No More Learning

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.
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? SZYMONOWICZ. 63
Here the soft mosses o'er the grottoes grow,
And shades and woods repose, and streamlets flow
O'er stony beds; the poplars tall, the wide
And ample lindens; elms and oaks, the pride
Of centuries. But without thy soothing voice
No streams harmonious roll, no woods rejoice,
No charms are charming. Wherefore should I be
So worthless, so indifferent, love, to thee?
I look'd into the glassy stream, I sought
Some hidden cause of thy ungenerous thought,
None could I find. My sheep are in the field,
They feed, they prosper; and my goat flocks yield
Annual increase. I have a rich supply
Of milk, and I am skill'd in poetry
And the sweet lyre, even like that swain of old,
Amphion, watching o'er his ravish'd fold
And waking song; while at his wild harp's sound
The woods and all their tenants danced around.
It matters not ; my song is vain and vain
AIL my bewailing: I must bear the pain
Unmurmuring, for my murmurs are to thee
A selfish triumph, and thy cruelty
Nothing can soften. Dost thou scorn me? Who
Possesses that false heart that once was true?
Laugh on, laugh on! A lion's whelp art thou,
And I a silly lamb. My ice-cold brow
The grave's dull earth shall soon be crumbled over,
And this shall be my epitaph of woe: --
" The cruel Phyllis has destroy'd her lover. "
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? 64 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
SIELANKA XIV.
CZARY (WITCHCRAFT).
THE JEALOUS WIFE.
Three nights have pass'd since he left me here,
And something is amiss, I fear;
Yes, surely something is amiss;
And what he does, and where he is,
I can't divine ; and who can bear
The throb of doubt and woe like this!
Thestyli, bring for magic's rites
The awful tools -- to-night, to-night
My heart shall summon witchcraft's sprites,
And revel in the wild delight.
Why did he marry, thus to leave me?
He well may grieve, who thus could grieve me.
I'll pour perdition on the maid
Who first his faithless passion sway'd:
She wounded me, it shall return,
Canker'd within her heart to burn.
Moon! I conjure thee -- thou art pure;
Yet when thou know'st my wrongs, thy eyes,
Pitying the miseries I endure,
Will show the midnight's mysteries
To me the wretched ! I was chaste
And lovely; from my parent's home
He bore me, in his scorn to waste
Affection's blush and passion's bloom;
A wife unstained, a faithful mate,
He leaves me to be desolate.
Pledged faith! Avenge, avenge me now!
Thou God above ! look down below !
He sees thee not, he knows thee not,
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? SZYMONOWICZ. 65
Be shame and wretchedness his lot!
His heart is scared -- his thoughts rebel-
Now scathe him with the fires of hell!
'Tis an unholy task, I know;
But grief is deaf -- it must be so:
I know damnation's fiends await
Those who would tear the veils of fate.
It must be so, I cannot say, --
Come tardy Thestyli, obey!
Pour white millet on the pan,
Shake it o'er the glowing fire
Fan the blazing caldron, fan, --
Stronger the flame must burn, and higher.
Husband turn, to thy wife's desire:
Mighty magic, conduct him home; --
My grief is mad, -- come, husband, come!
He burns my heart; -- on his head I burn
The crumbled leaves of the blister tree;
And as the leaves to ashes turn,
So let his heart burn scorchingly.
Mighty magic! conduct him home; --
My grief is mad, -- come, husband, come!
I melt the wax in the furnace heat: --
As the earth is softened by summer's rain.
So let him dissolve in a burning sweat,
And pass into dew for his cold disdain.
Mighty magic! conduct him home; --
My grief is mad, -- come, husband, come !
I turn the spindle: -- I fain would turn
His faithless heart. No rest shall light
On his anxious soul ; and visions stern
Shall be his by day, and dreams by night.
5
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? 66 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
Mighty magic! conduct him home; --
My grief is mad, -- come, husband, come!
My head-dress in three-fold knots I tie,
And my hair in tresses; so bind his soul;
Let them tangle ; until his heart shall fly
From unhallow'd passion's fierce control.
Mighty magic! conduct him home; --
My grief is mad, -- come, husband, come!
Place in the vessel a midnight bat,
Let it burn, let it burn, and the magic spe
Shall bear him to torments worse than that,
Oh, would I could add the fire of hell !
Mighty magic! conduct him home;--
My grief is mad, -- come, husband, come !
These poisonous weeds to a loathsome toad
Transforms an old woman. Away, away
Through the air on a fiery pole she rode : --
Burn -- burn -- he cannot resist their sway.
Mighty magic! conduct him home; --
My grief is mad, -- come, husband, come:
I h. ave a 'kerchief, which erst in dance,
When I was a maid, he threw at me,
While wet with the dew of his countenance: --
As his sweat, the foam of his mouth shall be.
Mighty magic! conduct him home; --
My grief is mad, -- come, husband, come!
Grits boil in this apron -- boil! It boils!
No fire is there! the spell succeeds.
He comes! he comes! to reward my tons;
I hear the barking hounds through the reeds.
I hear him knock. The boilings cease,
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? SZYMONOWICZ. 67
The howling dogs are now at peace.
Tis he! 'tis he! they knew him well,
They knew him by their eager smell.
So punish'd, he will, perhaps, improve,
But shall I welcome him with love,
Or wait till he has rested? He
Is panting hard -- 'twas marvelously
Well done, -- for force must act on will,
Where will rebels. Fire, brighten still !
Oh, aid me, mighty craft! till grief
In dark revenge obtain relief.
Burn, tendons! tell me when they smoke: --
So may the accursed members shrivel
(As when my heart in anguish broke)
Of that seducing fiend of evil.
Kevenge, revenge, dark craft! till grief
In ample vengeance find relief.
Now strip these rags at my behest,
Her corpse through dirt let hangman draw.
Let fiery pincers tear her breast,
And to the hounds her body throw.
So aid me, mighty craft! till grief
In dark revenge obtain relief.
Thou owl! that hootest through the wood,
In vain thou shalt no longer hoot, --
Before, behind, in solitude,
And through the world screech ' Prostitute ! '
So aid me, mighty craft! till grief
In full revenge obtain relief.
Spit thrice, and as the spittle falls,
Curse her ; and let her face be thick
With plague spots, -- sores, and wounds and galls
Pollute her: let her foul hands pick
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? 68 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
? The living worms that o'er her creep; --
Then rot upon pollution's heap.
My ears with music ring. I start!
thou hast triumph'd, mighty art!
Vengeance upon her head descend!
Be welcome -- welcome now my friend!
But he is come -- is come at last.
He came half-booted -- came in haste.
1 pity -- but forgive. Indeed
The heart is glad he caused to bleed.
EPIGKAMS.
THE HARE.
The hounds pursue me in their cruel course ; --
I turn'd; I saw the huntsman from his horse
Fall death-struck to the ground. So perish all
Who plot, or see unmoved another's fall.
THE WOLF.
Ye drag me through the village, peasants ! G-ood !
I have a thousand brothers in the wood: --
Yes ! yes ! insult the dead ! My life you rive,
But thousands to avenge me are alive.
THE OLD COCK.
In my young days full many a fight I won ;
But I am old, and all my glory's gone.
The young subdue me, and the vulture's throat
Is now my tomb. I can avenge it not.
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? ZIMOROWICZ. 69
ZIMOKOWICZ.
Simeox Zimokowicz was born at Lemberg (Leopol)
in 160J:. Xone of his poetical compositions were
printed during his lifetime. Being touched by symp-
toms of incipient consumption he hurried in writing
up the " Roxolanki " -- that is to say the Russian
maidens present at the wedding of his brother Bar-
tholomew.