No More Learning

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? 380 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
around, guessed all and comprehended everything. He
makes the language of gigantic nature his own. " The
Songs about Our Land " are so many diamonds, which,
although glistening with various colors of different
Polish dialects, constitute nevertheless one bright and
luminous light for every part of the Fatherland.
In writing these songs it was the aim of the poet to
demolish the walls that separated different parts of
Poland by dialects and customs distinguishing them
from one another; to get them acquainted with each
other; lift their spirits above the common level sur-
rounding them; to place them together on high, and
to show them the beautiful land flowing with milk and
honey, and to say to them: " See, here! here is your
Canaan! "
It can be asserted with truth that stillness is the
most charming Muse of Pol. She always delights in
calm tranquillity. She leads him into the shades of
eternal woods, so that they might tell him of their im-
memorial history. She takes him to the ancient clois-
ters, where their somber appearance tells him of events
of long ago. Wrapped up in reveries of charming
tranquillity he sings in elegiac tones of fertile fields, of
meadows, mountains, and the magnificence of Polish
rivers. These songs are not vain Jeremiads, but the
expressions of grand reality, and as they are founded
on truth they only charm the more. Pol can, in a
thousand ways, present his native land in the most
interesting and beautiful colors.
With ever-present freshness Po? charms his readers
and insures his compositions a deserved reputation;
he knows how to knock at the heart, and the feeling of
his readers always approvingly responds. His diction
is stamped with manly age, comporting with the epoch
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? pol. 381
of which he is a distinguished representative. In him
one finds a certain fullness of form and vitality of in-
ternal powers, ever accompanied by a peculiar peace
of mind and an equilibrium between ardor and reflec-
tion leading the spirit into a world of calm resignation.
His family attachments are very strong, as is his at-
tachment to his fatherland and his native heath. In
his retrospection of the Past one can see the sorrows
and mourning of an orphan, but without any bitter-
ness, or any apparent feelings of deep affliction.
Thus far Pol has passed his life in literary pursuits,
not only with the greatest credit to himself, but also to
the pleasure and satisfaction of his countrymen. Some
of his poems are wrought with the skill of a great
artist, for, frequently while reading them, it seems as
if he sung them himself with a harmonious and charm-
ing melody.
Pol was born in 1807 in Galicia, where his father
occupied a place in the judicial department. He
was educated at Lublin, and after finishing the course
he traveled in Rhenish provinces. After the events of
1831, in which he took an active part, he returned to
his native surroundings, and then traveled over the
Carpathian Mountains, and resided for some time
among the mountaineers. In 1846 he experienced
fearful strokes of misfortune. In 1847 he organized
the chronological publication of the library of Ossolin? -
skis. In 1848 he obtained a diploma of "Doctor,"
and became a professor of geography in the University
of Cracow. He afterward retired to Lemberg, where,
we suppose, he still resides, full of years and honors.
His works were published in Posen, Cracow, Leip-
sic, Warsaw, and Lemberg. Among these we can
mention "Poetry of Vincent Pol," "Mohort," an he-
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? 382 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
roic rhapsody, " Getting Home after a Storm," " Pic-
tures of the Mountaineers," "Song of a Prisoner,"
"Memoirs of Winnicki," "My Aunt," "The Word
and the Fame," "The Street Organ," "Songs of Our
Home," "A Tale without an End. " Besides these
we can mention his "Dissertations on Natural Sci-
ence" and "Geographical Lexicon. " "The Songs of
Ianusz " (Pies? nie Ianusza) were all written by Yincent
Pol.
SONG OF THE MOUND.
" Leci lis? cie z drzewa,
Co wyros? o wolne. "
tree nursed by freedom!
Thy leaves are fast falling;
Over the mound yonder
A lone bird is calling:
There never was -- never --
One hope for thee, Poland;
The dream is departed,
Thy children have no land!
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? pol. 383
Flame wraps ev'ry village,
Destroyed is each city,
And voices of women
Rise calling for pity.
From home and from hearthstone,
In swarms all are hasting,
In fields of their labor
The ripe grain is wasting.
When children of Warsaw
Repeated her storj^,
It seemed as if Poland
Would conquer with glory.
They fought through the winter
To summer's sad waning;
To welcome the autumn
None -- none were remaining.
The struggle was ended
For hearts vainly burning --
To hearths of the native
No feet are returning.
Some earth cover'd over,
In dungeons some languish,
Some scattered in exile
Of home dream in anguish.
No help comes from Heaven,
No aid from hands human,
We weep o'er the waste lands
That flowers vainly bloom in.
O dear country Poland!
If 'mid thy despoiling
The children who loved thee
Had taken while toiling
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? 384 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
Of earth but a handful,
By fatherland nourished,
Rebuilt on lost Poland
Another had nourished !
LITTLE STAR.
O thou little star that sparkled
When I first saw light,
Wherefore has thy brightness darkled?
Why so pale to-night?
Wherefore shin'st thou not as brightly
As when I, a child,
On my mother's bosom nightly
Slumbered, dream-beguiled?
Swiftly, swiftly, hast thou sped thee
Through the blue beyond;
In be wild' ring way hast led me
Ways I should have shunn'd.
Through the heavens thou speedest gaily,
Followed I thy lure;
Of my life bloom weaving daily
Garlands premature.
But the roses in them faded --
Yellow grows my May;
With the life so darkly shaded
No illusions stay.
On the vistas spread before me
Look I now through tears;
Since in heavens stretching o'er me,
Pale thy light appears.
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? pol. 385
O my little star! restore them
With thy sparkling rays;
Still my soul is longing for them,
For those happy days.
With them yet I fain would linger
Past delights I crave
Ere my fate's relentless finger
Beckons to the crave.
25
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? KONDRATOWICZ.
(SYROKOMLA. )
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? KONDRATOWICZ. 387
KONDRATOWICZ.
(Syrokomla).
Louis Kondratowicz, known under the pseudonym
of Syrokomla, is one of those youthful poets who
in their time stood at the head of the bards of
greatest literary power. He was equally a learned
scholar and a profound thinker; he did not chase after
fame on account of his originality, but as a master of
the forms already in existence; he adorns them with
the pearls of his poetic spirit, besides an uncommon
ease and simplicity which throws charming surround-
ings around the reader. The lyrico-epic mantle of his
"Chit-Chats " is the same as Pol's and Zaleski' s, gush-
ing from the sources of inspiration. To the minds sea-
soned to the glistenings of eternal youth of the
pictures of long ago his compositions proved welcome
visitors. In this species of poetic creations consists
Syrokomla's fondness. From his "Chit-Chats," in
which the historical narrator and sad-feeling lyrist
unites if himself the different qualities, we find almost
in every line -- in every thought, -- fresh fragrance of
nature and truth; we perceive everywhere natural
colors of simplicity, happily conceived, and so plainly
expressed that even a man unacquainted with the past
history of his country and literature, if he were only
possessed of pure feeling, would be immediately
initiated in Syrokomla's tenderness and simplicity. As
are the "Chit-Chats" so are also his "Fugitive
Ehymes," which we find in great variety, but always
marked by expressions of fidelity to nature and tender-
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? 388 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
ness of feeling ; but when we still further consider the
beautiful intellectual principle and honest intentions
we still more admire their intrinsic value. There we
find a true love of God and humankind, honest and
appreciative feeling of beauty, and a noble incitement
to everything that is good, and always an upright
tendency toward progression.
Perhaps the most feeling of all of Kondratowicz' s
poetic creations is u The Death of Acernus. " He took up
very skillfully the beautiful and yet very mournful
scene of the death of the Polish poet Klonowicz(q. v. ),
of the sixteenth century. The poet, impressed with
the solemnity of the hour, sings with great feeling and
tenderness the sad demise of the bard, who in the hour
of God's inspiration rebuked the sinners, and tried to
turn his beloved countrymen to truth, contrition, and
repentance.
Another great service rendered by Kondratowicz to
Polish literature was the translation of Polish-Latin
poets, such as Kochanowski, Sarbiewski, Szymonowicz,
and others, which were published in his " History of
Polish Literature. " Kondratowicz was one of the
most fertile of Polish poets, and although he did not
excel in everything, he could, with his simplicity and
deep feeling, draw tears from the eyes of his readers.
Enlivened by true poetic spirit, he excelled almost all
of his contemporaries in the depth of feeling and the
love of his native land. In these wonderful " Chit-
chats " we hear the roar of the old Lithuanian forests;
we plainly perceive the winding of the grand blue
rivers; we again converse with our old and noble an-
cestors; we see the old battles, victories, and joyous
feasts; -- in a word, whatever this tender poet sings
from his pain-stricken breast breathes with love of
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? KONDRATOWICZ. 389
everything that is true, familiar, and natural. In
peace and harmony with the whole natural brother-
hood, he saw the salvation of the Polish land, and
upon this he founded the happy futurity of the people.
He rebuked and satirized the old foibles and chimeras
of the nobility, and tried to eradicate these stumbling
blocks so that the people could be once more united by
the reciprocal ties of brotherly affection. The chiefest
stamp of Syrokomla' s poetry is the characteristics of a
people governed more by the impulses of the heart
than the mind.
Kondratowicz was born in 1822 at a place called
Smolko? w, near the city of Min? sk. He received his
education from Fathers Dominicans at Nies? wiez? o. At
twenty-one he was married and settled in a rural dis-
trict. In 1853, having lost by death several children,
and suffering himself from ill-health, he went to Wilno,
but in a short time returned again into rural life, not
far from where he resided formerly, and lived almost
in seclusion. After a while he gave his property up to
his parents and settled in the city of Wilno. In 1858
he traveled in Great Poland and visited Cracow, where
he was received with much cordiality and distinction.
Returning he lived again at Wilno, from whence he
went to Warsaw. Being overpowered by bodily sick-
ness and great mental depression, he succumbed to the
accumulated vicissitudes and died the 15th day of
September, 1862.
All the writings of this distinguished poet belong to
that class that are truly popular. Although eighteen
summers are passed away since his death, the Polish
Nation can hardly realize that Syrokomla will sing for
them no more -- forever!
The following are among his works that were already
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? 390 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
published: "Chit-Chats," and "Fugitive Rhymes,"
Wilno, 1853; "Baka Regenerated," St. Petersburg,
1854; "John Demborog," Warsaw, 1854; " Cottage in
the Woods," and " Margier," Wilno, 1855; '"Death of
Acernus," 1856; "Johnnie Cmentarnik," 1856; "The
Old Gate," " Easter Thursday," " Days of Penitence
and Resurrection," 1858 ; "Wanderings in My Dis-
trict," "Ulas," a war pastoral, 1858; "Sophia, the
Princess of Sluck," 1858; "Poetry of the Last Hour,"
Warsaw, 1862. Also "The History of Polish Litera-
ture," and a most beautiful translation of the songs of
Beranger. All the known and unknown writings of
Kondratowicz were published by Iagielski, at Posen.
DEATH OF THE NIGHTINGALE.
(S? mierc? S? owika. )
Shut in a wire cage amid the great city's roar
Was once a nightingale;
But his desire to sing grew on him more and more; --
So strong it must prevail.
Here is no shade, -- no elder trees, -- no hazel bush
His little head to hide; --
No sweet companion here, -- for here no streamlets gush
And through the meadows glide.
No dear ones here to hear him sing, though he should die
Amid his bursts of song.
In the congenial open air he may not fly,
His narrow cage is strong.
Instead of gentle winds the wheels' harsh rumbling blends
With shaking walls' loud jar;
From carriages of rich men, finely drest, ascends
The dust-cloud near and far.
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? KONDRATOWICZ. 391
Murmurs of a noisy crowd instead of streamlet clear
In busy, bustling ways;
Oh! where is peace and quiet? where is freedom here,
Prophetic songs to raise?
His soft breast almost bursts; now his small head shakes,
He chokes with blinding dust;
But born into the world a nightingale, he makes
One effort -- sing he must.
With sweet increasing melody he lifts his song,
Sings out his longings vain;
But soon his voice is drowned by hurrying throng,
Intent but on some gain.
His notes soar higher and higher, o'er all the noise
In musical despair,
Thrilled by the memory of vanished joys,
When he was free as air.
His little wings are weak, -- he flaps them all in vain;
He flutters with faint breath;
His warm and tender heart just warbles one more strain,
But 'tis the note of Death!
THE SOLDIER WANDERER.
(Na tern twardem szczudle mojem. )
With this hard crutch to lean upon
I have wandered all the wide world o'er
Mourning the ills I've undergone,
My countless woes and trials sore.
God only knows how much I've borne
While fighting boldly in the war;
And proofs of valor I have worn
Where balls were flying thick and far.
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? 392 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
How oft on picket I've remained,
Pinched with hunger, chilled with cold,
Yet murmured never nor complained,
But did my duty true and bold.
And at my general's behest
I've waded to the fortress' wall
Through blood of comrades I loved best, --
Could aught more terrible befall?
Though I was not a soldier long,
I've fought on famous battle-grounds;
Have lost a limb, -- once good and strong, --
And suffered honorable wounds.
Now I must beg from door to door.
Ye rich! with ample fortune blessed,
Though fate has. granted goodly store,
Ye harken not to the distressed!
Such is the recompense of all
Who nobly acted, nobly fought.
And happily does it befall ; --
My spirit grieves, but changes not.
THE PLOUGHMAN AND THE LARK.
'Tis morn ! You sing already, lark, and I begin to plough, --
For man must dearly purchase life by toil and sweat of brow.
He labors for his household beneath the heavens so broad,
While ye, who toil not, live. Still we are children of one God.
You are my companion now, though different is our lot.
You dream of love and pleasure; but, oh! I know them not.
You are gay and happy ever, and when the morning breaks
You fly to swell the grand " Hosanna" the angel wakes.
Your sweet song pleases heaven, and your thanks are very dear
To our God, who gives the little that you require here.
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? KONDRATOWICZ. 393
And your joyous chatterings, oft repeated, o'er and o'er,
To all the world announce the praise to God forevermore !
You sing already, lark, and I with aching heart must plough.
As you heavenward rise, dear bird, pray for the ploughman
now.
Say that, sailing o'er the village, you saw much misery,
And hunger, too. * Spring is not as kind as your sweet melody.
Rising early in the morning, we scarce can lift our hands
To praise our God. Our breasts are chilled, and sorrow by
us stands.
The sight of spring nor morning star can bring us gladsome
cheer,
When every morn the church bell tolls the death of loved
ones here.
The children cry, men suffer, and the world is hid by tears;
For the lark the spring is life, but death the ploughman fears.
Pray for us, lark, that pitying God may take us in His care,
And grant us heaven to sing His glory forever there!
COUNTRYMEN, I BEG ASSISTANCE.
(Pomoc dajcie mi Rodacy. )
Countrymen, I beg assistance,
Trouble sorely has bereft me;
I must beg for my subsistence,
Since for toil but one hand's left me.
Countrymen, in this land royal,
A poor wand'ring fellow mortal,
A bold soldier, true and loyal,
Begs for aid without your portal.
Both my aged parents leaving,
Leaving home and wife so cherished;
* Written during great scarcity.
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? 394 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
Leaving my poor children grieving,
Fought I where I might have perished.
On the battle-fields most gory
Fought I 'neath my country's banner;
Blood I've shed on fields of glory,
Now to beg beside your manor.
Of my wealth a thief bereft me,
Storm and fire my home molested;
Brother, mother, wife have left me,
In the grave they long have rested.
'Neath a cruel fate's oppression,
Scorn and need with grim persistence
Leave me nothing in possession,
Save one hand to beg assistance.
Joy and hope no longer burning --
I but wander, wander ever,
For my native heath I'm yearning,
But I shall behold it -- never.
Some old friend my mem'ry keeping,
Mayhap thinks of me with longing;
Some perchance may fall to weeping,
Their sad thoughts towai;d me thronging.
Where steel clashed and balls were ringing
When I fought the foe, if only
Some swift ball from mercy winging
Had but stilled this heart so lonely.
Sword in hand death would have found me
Fighting 'mid the leaden shower;
But to-day grief closes round me,
Which no weapon can o'erpower.
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? KONDRATOWICZ. 395
MATTHEW'S UNLUCKY TURNS.
"(Przysz? a kryska na Matyska. ")
Matthew lived in days now olden;
His like since has ne'er existed --
Handsome, with a fortune golden,
Of rare joy his days consisted.
He was loved and knew no trouble,
And though some with envy burning
Saw his fortune, none thought Matthew's
Golden tide would e'er be turning.
And a maiden, black-eyed, handsome,
Loved him with a love confiding,
Vowed Dear Matthew, my own darling,
My true love shall be abiding!
But another chap with money
Came and bought her heart's affection;
Matthew, spurned, received this cruel
Stroke of fate in deep dejection.
My dear Matthew, never mind it --
Sorrow not for such a trifle ;
To the tavern come and join us,
Quickly all this trouble stifle!
Thus his chums beguiled his sorrow
With their words of cheer and gladness;
"Right, friends," Matthew said; this folly
Paid he for in grief and sadness.
In the bowl he drowned his sorrow,
Half a week he drank for pleasure --
Treating all who came around him,
Treating without stint or measure.
But in paying for the liquor
All his money was expended --
To his wretched home he wandered,
Ill-luck evety step attended.
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? 396 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
1 From his trouble and hard drinking
Matthew sickened unto dying- --
Then the doctor came to see him
All his trouble multiplying;
For his visits and prescriptions
Took three horses from the stable.
Then poor Matthew left the country --
To endure his fate unable.
Ere he died he thus concluded:
By my friends to be remembered,
In my will I must leave something
To each one for service rendered.
In his hut, alas! was nothing
But some matting old and tattered.
And poor Matthew sighed perceiving
All his plans by ill-luck shattered!
At last dying, as Job's turkey,
Poor was he, and ruined wholly;
The old remnants of his wardrobe
Formed the rest for head so lowly.
At his funeral was no mourner;
Who has seen aught so depressing?
Four old beggars bore the coffin --
Now was fortune most distressing.
'Neath the grave-sod in the churchyard
He was buried; ah, poor fellow!
His demise no bells were tolling
In their tones so sad and mellow.
By the side of a small chapel
Is a fir-tree cross; the path you
Trace and read thereon as written:
" The last turn has come to Matthew. '
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? odyniec. :; ( ,>7
ODYNIEC.
Anton Edward Odyxiec, born 1809, is the author
of a few lyric productions, such as " The Wedding,"
etc. , but he distinguished himself chiefly by his trans-
lations. He translated Walter Scott's "Lady of the
Lake," "The Bride of Abydos" of Byron, "The Fire
Worshipers " of Moore, "Corsair" and " Heaven and
Earth" by Byron, also "Mazeppa," and rendered into
Polish the "Lay of the Last Minstrel," by Walter
Scott. The translation of ballads from Burger, Z? u-
kowski and Pushkin, as also Schiller's "The Maid of
Orleans," revert greatly to the credit of Odyniec.
His satiric poem, "The Specters," combines elegance
with great wit, and a wholesome moral to the would-
be poets. When nothing could drive away ghosts
from a haunted building, the declamation of an indif-
ferent poet of one of his compositions at the witching
hour of night set the ghosts to yawning, and so dis-
gusted them that they left the premises, positively and
forever. Mr. Odyniec resides at present in Warsaw.
His " Felicita, or The Martyrs of Carthagena," a
drama in five acts, as also "Barbara Radziwi? ," are
esteemed as productions of very high order.
PRAYERS (A LEGEND).
" Des Herzens Andacht hebt sich frey zu Gott,
Das Wort ist toclt, der Glaube rnacht lebendig. " -- Schiller.
The sight of a lake! Oh! how beautiful!
At evening's hush in summer's time,
When over it gently the soft winds lull
The waves to sleep with a mystic rhyme.
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? 398 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
Oh! how gratefully then the billows' roar
Sounds in the ears of lookers on;
They glisten with blue near the further shore,
Slowly fade as they near anon.
With just such weather, the skies were bright,
Gently sighed the evening wind,
When a worthy pastor, at edge of night,
Beside the lake his way inclined.
Already the last bright rays of the sun
Behind the mountains strove to hide;
But from the West appeared a single one,
That strangely charmed the waters wide.
The pastor to heaven lifted his eyes,
And long he gazed in holy thought.
How good! how mighty is He! and how wise!
Who all these stars to being brought!
The sun's fiery course to His will He bends,
Compels the moon along her way;
To fill the soundless depths the water sends;
Bids them remain, and they obey.
Why is the grass upon the earth so green?
The night so dark? the day so light?
Who gave spring flowers? autumn's scene?
Sweet fruits and grain for man's delight?
Whose mandate, -- " Let there be," -- created all?
And whose breath caused this world to be?
Thus musing did the pious pastor fall
Before his God on bended knee.
After a moment's pause, upon the tide
He turned his eyes once more, and then
A peasant, leaping over a log, he spied,
And saw him jumping back again.
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? ODYNIEC. 399
"That's for you, God,*' at ev'ry jump he cries,
And, jumping back, " this is for me.