
works carry one away into the regions of fancy, and then
again furnish a solid food for reflection. They appear
like the antique cameos, of which one is uncertain
which to admire the most -- the striking expression of
the sculptured relief or the unaffected subtlety of the
finish.
Zmichowska expired on the 26th of December, 1876,
surrounded by a great but mourning circle of relatives
and sincere friends. Before her death she received
many heartfelt tokens of respect and gratitude of
people advanced already in years, as well as from the
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? ZMICHOWSKA, 453
younger generation, as a woman whose task to labor
for the good of all was the chief and only aim of her
noble life, full of trials and sacrifices.
Gabryela was buried in Warsaw on the 28th, from
the Church of All Saints. She was followed to the
grave by a great concourse of people, almost all repre-
sentatives of mental and patriotic life. The youth of
the University carried the precious remains from the
catafalque to the grave.
FANCY FLIGHTS.
He. I'll take a candle, lantern, and a burning brand,
To search if there's an honest girl in the land.
She. I'll take the moon, the stars -- I'll take the bright sun,
To find a man with loving heart -- perhaps there's one.
He. I have looked, I have searched, till convinced in the matter,
To find a good girl man must shake his gold at her.
She. I've looked with persistence, and it's plain to be seen
That men can love deeply -- love themselves, I mean.
He. I ha*ve found one very honest -- one I could adore ;
Quiet and pretty, -- a painted doll in a store.
She. After much painstaking I've found the one I thought,
A handsome, gay warrior, but on canvas wrought.
He. Just let the painted doll show feeling in her eyes,
The warrior might to horseback from canvas arise.
She. If the young warrior on the horseback sat
He might find the painted doll's heart went pit-a-pat.
LONGING.
I yearn in winter for the flowers to blow,
And when they give me greeting in the spring,
I long for the while bind-weeds blossoming,
And with its blossoming a flake of snow.
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? 454 POETS AND POETKY OF POLAND.
For brotherly companionship I yearn,
When with my brother -- then for you I long.
With you the yearning for my God grows strong
With Him my longings for the world return.
The good and evil that constrains my soul
Whate'er I long for -- whatsoe'er I fear,
My thoughts and impulses from year to year,
As my own life, are but a longing whole !
TO MY LITTLE GIRLS.
My little girls, you haste too much your gaze
Into the future and believe its days
Will like paymaster just to pay all due
From its stores large interest render you.
But o'er this. thought old people shake their heads,
The hope of happiness a false light sheds
To them ; yet listen ! there is happiness,
It even comes this weary world to bless;
Your years is happiness -- so innocent
The childish and the youthful sweetly blent;
Without experience but without care
Your bread for coming morrows to prepare,
Whether exhausted pleasure's sources bright,
Whether till eve will linger morning's light.
Blessed the first spring days so glad, so free;
Blessed the joyful days of youth; for thee
The trees' perfume, the nightingale's refrain;
Bodah, the poet, sings for thee this strain:
" Thou'rt a dream of flowers, a golden dream;
Ideal of faith and virtue -- pure, supreme. "
But o'er these dreams, -- o'er freedom, too, in truth,-
There's still a greater happiness, O youth !
Yes, 'tis still greater, more alluring still.
It's voice is soft and innocent. It will,
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? ZMICIIOWSKA. 455
With prayer to God, -- pure, earnest and sincere, --
So softly breathe " I love thee,"' sweet and clear.
Yet waits a greater happiness than this,
When love for love is given. That is bliss !
Then will your heart with stronger pulses beat,
And warmly throb with rapture new and sweet,
And in it find new strength, and talent wake
As from a dream, high tasks to undertake.
But there is happiness e'en this above.
'Tis that of great Humanity's best love, --
Real love of Christ that warms us as the sun;
In God's word is bread for every one,
In life on earth amid the crowd alway,
In light of wisdom and the light of day;
In thoughts of our ancestors we recall,
In labor and salvation unto all;
In merciful forgiveness of our sins
Through that surpassing love that gently wins.
My little girls, let ev'ry one believe
That happiness like this she will receive.
Let each pursue it, look for it, and know
That beauty, joy and study, even woe,
Were given you as help most wise and kind
That you at last sad happiness might find.
Epitaph.
Here at all times all things are full of gloom.
He who indifferent is will grieve you.
He whom ardently you love will leave you,
And who loves you is laid within the tomb.
Here there is naught to comfort or to cheer;
Here suffering is your portion ever.
Oh! better 'tis to sleep and waken never;
'Tis better in the quiet grave than here.
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? 456 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
OLIZAROWSKI.
Thomas Olizarowski, a prolific and popular writer
of poetry, such as "Dumki" (mournful poems) and
Sonnets. He also wrote several humorous pieces,
which were much admired. His greater poems, such
as "Solemn Praises," "Psalms," and "Complaints,"
gained for him a wide reputation. His '. 'Tales in
Verse," the best of which is "The Storm," and a poem
in the romantic spirit, "Bruno," are classed among the
first productions of the kind.
It is a matter of regret that we have no particulars
of this poet's life. His works were published at Cra-
cow, 1836-9, and at Breslau, 1852. He also com-
posed a drama, " Vincent from Szamotu? ," which was
published in 1850.
BE MINE.
How difficult to gain
From your sweet lips one word,
Must I seek in vain,
Content with hope deferred?
How dearly I love thee;
Speak! let me know my fate.
I can no longer wait
Whate'er my sentence be.
Beauty must have her way,
Yet grant to me some sign;
Quite wild with love I pray,
Ah! darling, be thou mine!
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? OLIZ AKOWSKI. 457
LUCINA AND THE STREAM.
My Lucina doth resemble
This clear stream, whose waters tremble;
'Tis her lovely image surely,
For it flows so gently, purely.
But when I recall how yonder
Streamlet parts its banks asunder,
I incline to think I wrong her,
That the likeness holds no longer.
For I know her nature tender,
Kindest service seeks to render;
That she would if in her power
Join these severed banks this hour.
Therefore she cannot resemble
This clear stream, whose waters tremble;
For these shores she would not sever
Keeping each apart forever.
CHLOE AND THE STUMP.
Oh, how much this object here
Reminds me of my Chloe so dear;
I mean this quiet, silent stump,
As crooked 'tis as she and plump.
But then this stump in silence rests,
Secluded from all noise and strife,
And no bad temper manifests;
It leads a peaceful, quiet life.
Not so with my beloved Chloe,
From quiet she is far, I know;
In angry tones she scolds at me
If things are not as they should be.
No, I am sure 'twas a mistake;
No real resemblance can I make;
Would she like it were free from guile,
Nor storming at me all the while!
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? 458 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
A. A. JAKUBOWSKI.
In closing this collection of poets and poetry of
Poland, the editor introduces one more name, which
will ever remain green in his memory, and which so
vividly reminds him of his own life's changes and its
vicissitudes. Young Iakubowski was his political fel-
low prisoner at Briinn and Trieste, and the companion
of his youth, and, what is more, born and brought up
in the same part of Poland. He was a young man of
great poetic genius, and by his early death Polish lit-
erature has lost much. Moreover, he possessed noble-
ness of character and kindness of disposition such as
are rarely found. He composed many fugitive pieces
of great poetic beauty, some of which we're translated
and published many years ago in a small volume en-
titled "Remembrances of a Polish Exile," but we
could not obtain a copy.
Iakubowski prided himself much in being a relative
of the poet Malczewski, and while engaged as a teacher at
Stockbridge, Massachusetts, he heard that the brother
of the poet was a general in the Mexican army. He
went to Mexico and found him, but the haughty man-
ner of his proud relative wounded the spirit of the
youth, and he returned to the United States very much
depressed. He never seemed to recover from this
check to his sensitive and poetic soul, and amidst, un-
satisfied aspirations and ruined hopes death claimed
him for his own at the age of twenty-two years.
ODE TO NAPOLEON,
i.
Great as thou wert, Napoleon ! thou lost but little blood
In the mighty cause of liberty, the holy and the good.
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? A. A. JAKUBOWSKI. 459
Thou thoughtst alone on how another gem
Thou'dst place upon thy empire diadem,
Or how another pearl thou'dst find
To add unto thy wreath,
That, placed in Fame's high towering dome,
Shall never yield to death.
ii.
Like some volcano on the plain,
Thou poured on earth thy burning rain,
Made monarchs tremble at thy word,
And balanced Europe on thy sword.
Gay wert thou with honor,
Sad with glory, too, wert thou,
For the darkness of ambition
Sat enthroned upon thy brow.
Not only kings didst thou hurl down,
But for a while
E'en fate did wait upon thy smile
And tremble at thy frown.
in.
E'en as the ocean, wave on wave,
Fights 'gainst the rocks its waters lave,
And vainly makes its surges roll;
So did those base and paltry things, --
Europe's hereditary kings, --
Fight 'gainst thy adamantine soul.
iv.
And e'en when exiled o'er the sea,
They trembled at the thoughts of thee;
And though the iron bolt of fate
Had crushed and left thee desolate,
There was a magic in thy name
No spell on earth could e'er resemble,
To make the wildest monarch tame,
The boldest conqueror tremble.
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? INDEX
PAGE.
List of Illustrations . . '5
Polish Accented Letters 6
Pronunciation of Polish
Poets . . . . . 7
Introduction . . 11
History of Polish Poetry 17
Key--
Sketch of Life . . . 36
Virtue 37
Vice 38
What Poland was 340 years
ago 38
A Thought . . . . 38
Anecdote . . . . 38
Useless the yield, etc. . . 39
Kochanowski --
Sketch of . . . . 41
The Greatness of God . . 42
Thren I . . . . 43
ThrenVII . . . . 44
Thren IX . . . . 44
Thren X . . . . 45
Thren XIII . . . 45
From Canto XIII . . . 46
Tales of St. John's Eve . 47
Excerpts 53
Klonowicz --
Sketch of . . . . 54
Merits of Poland . . 56
M liskowski --
Sketch of . . . . 58
Dialogue between Death and
a Young Maiden . . 58
SZYMONOWICZ --
Sketch of . . . . 60
Sielanka (Pastoral) . . 61
Sielanka XIV, Jealous Wife 64
Epigrams . . . . 68
Zimorowicz --
Sketch of 69
Song 70
Sielanka 71
Sielanka . . . . 72
Sielanka 72
Gawin? ski--
Sketch of . . . . 74
Pastoral (Sielanka) . . 74
Bones on the Battle Field . 77
Soldier Slain . . . 77
The Ploughman and the
Lark 77
Druz? backa --
Sketch of . . . . 79
' Spring 80
Sarbiewski --
Sketch of . . . . 81
To the Cicada . . . 82
To Liberty . . . . 83
A Thought . . . . 87
Konarski--
Sketch of . . . . 88
Naruszewicz --
Sketch of . . . . 92
Consultation of Animals . 95
Who is Foolish . . 97
Kniazn? in --
Sketch of . . . . 99
? ? A Reverie . . . . 100
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? 462
INDEX
PAGE.
The War of Chocim . . 128
How much to Drink . 135
Drunkeness: A Satire . 136
Fables : The King . . 139
The Lazy Oxen . . . 139
The Mosquito and the Fly 139
The Boys and the Frogs . 140
The Ram and the Jackass 140
The Standish and the Pen 141
The Dog and his Master . 141
The Tallow Candle and the
Torch . . . . 141
The Fool and the Sage . 142
The Tortoise and the Mouse 142
The Haughty Rat . . 143
The Cat and the Hound . 143
The Two Painters . . 143
The Child and the Rod . 144
The Shepherd and his
Sheep . . . . 144
The Captive Bird . . 145
The Philosopher . . 145
Wengierski --
Sketch of . . . . 146
My Wife . . . . 147
What one Likes . . . 148
Trembecki --
Sketch of . . . . 151
Baloon 153
Niemcewicz --
Sketch of . . . . 157
America and Gen'l Wash-
ington 165
United States . . . 166
Duma Glin? ski . . . 167
Duma Potocki . . . 171
Fastidiana . . .