This is the
heritage
of all !
Poland - 1881 - Poets and Poetry of Poland
But the duties of an official life had no
charms for him; the bent of his mind led him alto-
gether in a different direction: he soon gave himself up
to the occupation of a private teacher. His first fables
were published at P? ock in 1824. Five of his smaller
works passed through two editions; one passed through
three, and his tables through six. different editions.
Then came the publication of " Thoughts in Kegard
How to Gain a Correct Knowledge of the Foundations of
the Polish Language " -- ATarsaw, 1828. Jachowicz left
in manuscript ** Sketches of Polish History. " in verse;
also a spelling-book, copiously ill ustrated with wood-cuts.
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? 304 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
All who knew lachowicz personally testify to the
nobleness of his nature, and to his great friendship of
children; and so long as the little rising generation will
speak the language of their grandmothers they will
carry his name to the remotest posterity. His fables
and proverbs can be found in almost every house in
Poland. The last edition of his works was published
in Warsaw in four volumes -- 1848. Besides these he
published a new collection entitled c ' A Hundred New
Stories " -- Warsaw, 1853. The substance of his fables
is an invention adapted for the understanding and the
necessities of children. In these little stories we find
the children's world dramatized; their subjects do not
touch the concerns of grown people, or any intricate-
relations of life; they simply concern the relations of
children, their little adventures, contacts, and relations
with their parents, society, etc. The author endeavors
to imbue the little folks with virtues of religion and
pleasing shadings of their every-day situations. He
pursues their little shortcomings and their little foibles
in the same good-natured way and degree of childish-
ness; the form, too, in which they are written possesses
also its peculiarly interesting manner. Jachowicz
understood that the essence of a fable is not an alle-
gory, but an example, and that allegorical examples
are not practical for children; for a child there is no
better example than to show it the doings of another
child. Jachowicz also comprehended the truth that the
heroes of his stories were not animals or trees, but
children. His manner of telling things is so easy and
lucid that every child can understand him without any
trouble, although sometimes he moralizes too long.
He died in Warsaw the 24th of December, 1857.
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? Jachowicz. 305
SUNSET.
The sun went down, with it one more day has passed away; --
The church-bell heralded its death through the twilight grey;
To-morrow, at the same time and hour, with bell-tones clear,
Another day shall disappear;
And after that a third, and so
Our whole life day by day shall go
An old man thought, -- up and down he paced with feeble tread.
What does the old man mutter ? the thoughtless children said.
The Old Man.
Gaily with your pastimes you amuse yourselves to-day,
But your life is fleeting imperceptibly away.
See you the sunset, children fair?
Only look! see over there:
The clouds with red and gold inwrought,^-
Their play a moment was forgot.
And while they looked with earnestness
The old man spoke of sinfulness
, Repentance and a saving grace,
How swiftly day to day gives place ;
And of the vanities of earth,
They understood not then its worth.
In riper years alone their might
The sunset shone upon their sight.
They thought of what the old man said many years ago,
And finer feelings filled their hearts all with a holy glow.
The world's snares deceived them no more,
Love of wealth and glory was o'er;
Flown away as if with the wind,
And if for earthly joys they pined
The old man's sunset crossed their mind.
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? 306 POETS AKD POETKY OF POLAND.
THE LITTLE ORPHAN.
Mother! but speak, dispel my dread, --
'Tis your own daughter, hear her plea;
I kneel and weep beside your bed, --
Awake and say a word to me!
Mother! the hands my lips have pressed
Are cold as ice. Oh, for God's sake
No longer in this coffin rest;
Open your eyes, mother, awake !
I cannot think you will not rise,
They say you will waken never;
mamma dear, open your eyes,
Don't you love me well as ever?
Arise, arise, from that white bed,
It looks as if it were a tomb,
And press me to your breast instead,
My heart will break within this gloom!
Ah, you keep still, my mother dear,
You wish me all alone to stay;
Must I be left an orphan here,
Torn from my mother's arms for aye?
1 have never been away from you,
Oh, may I never, never be ;
But to the grave let me go, too,
Can you seek Heaven without me?
You are so good, mother, I plead
That you will look on me with love,
And with the good Lord intercede
To join us in his home above!
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? JACHOWICZ. 307
MOTHER'S WARNING.
My son, said a mother, if you would be my delight,
From thy soul's depths love truth and right;
Teach your heart to loathe deeply every form of wrong,
Shun evil when alone as when 'mid a watchful throng.
The youth promised his mother, and in his eye shone clear
The light of truth -- she knew that his promise was sincere.
In a few days thereafter it happened on his way
The youth passed a neighbor's garden filled with blossoms
gay
Just at that time of summer when fragrant buds disclose
In its charming beauty the queen of flowers, the rose,
To reach and pluck the fairest the eager youth essayed,
When something whispered him of the promise he had
made.
His hand dropped -- he paused to think -- he listened to the
voice,
A future life of right or wrong waited on his choice.
But another voice said: what does one rose signify?
The owner will forgive it, no harm therein can lie,
If you leave them as they are their hours of bloom are few;
Reach and pluck one, you shall take a sweet rose home with
you.
No one will reprove you; there are plenty, take your choice;
And he almost believed for a time that evil voice.
Your promise to your mother, -- 'twas his heart's voice he heard,
He who is good and honest will never break his word.
He resisted the temptation, the flowers untouched remained,
He heard his mother's warning, and a victory was gained !
THE LITTLE JEWESS.
A little Jewish girl, pale and thin, in humble guise,
Was walking, with her hands covering her eyes,
When a lady from her window marked her feeble tread,
And sent her maid to her with a piece of bread.
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? 308 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
Thus having done her duty she felt much happiness.
What is more pleasant than easing the distress
Of the poor orphan? But out of breath the maid came back.
"Do you know," she said, "my mistress dear, -- alack!
That is a Jewish girl; -- who e'er thought to help a Jew? ' 1
The good lady was offended. " Shame on you!
She is poor, and therefore she deserves our aid," she said;
" Go forthwith, I bid you, give to her the bread.
She is a fellow creature; -- the creeds don't signify; --
The sun shines upon us all, -- impartially. "
THE WIDOW'S MITE.
A money-box was fastened up in a public place,
And many with indiff'rence as they passed apace
Read "Offering for the Poor;" thereon they turned away
Without putting in a penny for many a day.
It stood quite empty, till at last
A poor woman dropped her mite, a penny, as she passed.
Next, seeing her, a rich man stopped,
Who some ducats dropped.
The less wealthy, moved by the sight, added to the store
Each a florin more.
Another one, who had seen the widow give her mite,
Dropped a dollar bright.
Whence comes this liberality, -- this golden shower?
'Tis the example of the good. It is virtue's power
That brings the penny shining gold.
Perhaps to this hour time had rolled,
And the money-box, now burdened, remained empty quite
Had not the poor and humble widow given her mite.
Good example works wonders for the right'
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? KORZENIOWSKI. 309
KORZENIOWSKI.
Joseph Korzeniowski, at the beginning of his career,
was a poet of purely classic character, but when the
inspiration of new ideas came upon him he was regen-
erated in the spirit. Still this awakening was not spon-
taneous, but was caused by side influences, and it was
doubtless for this reason that his own influence on the
Polish literature, at the beginning of this change, was
so inconsiderable. He was one of the young poets
who began to write originally for the stage. He shifted,
however, from classic tragedy to a new style of dramas,
in which he imitated Shakspeare. His classic trag-
edy bears the name of "Pelopids," but his "Clara"
and "Angelique," written in measured rhyme, are of a
different cut. "The Carpathian Mountaineers" is a
drama which is considered a masterpiece in Polish lit-
erature. The same merit claims " The Monk," telling
of a life of temptation and the death of Boleslas the
Bold. But perhaps still greater is his historical drama,
"Andrew Batory," where, for the first time, Korzen-
iowski endeavored to awaken the remote past and en-
rich the literature of his country with an historical play,
and in this difficult task he came out victorious. He
delineated in a masterly manner all the characters of
the drama with great historical truth, with which he
embellished this remarkable production.
In the comedy "The Jew r s " the poet shows unmis-
takably that he is well experienced in the ways of the
w r orld and a superior judge of the human heart. He is
the first, too, who showed what significance comedy
had in a social point of view T . In his comedy "The
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? 310 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
Moustache and the Wig" old Polish types stand in
bold relief alongside of Frenchified ways of the times
of Stanislaus Augustus.
Although Korzeniowski is a perfect master of the
language in all his pieces, he evinces great carelessness
in interesting his reader or spectator. In the old dia-
logues of the prologue it was announced at the begin-
ning what the subject of the play would be; so it is
with Korzeniowski. He tells us in advance what will
be the text of the drama, weakening thereby the inter-
est of the play; and unmindful about carrying out the
intrigue he loses the power of the comic. On that ac-
count he is placed below Fredro,* but his lyric poetry
belongs to the first class.
Korzeniowski was born in 1797, in Galicia, and was
educated at Czernovitz, and then at Krzemieniec.
After finishing his studies he went to Warsaw, where
he accepted a situation as a private teacher, offered him
by Gen. Vincent Krasin? ski, and later he obtained a
position as librarian in the great library of Count
Zamoyski. In 1823 he was called to the professorship
of Polish literature at Krzemieniec, where he lectured
till 1830. The year after he entered the cathedra of
literature and Roman antiquities at the University of
Kiev, and in 1836 of Polish literature, where he lec-
tured only a few months, the cathedra being abolished.
In 1837 he was one of the directors of the University
of Charko? w, and in 1846 was appointed the director of
the state gymnasium at Warsaw. He then was hon-
ored with the dignity of the office of Yisitator of schools
and colleges, and still later was made a commissioner
of creeds and instruction. While occupying this im-
portant office he was greatly influential in the arrange-
*A distinguished Polish dramatist.
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? KORZENIOWSKI. 311
ment of plans for the chief school at Warsaw. In 1862,
suffering from ill health, he journeyed to a Bohemian
water-cure, but that availed him not, and he died at
Dresden in 1863.
His dramas were for the first time published at Poc-
zajow, in 1826; "The Carpathian Mountaineers" at
Wilno, 1843; "The Monk" at Warsaw, 1830; it was
translated into Hebrew by Julian Klaczko; "Andrew
Batory," Warsaw, 1846; "The Jews," Wilno, 1843.
THE LAST LABOR.
(DUMA. )
Through thicket and through brush and -field
Traveled a man whose form revealed
The weight of years. His eyes anon
Fell on the staff he leaned upon.
Slowly he walked -- his native strength
Trouble and age had sapped at length
With many deep and cruel wounds
Gained on forgotten battle-grounds.
Every day he this path would trace,
On his shoulder bearing a spade.
In the graveyard, resting a space,
To dig a grave he then assayed.
Till, weary with his work, at length
Again he rested in the shade
And at his feet he placed the spade.
Once refreshing his wasted strength,
He thus reposed with his dim eyes
Resting heavenward on the skies,
As if he sought throughout the space
The bright shades of his past to trace,
The pleasures of his by-gone days
That never more shall meet his gaze.
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? 312 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
Filled with emotion as lie thought,
His faint and trembling voice awoke,
Called back the past with mem'ry fraught,
And thus unto himself he spoke:
Evening's hush the valleys keep,
The sun descends behind the hill;
O'er the grass the dew-drops creep,
The fragrant wind sighs soft and still,
While utter silence reigns alone.
No stir about; all life seems past
Save that my heart, so weary grown,
Beats, oh! so loudly, and so fast!
The spell of utter silence round
Most grave and solemn thoughts recall.
Here is the inevitable bound!
This is the heritage of all !
For all the roads are leading here,
And wafted on their wings we come.
Every earthly hope and fear
Endeth here their weary sum.
Entrance 'tis to the spirit home,
Welcome resting place for mortals,
I would gladly pass its portals,
Never more to toil and -roam.
Willingly would I meet the change --
Happily lie upon thy breast,
Not feeling that the land is strange,
But as I were at home and rest.
I have lived through many a year,
Have seen on earth much change and gloom;
Relations, brothers, friends so dear,
Are sleeping in the silent tomb.
My voice, that sleep can never wake,
But through the gloom this thought steals o'er,
Life's billows bearing me shall break,
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? KORZENIOWSKI. 313
And cast me on the unknown shore.
My hold upon the earth is weak,
My sunset rays so dimly blend,
A few more tears upon my cheek,
A few more sighs, and then the -- end!
All the phantoms of younger days,
And all delusions of the heart,
Pleasures of glory, love's sweet ways,
Like sounds of yesterday depart.
Long lines of years have disappeared
Like a cloud scattered by the blast,
Troubles that vexed, pleasures that cheered,
All come to nothing at the last.
Few the memories that we gain
From such a harvest large and full --
From the abundance there remain
Few roses mid the thorns to pull.
All was silent. He ceased so speak,
And with tears on his pallid cheek
Rose to his feet, and tremblingly
Began to dig his grave once more,
Till, growing weary as before,
Reposed again beneath the tree,
With the spade lying at his feet.
Thus toiled and rested he each day,
When shades of night the sunset meet,
And o'er the world in darkness lay
His last rude shelter in the land
He dug with his own trembling hand.
Thus in the graveyard he was found,
His head uplifted from the ground,
His eyes in his last sleep composed
And his blue lips were tightly closed.
Still was his voice -- at rest each limb --
And his grave was -- ready for him.
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? 314 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
WASILEWSKI.
Edmund Wasilewski was a poet of the heart. He
seemed to prefer being shut up within himself to ex-
ternal glistening. He appeared to suffer mental pain,
and whenever he smiled his smile seemed to mingle
with yearning and grief. His faith and his prophetic
ken seemed wavering and uncertain. Edmund's world
and life were painted in dark and somber colors.
Although his poetry sprung from the purest sources,
yet it was oftentimes permeated with bitterness. Per-
sonal disappointments made him at times cold and
indifferent as to his fate. He began to doubt about
any happiness being in this world, so that even if he
saw a bright beam of it to him it was but a piece of
rotten wood glistening in the dark, without possessing
any real light or warmth.
The collection^ of his poetry represents three differ-
ent turns or kinds -- egotistic, popular, and social, -- with
an occasional touch of historical coloring. His burn-
ing soul loved to pour out, in short lyrics and in son-
nets, all his dreamings, his reveries, and his frenzy.
"The Child of Frenzy "is his confession before the
world, where in painful strains he sings the history of
his life. Pure but unhappy love is the reigning theme
extending throughout many tropes. Now and then it'
connects itself with observations about the world and
peoples, and then again he complains with Werther, --
then philosophizing in the Childe-Harold style.
Such erotic feeling needs a highly creative individual-
ism to express in the usual way the feelings of an
enamored heart, and at the same time to impart to them
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? WASILEWSKI. 315
the witching tone of poesy. Such is his " Dream! O
My Soul, Dream! "
Wasilewski is altogether a different man when he
forgets his troubles and looks upon the surrounding
objects with a pleasant eye and good humor, when he
seeks a subject to which he could grow with his heart.
Such a subject he found in the Cracovian people. The
poet looked into their life, their customs, and their
manners, and their native character; he heard their
songs and was permeated with them through and
through, began to love them and wrought a beautful
wreath for them in his collections -- "The Cracovians. "
Far from his own personal fancy, which other poets
would have tried to put into the people's conceits, he
was on the contrary not only a faithful but also an
ideal interpreter of their feelings in their different and
most minute shades. His " Cracovians " are so purely
natural that you can see them in their huts and houses
just as they are, only the description is embellished by
a beautiful diction. "The Mariner's Song" depicts
different phases of life with uncommon tenderness.
His " Cathedral on the Wawel " is truly worthy of the
author. This mountain, around which are collected so
many recollections of the past and so many souvenirs
of national life, is to our poet an Olympus or a Hebron;
-- in a word the central point of the world; he turns to
it continually, for there he sees every foot-path, every
bush, every relic, brings to his mind a thousand pleas-
ing visions, and as Wasilewski is on the field of pop-
ular poetry so is he here a true poet. He exercised but
little care as to the outward smoothness of his verse;
being driven by the warmest current of feeling he
wrote whatever came to his mind without stopping,
giving slight heed to minor objects. In his u Cathe-
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? 316 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
dral on Wawel " no art is visible but the ardent feeling
of truthfulness. Thoughts that led him on in this
poem pervade all other of his labors, for they were his
inseparable domestic idols. He worshiped them with
a faith and devotedness that cost him his life.
Wasilewski was born on the 16th day of November,
1814. While a child he came with his parents to Cra-
cow, and it was here that he was brought up and edu-
cated. After finishing his collegiate education he
accepted the situation as a librarian offered him by
Wielkopolski in the Kingdom of Poland; but after a
lapse of one year he returned to Cracow, where he
seems to have been persecuted by a relentless fate, and
had to labor hard to support those dependent upon
him. In 1844 he was married to his beloved and
much sung " Ilelka " (Helen). God had given them
a son, but he soon took the child away from them.
Edmund was twice attacked by mortal sickness, but on
the third attack he succumbed and gave his -spirit up
to God, November 14, 1846.
A collection of his poems was published at Cracow,
1839; at Posen, 1849; again at Cracow, 1849, and at
Warsaw, 1859. "Cathedral on Wawel" was pub-
lished separately in 1840.
UPON THE ROCKY SHORE.
Upon the lonely, rocky shore
An old man walketh to and fro,
His head is bent 'neath tresses hoar,
His heart is heavy with its woe.
With eyes uplifted to the sky
And gray locks to the breezes tossed,
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? WASILEWSKI. 817
He calls his children. None reply
To him; they are forever lost!
O lonely is the castle old,
And lonelier still his aged breast,
For life is drear to him, and cold,
Spent thus from those he loveth . best.
Upon their names he fondly calls;
For them he weeps, alas! in vain;
Brave children ! to their father's halls
They never more return again !
MEMORY'S TEAR.
Do you know the tear, lady, -- the sweetest tear on earth,
Which remembrance e'er forces from the heart into view,
Which one pours out in silence or deeply hides at birth,
For memory of native land or friends tried and true,
Which tenderness must shed be we bashful or severe,
'Tis the tear above all others -- it is memory's tear.
Do you know the reveries, -- the meditations sad
Which carry us at will to the future or the past?
Do you know the power that makes that sorrow glad,
As your thoughts flow backward or coming time forecast?
Like the faithful ivy-green winding the ruins 'round
'Mid thoughts of future time and past these memories' dreams
are found.
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? 318 POETS AND POETRY OE POLAND.
JASKOWSKI.
John Nepomucen Jaskowski. We regret that we
cannot furnish to our readers anything definite about
this poet's life. We only know that he was an elegant
writer of ballads, elegies, and dithyrambics. One of
his ballads, which is given below, is a specimen of the
naturalness of his style; as to its application to our
own times, the reader may form his own conception.
A TALE.
One Sunday, at eventide,
The old village church beside,
An old man stood and slowly tolled the bell,
When a man, young and unknown,
With grey dust all his clothes o'erblown,
In wonder list'ning to the solemn knell,
Paused to bashfully inquire:
" From this village, ags? d sire,
Who takes thus solemnly his last adieu? "
" Though the circumstance is sad,
Since you are curious, lad,
Listen, and I'll tell the tale to you.
" There lived with us, years ago,
In this village, you must know,
A peasant. Wealth he'd honestly acquired;
His board was amply spread,
Never lacking salt nor bread;
He was happy, much beloved, and admired.
" In the household three there were:
His good wife and himself, sir,
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? JAS? KO WSKI. 319
Were two; an only son made up the three, --
A bright, rosy, cheerful lad,
He was always finely clad,
As wealthy farmers' sons are wont to be.
" One eve the father came
From a house of noble name,
And said to his wife, as deeply he sighed:
1 My God ! what a change is this
From the mansion's stateliness;
A peasant's hut is pitiful beside.
" 'A commoner among those
Of whom each one something knows,
Am I here. It does nothing signify.
God has given us a son;
Why, then, may he not be one,
I ask you, of the nobles, great and high.
" ' For two oxen we can sell. --
He shall go to school, learn well;
And who can say what he may be in time?
He might even get a place
At the manor, by his grace,
Or to a preacher's office he might climb. '
"And they did accordingly;
But they erred most terribly,
For happiness from farm life may outgrow.
Learning in itself is good,
But whoever seeks it should
Seek it not from pride, sir. Is that not so?
" Every year more and more
Lessened still the farmer's store;
The grain went, and the stock its number lacked.
While the son in learning grew
His false pride was growing too,
And this was for his parents a sad fact.
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? 320 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
" So year after year was gone,
And no one, as time went on,
Saw him in his old home ; and they began
'Round to whisper, on the sly,
That he in a city nigh
Was playing the role of a gentleman.
" No priest; on the other side,
He was vain and puffed with pride,
Ashamed that his father's clothes homespun were.
God sends on him judgment dire
Who regards with scorn his sire. --
Is't not so? -- What's the matter with you, sir?
" In the meantime, as they say,
Through the window and doorway
Into the cottage did poverty stare;
Taking wings, the riches flew,
While the old folks older grew,
And no assistance came from anywhere.
" Though the old man's fertile field
In his youth gave ample yield,
Through it since had the tares and cockles crept.
So his need was often great,
And, bewailing the sad fate
Of himself and son, oft the poor man wept.
" Till, unhappy, tired, and worn,
With affliction overborne,
He fell in the field, prostrate, by his plow, --
He fell, never more to rise;
There were none to close his eyes ; --
Why is this, young man? You are weeping now!
" But the tale is not yet told.
There was left the mother old, --
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? JAS? KO WSKI. 321
Yes, she remained, entirely bereft,
Woe to ev'ry one thus thrown
On the dreary world alone,
And greatest woe when a woman is left.
" She requested one to write
To her son of her sad plight:
' My son, your vain and empty dreams release.
Have respect for my gray hair!
The estate requires your care;
Come, and you will find competence and peace. '
" Vainly were her prayers consigned,
'Twas like preaching to the wind!
The poor old mother quit her native spot.
Old and penniless from home
She departed, thence to roam,
A wanderer, 'mong people she knew not.
" So this morn, at break of day,
Dead they found her, as she lay
On her native heath, with her home in view.
And it is for pity's sake
The bells this requiem make. --
For God's sake, sir, what is amiss with you? 11
As the tale closed the young man,
With expression wild, began,
While from his eyes the tears were flowing fast:
" The sole murderer am I
Of my parents; dead they lie
As lies my happiness while time shall last.
" Much I fancied, and I dreamed, --
Vain and empty visions beamed ; --
But the wind scattered them, and now I see, --
Having wakened to the truth, --
In the home of my lost youth
Utter desolation! Have pity on me!
21
? ?
charms for him; the bent of his mind led him alto-
gether in a different direction: he soon gave himself up
to the occupation of a private teacher. His first fables
were published at P? ock in 1824. Five of his smaller
works passed through two editions; one passed through
three, and his tables through six. different editions.
Then came the publication of " Thoughts in Kegard
How to Gain a Correct Knowledge of the Foundations of
the Polish Language " -- ATarsaw, 1828. Jachowicz left
in manuscript ** Sketches of Polish History. " in verse;
also a spelling-book, copiously ill ustrated with wood-cuts.
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? 304 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
All who knew lachowicz personally testify to the
nobleness of his nature, and to his great friendship of
children; and so long as the little rising generation will
speak the language of their grandmothers they will
carry his name to the remotest posterity. His fables
and proverbs can be found in almost every house in
Poland. The last edition of his works was published
in Warsaw in four volumes -- 1848. Besides these he
published a new collection entitled c ' A Hundred New
Stories " -- Warsaw, 1853. The substance of his fables
is an invention adapted for the understanding and the
necessities of children. In these little stories we find
the children's world dramatized; their subjects do not
touch the concerns of grown people, or any intricate-
relations of life; they simply concern the relations of
children, their little adventures, contacts, and relations
with their parents, society, etc. The author endeavors
to imbue the little folks with virtues of religion and
pleasing shadings of their every-day situations. He
pursues their little shortcomings and their little foibles
in the same good-natured way and degree of childish-
ness; the form, too, in which they are written possesses
also its peculiarly interesting manner. Jachowicz
understood that the essence of a fable is not an alle-
gory, but an example, and that allegorical examples
are not practical for children; for a child there is no
better example than to show it the doings of another
child. Jachowicz also comprehended the truth that the
heroes of his stories were not animals or trees, but
children. His manner of telling things is so easy and
lucid that every child can understand him without any
trouble, although sometimes he moralizes too long.
He died in Warsaw the 24th of December, 1857.
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? Jachowicz. 305
SUNSET.
The sun went down, with it one more day has passed away; --
The church-bell heralded its death through the twilight grey;
To-morrow, at the same time and hour, with bell-tones clear,
Another day shall disappear;
And after that a third, and so
Our whole life day by day shall go
An old man thought, -- up and down he paced with feeble tread.
What does the old man mutter ? the thoughtless children said.
The Old Man.
Gaily with your pastimes you amuse yourselves to-day,
But your life is fleeting imperceptibly away.
See you the sunset, children fair?
Only look! see over there:
The clouds with red and gold inwrought,^-
Their play a moment was forgot.
And while they looked with earnestness
The old man spoke of sinfulness
, Repentance and a saving grace,
How swiftly day to day gives place ;
And of the vanities of earth,
They understood not then its worth.
In riper years alone their might
The sunset shone upon their sight.
They thought of what the old man said many years ago,
And finer feelings filled their hearts all with a holy glow.
The world's snares deceived them no more,
Love of wealth and glory was o'er;
Flown away as if with the wind,
And if for earthly joys they pined
The old man's sunset crossed their mind.
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? 306 POETS AKD POETKY OF POLAND.
THE LITTLE ORPHAN.
Mother! but speak, dispel my dread, --
'Tis your own daughter, hear her plea;
I kneel and weep beside your bed, --
Awake and say a word to me!
Mother! the hands my lips have pressed
Are cold as ice. Oh, for God's sake
No longer in this coffin rest;
Open your eyes, mother, awake !
I cannot think you will not rise,
They say you will waken never;
mamma dear, open your eyes,
Don't you love me well as ever?
Arise, arise, from that white bed,
It looks as if it were a tomb,
And press me to your breast instead,
My heart will break within this gloom!
Ah, you keep still, my mother dear,
You wish me all alone to stay;
Must I be left an orphan here,
Torn from my mother's arms for aye?
1 have never been away from you,
Oh, may I never, never be ;
But to the grave let me go, too,
Can you seek Heaven without me?
You are so good, mother, I plead
That you will look on me with love,
And with the good Lord intercede
To join us in his home above!
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? JACHOWICZ. 307
MOTHER'S WARNING.
My son, said a mother, if you would be my delight,
From thy soul's depths love truth and right;
Teach your heart to loathe deeply every form of wrong,
Shun evil when alone as when 'mid a watchful throng.
The youth promised his mother, and in his eye shone clear
The light of truth -- she knew that his promise was sincere.
In a few days thereafter it happened on his way
The youth passed a neighbor's garden filled with blossoms
gay
Just at that time of summer when fragrant buds disclose
In its charming beauty the queen of flowers, the rose,
To reach and pluck the fairest the eager youth essayed,
When something whispered him of the promise he had
made.
His hand dropped -- he paused to think -- he listened to the
voice,
A future life of right or wrong waited on his choice.
But another voice said: what does one rose signify?
The owner will forgive it, no harm therein can lie,
If you leave them as they are their hours of bloom are few;
Reach and pluck one, you shall take a sweet rose home with
you.
No one will reprove you; there are plenty, take your choice;
And he almost believed for a time that evil voice.
Your promise to your mother, -- 'twas his heart's voice he heard,
He who is good and honest will never break his word.
He resisted the temptation, the flowers untouched remained,
He heard his mother's warning, and a victory was gained !
THE LITTLE JEWESS.
A little Jewish girl, pale and thin, in humble guise,
Was walking, with her hands covering her eyes,
When a lady from her window marked her feeble tread,
And sent her maid to her with a piece of bread.
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? 308 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
Thus having done her duty she felt much happiness.
What is more pleasant than easing the distress
Of the poor orphan? But out of breath the maid came back.
"Do you know," she said, "my mistress dear, -- alack!
That is a Jewish girl; -- who e'er thought to help a Jew? ' 1
The good lady was offended. " Shame on you!
She is poor, and therefore she deserves our aid," she said;
" Go forthwith, I bid you, give to her the bread.
She is a fellow creature; -- the creeds don't signify; --
The sun shines upon us all, -- impartially. "
THE WIDOW'S MITE.
A money-box was fastened up in a public place,
And many with indiff'rence as they passed apace
Read "Offering for the Poor;" thereon they turned away
Without putting in a penny for many a day.
It stood quite empty, till at last
A poor woman dropped her mite, a penny, as she passed.
Next, seeing her, a rich man stopped,
Who some ducats dropped.
The less wealthy, moved by the sight, added to the store
Each a florin more.
Another one, who had seen the widow give her mite,
Dropped a dollar bright.
Whence comes this liberality, -- this golden shower?
'Tis the example of the good. It is virtue's power
That brings the penny shining gold.
Perhaps to this hour time had rolled,
And the money-box, now burdened, remained empty quite
Had not the poor and humble widow given her mite.
Good example works wonders for the right'
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? KORZENIOWSKI. 309
KORZENIOWSKI.
Joseph Korzeniowski, at the beginning of his career,
was a poet of purely classic character, but when the
inspiration of new ideas came upon him he was regen-
erated in the spirit. Still this awakening was not spon-
taneous, but was caused by side influences, and it was
doubtless for this reason that his own influence on the
Polish literature, at the beginning of this change, was
so inconsiderable. He was one of the young poets
who began to write originally for the stage. He shifted,
however, from classic tragedy to a new style of dramas,
in which he imitated Shakspeare. His classic trag-
edy bears the name of "Pelopids," but his "Clara"
and "Angelique," written in measured rhyme, are of a
different cut. "The Carpathian Mountaineers" is a
drama which is considered a masterpiece in Polish lit-
erature. The same merit claims " The Monk," telling
of a life of temptation and the death of Boleslas the
Bold. But perhaps still greater is his historical drama,
"Andrew Batory," where, for the first time, Korzen-
iowski endeavored to awaken the remote past and en-
rich the literature of his country with an historical play,
and in this difficult task he came out victorious. He
delineated in a masterly manner all the characters of
the drama with great historical truth, with which he
embellished this remarkable production.
In the comedy "The Jew r s " the poet shows unmis-
takably that he is well experienced in the ways of the
w r orld and a superior judge of the human heart. He is
the first, too, who showed what significance comedy
had in a social point of view T . In his comedy "The
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? 310 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
Moustache and the Wig" old Polish types stand in
bold relief alongside of Frenchified ways of the times
of Stanislaus Augustus.
Although Korzeniowski is a perfect master of the
language in all his pieces, he evinces great carelessness
in interesting his reader or spectator. In the old dia-
logues of the prologue it was announced at the begin-
ning what the subject of the play would be; so it is
with Korzeniowski. He tells us in advance what will
be the text of the drama, weakening thereby the inter-
est of the play; and unmindful about carrying out the
intrigue he loses the power of the comic. On that ac-
count he is placed below Fredro,* but his lyric poetry
belongs to the first class.
Korzeniowski was born in 1797, in Galicia, and was
educated at Czernovitz, and then at Krzemieniec.
After finishing his studies he went to Warsaw, where
he accepted a situation as a private teacher, offered him
by Gen. Vincent Krasin? ski, and later he obtained a
position as librarian in the great library of Count
Zamoyski. In 1823 he was called to the professorship
of Polish literature at Krzemieniec, where he lectured
till 1830. The year after he entered the cathedra of
literature and Roman antiquities at the University of
Kiev, and in 1836 of Polish literature, where he lec-
tured only a few months, the cathedra being abolished.
In 1837 he was one of the directors of the University
of Charko? w, and in 1846 was appointed the director of
the state gymnasium at Warsaw. He then was hon-
ored with the dignity of the office of Yisitator of schools
and colleges, and still later was made a commissioner
of creeds and instruction. While occupying this im-
portant office he was greatly influential in the arrange-
*A distinguished Polish dramatist.
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? KORZENIOWSKI. 311
ment of plans for the chief school at Warsaw. In 1862,
suffering from ill health, he journeyed to a Bohemian
water-cure, but that availed him not, and he died at
Dresden in 1863.
His dramas were for the first time published at Poc-
zajow, in 1826; "The Carpathian Mountaineers" at
Wilno, 1843; "The Monk" at Warsaw, 1830; it was
translated into Hebrew by Julian Klaczko; "Andrew
Batory," Warsaw, 1846; "The Jews," Wilno, 1843.
THE LAST LABOR.
(DUMA. )
Through thicket and through brush and -field
Traveled a man whose form revealed
The weight of years. His eyes anon
Fell on the staff he leaned upon.
Slowly he walked -- his native strength
Trouble and age had sapped at length
With many deep and cruel wounds
Gained on forgotten battle-grounds.
Every day he this path would trace,
On his shoulder bearing a spade.
In the graveyard, resting a space,
To dig a grave he then assayed.
Till, weary with his work, at length
Again he rested in the shade
And at his feet he placed the spade.
Once refreshing his wasted strength,
He thus reposed with his dim eyes
Resting heavenward on the skies,
As if he sought throughout the space
The bright shades of his past to trace,
The pleasures of his by-gone days
That never more shall meet his gaze.
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? 312 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
Filled with emotion as lie thought,
His faint and trembling voice awoke,
Called back the past with mem'ry fraught,
And thus unto himself he spoke:
Evening's hush the valleys keep,
The sun descends behind the hill;
O'er the grass the dew-drops creep,
The fragrant wind sighs soft and still,
While utter silence reigns alone.
No stir about; all life seems past
Save that my heart, so weary grown,
Beats, oh! so loudly, and so fast!
The spell of utter silence round
Most grave and solemn thoughts recall.
Here is the inevitable bound!
This is the heritage of all !
For all the roads are leading here,
And wafted on their wings we come.
Every earthly hope and fear
Endeth here their weary sum.
Entrance 'tis to the spirit home,
Welcome resting place for mortals,
I would gladly pass its portals,
Never more to toil and -roam.
Willingly would I meet the change --
Happily lie upon thy breast,
Not feeling that the land is strange,
But as I were at home and rest.
I have lived through many a year,
Have seen on earth much change and gloom;
Relations, brothers, friends so dear,
Are sleeping in the silent tomb.
My voice, that sleep can never wake,
But through the gloom this thought steals o'er,
Life's billows bearing me shall break,
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? KORZENIOWSKI. 313
And cast me on the unknown shore.
My hold upon the earth is weak,
My sunset rays so dimly blend,
A few more tears upon my cheek,
A few more sighs, and then the -- end!
All the phantoms of younger days,
And all delusions of the heart,
Pleasures of glory, love's sweet ways,
Like sounds of yesterday depart.
Long lines of years have disappeared
Like a cloud scattered by the blast,
Troubles that vexed, pleasures that cheered,
All come to nothing at the last.
Few the memories that we gain
From such a harvest large and full --
From the abundance there remain
Few roses mid the thorns to pull.
All was silent. He ceased so speak,
And with tears on his pallid cheek
Rose to his feet, and tremblingly
Began to dig his grave once more,
Till, growing weary as before,
Reposed again beneath the tree,
With the spade lying at his feet.
Thus toiled and rested he each day,
When shades of night the sunset meet,
And o'er the world in darkness lay
His last rude shelter in the land
He dug with his own trembling hand.
Thus in the graveyard he was found,
His head uplifted from the ground,
His eyes in his last sleep composed
And his blue lips were tightly closed.
Still was his voice -- at rest each limb --
And his grave was -- ready for him.
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? 314 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
WASILEWSKI.
Edmund Wasilewski was a poet of the heart. He
seemed to prefer being shut up within himself to ex-
ternal glistening. He appeared to suffer mental pain,
and whenever he smiled his smile seemed to mingle
with yearning and grief. His faith and his prophetic
ken seemed wavering and uncertain. Edmund's world
and life were painted in dark and somber colors.
Although his poetry sprung from the purest sources,
yet it was oftentimes permeated with bitterness. Per-
sonal disappointments made him at times cold and
indifferent as to his fate. He began to doubt about
any happiness being in this world, so that even if he
saw a bright beam of it to him it was but a piece of
rotten wood glistening in the dark, without possessing
any real light or warmth.
The collection^ of his poetry represents three differ-
ent turns or kinds -- egotistic, popular, and social, -- with
an occasional touch of historical coloring. His burn-
ing soul loved to pour out, in short lyrics and in son-
nets, all his dreamings, his reveries, and his frenzy.
"The Child of Frenzy "is his confession before the
world, where in painful strains he sings the history of
his life. Pure but unhappy love is the reigning theme
extending throughout many tropes. Now and then it'
connects itself with observations about the world and
peoples, and then again he complains with Werther, --
then philosophizing in the Childe-Harold style.
Such erotic feeling needs a highly creative individual-
ism to express in the usual way the feelings of an
enamored heart, and at the same time to impart to them
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? WASILEWSKI. 315
the witching tone of poesy. Such is his " Dream! O
My Soul, Dream! "
Wasilewski is altogether a different man when he
forgets his troubles and looks upon the surrounding
objects with a pleasant eye and good humor, when he
seeks a subject to which he could grow with his heart.
Such a subject he found in the Cracovian people. The
poet looked into their life, their customs, and their
manners, and their native character; he heard their
songs and was permeated with them through and
through, began to love them and wrought a beautful
wreath for them in his collections -- "The Cracovians. "
Far from his own personal fancy, which other poets
would have tried to put into the people's conceits, he
was on the contrary not only a faithful but also an
ideal interpreter of their feelings in their different and
most minute shades. His " Cracovians " are so purely
natural that you can see them in their huts and houses
just as they are, only the description is embellished by
a beautiful diction. "The Mariner's Song" depicts
different phases of life with uncommon tenderness.
His " Cathedral on the Wawel " is truly worthy of the
author. This mountain, around which are collected so
many recollections of the past and so many souvenirs
of national life, is to our poet an Olympus or a Hebron;
-- in a word the central point of the world; he turns to
it continually, for there he sees every foot-path, every
bush, every relic, brings to his mind a thousand pleas-
ing visions, and as Wasilewski is on the field of pop-
ular poetry so is he here a true poet. He exercised but
little care as to the outward smoothness of his verse;
being driven by the warmest current of feeling he
wrote whatever came to his mind without stopping,
giving slight heed to minor objects. In his u Cathe-
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? 316 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
dral on Wawel " no art is visible but the ardent feeling
of truthfulness. Thoughts that led him on in this
poem pervade all other of his labors, for they were his
inseparable domestic idols. He worshiped them with
a faith and devotedness that cost him his life.
Wasilewski was born on the 16th day of November,
1814. While a child he came with his parents to Cra-
cow, and it was here that he was brought up and edu-
cated. After finishing his collegiate education he
accepted the situation as a librarian offered him by
Wielkopolski in the Kingdom of Poland; but after a
lapse of one year he returned to Cracow, where he
seems to have been persecuted by a relentless fate, and
had to labor hard to support those dependent upon
him. In 1844 he was married to his beloved and
much sung " Ilelka " (Helen). God had given them
a son, but he soon took the child away from them.
Edmund was twice attacked by mortal sickness, but on
the third attack he succumbed and gave his -spirit up
to God, November 14, 1846.
A collection of his poems was published at Cracow,
1839; at Posen, 1849; again at Cracow, 1849, and at
Warsaw, 1859. "Cathedral on Wawel" was pub-
lished separately in 1840.
UPON THE ROCKY SHORE.
Upon the lonely, rocky shore
An old man walketh to and fro,
His head is bent 'neath tresses hoar,
His heart is heavy with its woe.
With eyes uplifted to the sky
And gray locks to the breezes tossed,
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? WASILEWSKI. 817
He calls his children. None reply
To him; they are forever lost!
O lonely is the castle old,
And lonelier still his aged breast,
For life is drear to him, and cold,
Spent thus from those he loveth . best.
Upon their names he fondly calls;
For them he weeps, alas! in vain;
Brave children ! to their father's halls
They never more return again !
MEMORY'S TEAR.
Do you know the tear, lady, -- the sweetest tear on earth,
Which remembrance e'er forces from the heart into view,
Which one pours out in silence or deeply hides at birth,
For memory of native land or friends tried and true,
Which tenderness must shed be we bashful or severe,
'Tis the tear above all others -- it is memory's tear.
Do you know the reveries, -- the meditations sad
Which carry us at will to the future or the past?
Do you know the power that makes that sorrow glad,
As your thoughts flow backward or coming time forecast?
Like the faithful ivy-green winding the ruins 'round
'Mid thoughts of future time and past these memories' dreams
are found.
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? 318 POETS AND POETRY OE POLAND.
JASKOWSKI.
John Nepomucen Jaskowski. We regret that we
cannot furnish to our readers anything definite about
this poet's life. We only know that he was an elegant
writer of ballads, elegies, and dithyrambics. One of
his ballads, which is given below, is a specimen of the
naturalness of his style; as to its application to our
own times, the reader may form his own conception.
A TALE.
One Sunday, at eventide,
The old village church beside,
An old man stood and slowly tolled the bell,
When a man, young and unknown,
With grey dust all his clothes o'erblown,
In wonder list'ning to the solemn knell,
Paused to bashfully inquire:
" From this village, ags? d sire,
Who takes thus solemnly his last adieu? "
" Though the circumstance is sad,
Since you are curious, lad,
Listen, and I'll tell the tale to you.
" There lived with us, years ago,
In this village, you must know,
A peasant. Wealth he'd honestly acquired;
His board was amply spread,
Never lacking salt nor bread;
He was happy, much beloved, and admired.
" In the household three there were:
His good wife and himself, sir,
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? JAS? KO WSKI. 319
Were two; an only son made up the three, --
A bright, rosy, cheerful lad,
He was always finely clad,
As wealthy farmers' sons are wont to be.
" One eve the father came
From a house of noble name,
And said to his wife, as deeply he sighed:
1 My God ! what a change is this
From the mansion's stateliness;
A peasant's hut is pitiful beside.
" 'A commoner among those
Of whom each one something knows,
Am I here. It does nothing signify.
God has given us a son;
Why, then, may he not be one,
I ask you, of the nobles, great and high.
" ' For two oxen we can sell. --
He shall go to school, learn well;
And who can say what he may be in time?
He might even get a place
At the manor, by his grace,
Or to a preacher's office he might climb. '
"And they did accordingly;
But they erred most terribly,
For happiness from farm life may outgrow.
Learning in itself is good,
But whoever seeks it should
Seek it not from pride, sir. Is that not so?
" Every year more and more
Lessened still the farmer's store;
The grain went, and the stock its number lacked.
While the son in learning grew
His false pride was growing too,
And this was for his parents a sad fact.
? ? Generated for (University of Chicago) on 2014-06-10 17:13 GMT / http://hdl. handle. net/2027/loc. ark:/13960/t04x6gz3d Public Domain / http://www. hathitrust. org/access_use#pd
? 320 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
" So year after year was gone,
And no one, as time went on,
Saw him in his old home ; and they began
'Round to whisper, on the sly,
That he in a city nigh
Was playing the role of a gentleman.
" No priest; on the other side,
He was vain and puffed with pride,
Ashamed that his father's clothes homespun were.
God sends on him judgment dire
Who regards with scorn his sire. --
Is't not so? -- What's the matter with you, sir?
" In the meantime, as they say,
Through the window and doorway
Into the cottage did poverty stare;
Taking wings, the riches flew,
While the old folks older grew,
And no assistance came from anywhere.
" Though the old man's fertile field
In his youth gave ample yield,
Through it since had the tares and cockles crept.
So his need was often great,
And, bewailing the sad fate
Of himself and son, oft the poor man wept.
" Till, unhappy, tired, and worn,
With affliction overborne,
He fell in the field, prostrate, by his plow, --
He fell, never more to rise;
There were none to close his eyes ; --
Why is this, young man? You are weeping now!
" But the tale is not yet told.
There was left the mother old, --
? ? Generated for (University of Chicago) on 2014-06-10 17:13 GMT / http://hdl. handle. net/2027/loc. ark:/13960/t04x6gz3d Public Domain / http://www. hathitrust. org/access_use#pd
? JAS? KO WSKI. 321
Yes, she remained, entirely bereft,
Woe to ev'ry one thus thrown
On the dreary world alone,
And greatest woe when a woman is left.
" She requested one to write
To her son of her sad plight:
' My son, your vain and empty dreams release.
Have respect for my gray hair!
The estate requires your care;
Come, and you will find competence and peace. '
" Vainly were her prayers consigned,
'Twas like preaching to the wind!
The poor old mother quit her native spot.
Old and penniless from home
She departed, thence to roam,
A wanderer, 'mong people she knew not.
" So this morn, at break of day,
Dead they found her, as she lay
On her native heath, with her home in view.
And it is for pity's sake
The bells this requiem make. --
For God's sake, sir, what is amiss with you? 11
As the tale closed the young man,
With expression wild, began,
While from his eyes the tears were flowing fast:
" The sole murderer am I
Of my parents; dead they lie
As lies my happiness while time shall last.
" Much I fancied, and I dreamed, --
Vain and empty visions beamed ; --
But the wind scattered them, and now I see, --
Having wakened to the truth, --
In the home of my lost youth
Utter desolation! Have pity on me!
21
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