I turn the spindle: -- I fain would turn
His faithless heart.
His faithless heart.
Poland - 1881 - Poets and Poetry of Poland
org/access_use#pd
? 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. These interesting compositions, although
original, are partly imitations of Horace and Anacreon;
they show a strong pen and elicit much poetical beauty.
He also wrote many songs, but all his compositions are
permeated with youthfulness. His selection of sub-
jects and poetical colors shows a young man who feels
the worth and charms of life. He had a great admira-
tion for Szymonowicz and imitated him, but possessed
more poetical force. He also translated Moschus.
Zimorowicz died very young, -- in his twenty-fifth
year -- and was buried at Cracow, where the follow-
ing Latin inscription covers his remains :
Subter te, qui legis,
Simeox Zimorowicz Leopoliensis
Omnium Musarum et Gratiarum
Floridus Adolescens
Particulam Terrae Roxolanae
Cum calculo abjecit:
Ipse Indole, Litteris, Moribus
Annos XXV supergressus
Rediit unde venerat
Anno 1629, Die 21 Junii.
Cui
FR. MR. Lachrymas et longum Yale
Tu Supremum Have da et I.
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? 70 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
SONG.
"Widzia? em cie z okieneczka. "
I saw thee from ray casement high,
And watch'd thy speaking countenance;
With silent step thou glidest by,
And didst not cast a hurried glance
Upon my mean abode nor me.
Then misery smote me, -- but for heaven
I should have fallen scathed and dead.
I blame thee not, -- thou art forgiven;
I yet may hear thy gentle tread,
When evening shall o'ermantle thee.
The evening came, -- then mantling night;
I waited till the full moon tower'd
High in the heaven. My longing sight
Perceived thee not; the damp mists lower'd^
In vain I sought thee anxiously.
Didst thou upon some privileged leaf
My name record, and to the wind
Commit it, -- bid it charm my grief,
Bear some sweet influence to my mind
And set me from despairing free?
Where are the strains of music now,
The song, the dance, that morn and eve
We heard around my house, -- when low
And sweet thy voice was wont to heave
Soft sighs and gentle thoughts for me ?
'Tis past, 'tis past, and in my heart
Is sorrow, silence in my ear;
The vain world's wonted smiles depart;
Joy and the springtide of the year,
Fond youth ! are scatter'd speedily.
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? ZIMOROWICZ. 71
Thou hast not said farewell! no sleep
Shall close my mourning eye, -- the night
Is gloomy now. Go, minstrel, weep!
For I shall weep; and sorrow's blight
That scathes my heart shall visit thee.
SIELANKA.
Zephyr ! that gently o'er Ukraine art flying,
Go and salute my Maryna for me;
Whisper her tenderly, soothingly sighing
" Lo ! he has sent these soft accents to thee ! "
Why dost thou dwell, my maiden so lonely?
Why dost thou dwell in so gloomy a spot?
Think of the palace of Leopol* -- only
Think, my fair maid! though thou visit it not.
There in thy tower is a window, where seated
Often thou sheddest a smile on thy swain,
There have my sighs oft an audience entreated;
Maiden, that window invites thee again.
Lady! the thought of thy absence has shaded
Even the flow'rets with sorrow and gloom;
All the bright roses and lilies are faded,
And my gay orchard is stripp'd of its bloom.
Come, my fair maid, with thy beautiful blushes,
Shine o'er our turrets, -- oh, come for awhile !
Smile on us, lady; oh, smile, though Red Russia's
Twice-castled towers may deserve not thy smile.
Lo! it expects thee, its lionsf await thee,
Watching like sentinels fix'd on the height:
* Leopol is the capital of Red Russia, Roxolania, now Austrian
Gallicia.
f Lions-- The arms of Leopol.
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? 72 POETS AND POETEY OF POLAND.
Sleepless and eager to welcome and greet thee
When thy fair vision shall dawn on their sight.
Haste, maiden, haste ! scatter blessings around thee,
Laughter and wit are waiting thee here;
Courtesies, feastings and smiles, shall be found thee,
Wanderings and wassails to honor thee, dear !
Here we have centered the graces and pleasures;
Come thou, bright lady ! inherit them now.
Here Nature pours out her charms and her treasures,
Nothing is wanted, oh, nothing but thou.
SIELANKA.
"Rozyna mi w taneczku pomaran? cze da? a. "
Rosina, while dancing, an orange convey'd,
And promised the garland that circled her head;
I gave her my hand and with love and desire
The orange was turn'd to a ball of bright fire.
It burnt like a coal from the furnace, and made
Its way to my heart, while it fever'd my head.
Rosina, my flame ! that fair orange of gold
Has kindled a passion which may not be told.
I have learnt what love is ; not Venus the fair,
But the whelp of a lioness fierce in her lair;
She- tiger of Caucasus nurtured to scorn
The hearts that are broken, and souls that are torn.
SIELANKA.
"Roxolanki Ukochane
Przez usta wasze ro? z? ane. "
Maid of Roxolania fair!
By your lips of roses swear,
Why your lyre's sublimest tone
?
? 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. These interesting compositions, although
original, are partly imitations of Horace and Anacreon;
they show a strong pen and elicit much poetical beauty.
He also wrote many songs, but all his compositions are
permeated with youthfulness. His selection of sub-
jects and poetical colors shows a young man who feels
the worth and charms of life. He had a great admira-
tion for Szymonowicz and imitated him, but possessed
more poetical force. He also translated Moschus.
Zimorowicz died very young, -- in his twenty-fifth
year -- and was buried at Cracow, where the follow-
ing Latin inscription covers his remains :
Subter te, qui legis,
Simeox Zimorowicz Leopoliensis
Omnium Musarum et Gratiarum
Floridus Adolescens
Particulam Terrae Roxolanae
Cum calculo abjecit:
Ipse Indole, Litteris, Moribus
Annos XXV supergressus
Rediit unde venerat
Anno 1629, Die 21 Junii.
Cui
FR. MR. Lachrymas et longum Yale
Tu Supremum Have da et I.
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? 70 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
SONG.
"Widzia? em cie z okieneczka. "
I saw thee from ray casement high,
And watch'd thy speaking countenance;
With silent step thou glidest by,
And didst not cast a hurried glance
Upon my mean abode nor me.
Then misery smote me, -- but for heaven
I should have fallen scathed and dead.
I blame thee not, -- thou art forgiven;
I yet may hear thy gentle tread,
When evening shall o'ermantle thee.
The evening came, -- then mantling night;
I waited till the full moon tower'd
High in the heaven. My longing sight
Perceived thee not; the damp mists lower'd^
In vain I sought thee anxiously.
Didst thou upon some privileged leaf
My name record, and to the wind
Commit it, -- bid it charm my grief,
Bear some sweet influence to my mind
And set me from despairing free?
Where are the strains of music now,
The song, the dance, that morn and eve
We heard around my house, -- when low
And sweet thy voice was wont to heave
Soft sighs and gentle thoughts for me ?
'Tis past, 'tis past, and in my heart
Is sorrow, silence in my ear;
The vain world's wonted smiles depart;
Joy and the springtide of the year,
Fond youth ! are scatter'd speedily.
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? ZIMOROWICZ. 71
Thou hast not said farewell! no sleep
Shall close my mourning eye, -- the night
Is gloomy now. Go, minstrel, weep!
For I shall weep; and sorrow's blight
That scathes my heart shall visit thee.
SIELANKA.
Zephyr ! that gently o'er Ukraine art flying,
Go and salute my Maryna for me;
Whisper her tenderly, soothingly sighing
" Lo ! he has sent these soft accents to thee ! "
Why dost thou dwell, my maiden so lonely?
Why dost thou dwell in so gloomy a spot?
Think of the palace of Leopol* -- only
Think, my fair maid! though thou visit it not.
There in thy tower is a window, where seated
Often thou sheddest a smile on thy swain,
There have my sighs oft an audience entreated;
Maiden, that window invites thee again.
Lady! the thought of thy absence has shaded
Even the flow'rets with sorrow and gloom;
All the bright roses and lilies are faded,
And my gay orchard is stripp'd of its bloom.
Come, my fair maid, with thy beautiful blushes,
Shine o'er our turrets, -- oh, come for awhile !
Smile on us, lady; oh, smile, though Red Russia's
Twice-castled towers may deserve not thy smile.
Lo! it expects thee, its lionsf await thee,
Watching like sentinels fix'd on the height:
* Leopol is the capital of Red Russia, Roxolania, now Austrian
Gallicia.
f Lions-- The arms of Leopol.
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? 72 POETS AND POETEY OF POLAND.
Sleepless and eager to welcome and greet thee
When thy fair vision shall dawn on their sight.
Haste, maiden, haste ! scatter blessings around thee,
Laughter and wit are waiting thee here;
Courtesies, feastings and smiles, shall be found thee,
Wanderings and wassails to honor thee, dear !
Here we have centered the graces and pleasures;
Come thou, bright lady ! inherit them now.
Here Nature pours out her charms and her treasures,
Nothing is wanted, oh, nothing but thou.
SIELANKA.
"Rozyna mi w taneczku pomaran? cze da? a. "
Rosina, while dancing, an orange convey'd,
And promised the garland that circled her head;
I gave her my hand and with love and desire
The orange was turn'd to a ball of bright fire.
It burnt like a coal from the furnace, and made
Its way to my heart, while it fever'd my head.
Rosina, my flame ! that fair orange of gold
Has kindled a passion which may not be told.
I have learnt what love is ; not Venus the fair,
But the whelp of a lioness fierce in her lair;
She- tiger of Caucasus nurtured to scorn
The hearts that are broken, and souls that are torn.
SIELANKA.
"Roxolanki Ukochane
Przez usta wasze ro? z? ane. "
Maid of Roxolania fair!
By your lips of roses swear,
Why your lyre's sublimest tone
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