No More Learning

At Beyrout he wrote the celebrated poem w ' The Father
of the Plague-Stricken," founded upon facts of sad
adventure, in which he, with his associates, took a
prominent part during two weeks' quarantine at
El-Arish. At Beyrout he went in a sail- vessel in 1837
to Livorno. In the following year he resided at
Florence, where he published his 4t Anhelli. " In 1839
he returned to Paris, where he resided till his death;
and though amidst many members of the Polish
emigration, he lived most of the time in seclusion. He
looked with somewhat envious eye upon Mickiewicz's
reputation, between whom and himself there was ap-
parent coolness, -- Mickiewicz in his lectures on Litera-
ture having his name mentioned but once, and that,
too, rather indifferently. This year he published his
"Balladyna," and in the following year "Lillia
Weneda " and " Mazeppa " were also brought out.
Under the influence of a morbid feeling he published
" Bieniowski," in 1841, where he bitterly complains of
the indifference of some people, -- Mickiewicz and the
critics receiving their share. In the same year he
joined Towianski's sect, and a happy reconciliation
took place between himself and Mickiewicz; but shortly
after the proud and independent feeling of S? owacki
caused him to leave the Towian? ski Union, and the poet
himself became the head of a separate sect, small in
number, but surpassing even Towian? ski in mysticism.
Under the deep impression of the doctrines of this sect
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? 280 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
he wrote u Priest-Mark, " and also the drama "The
Silver Dream of Salomea? . "
The occurrences of 1848 reanimated him once more;
so much so that he left Paris for Posen, but did not
remain long. While returning through Breslau to
Paris, after the wandering of years, he saw and pressed
to his heart his beloved mother. Returning to Paris
he fell into a dangerous illness and never recovered
from it. Seeing that he was about to end his earthly
career he united himself with God, and expired the
3d of April, 1849.
His poems were published at different times and dif-
ferent places, but the most complete edition of his
works, in four volumes, was published in a library of the
Polish writers in 1861. In 1866-7 Professor Ma? ecki
published at Lemberg, with an addition of a biographical
studium, several literary productions of S? owacki hith-
erto unknown. The following are the titles: "Wal-
lace," a tragedy; "Krakus," and "Beatrice di Cenci ";
"Wallenrod," a drama; "The Black Zawisza," a
drama; "John Casimir," a drama; "The Incorrigi-
bles," whilom entitled the "New Dezanira," a drama;
" The Golden Cup," a drama; "The Poet and the In-
spiration," a fragment liry co-dramatic; " Samuel Zbor-
owski," a fantastic poem; " Journey to the East," con-
tinuation of " Bieniowski"; "Conversations with
Mother Makryna," a poem; and " The Genesis of the
Spirit," a prayer in prose.
I AM SO SAD, GOD!
I am so sad, God ! Thou hast before me
Spread a bright rainbow in the western skies,
But hast quenched in darkness cold and stormy
The brighter stars that rise;
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? S? OWACKI. 281
Clear grows the heaven 'neath thy transforming rod,
Still I am sad, O God!
Like empty ears of grain with heads erected
Have I delighted stood amid the crowd,
My face the while to stranger eyes reflected
The calm of summer's cloud;
But Thou dost know the ways that I have trod,
And why I grieve, O God!
I am like to a weary infant fretting
Whene'er its mother leaves it for a while,
And grieving watch the sun, whose light in setting
Throws back a parting smile;
Though it will bathe anew the morning sod,
Still lam sad, O God!
To-day o'er the wide waste of ocean sweeping
Hundreds of miles away from shore or rock,
I saw the cranes fly on, together keeping
In one unbroken flock;
Their feet with soil from Poland's hills were shod,
And I was sad, O God !
Often by strangers' tombs I've lingered weary,
Since grown a stranger to my native ways,
I walk a pilgrim through a desert dreary,
Lit but by lightning's blaze,
Knowing not where shall fall the burial clod
Upon my bier, O God!
Sometime hereafter will my bones lie whitened,
Somewhere on strangers' soil, I know not where;
I envy those whose dying hours are lightened,
Fanned by their native air; m
But flowers of some strange land will spring and nod
Above my grave, O God!
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? 282 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
When but a guileless child at home they bade me
To pray each day for home restored, I found
My bark was steering -- how the thought dismayed me-
The whole wide world around!
Those prayers unanswered, wearily I plod
Through rugged ways, O God!
Upon the rainbow, whose resplendent rafter
Thy angels rear above us in the sky,
Others will look a hundred years hereafter,
And pass away as I;
Exiled and hopeless 'neath thy chastening rod,
And sad as I, O God!
EXTRACTS FROM S? OWACKFS TRAGEDY OF MIN-
DOWE,* OR LEGATE'S REVENGE.
Mindowe, King of Litwania, having embraced the Christian
religion, his mother, who is blind, together with his
nephew Troinace, conspire to effect his death. Mindowe
has banished ? awski, the Prince of Nalzhaski, and es-
sayed to win the affections of his wife. ? awski, not being
heard of for some time, is supposed to be dead. The scene
opens just after the baptismal rites of the monarch.
ACTI.
Scene II. -- The royal presence-chamber. .
Enter Casimir and Basil, from different sides.
Basil. Saw you the rites to-day, my Casimir?
Casimir. I saw what may I never see again,
The altars of our ancient faith torn down,
Our king a base apostate, groveling
" Beneath a --
* Pronounce Mindoveh.
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? S? OWACKI. 283
Basil {interrupting him). Hold! knowest thou not
The ancient saw that " palace walls have ears! "
The priests throng round us like intruding flies,
And latitude of speech is fatal.
Casimir. True --
I should speak cautiously -- But hast seen
The Prince?
Basil. Who? Troinace?
Casimir. The same.
Ha! here he comes, and with the queen-mother --
It is not safe to parley in their presence. Hence
Along with me, I've secrets for thine ear.
[Exit Casimir and Basil.
Ronelva enters, leaning upon the arm of Troinace, and
engaged with him in conversation.
Troinace. Thou hast a son, Ronelva, crowned a king !
Ronelva. Is he alive? with sight my memory fails.
Once I beheld the world, but now 'tis dark --
My soul is locked in sleep -- O God! O God!
My son! hast seen my royal son? The king,
Thy uncle, Troinace? How is he arrayed?
Troinace. In regal robes, and with a jeweled cross
Sparkling upon his breast.
Ronelva. A cross ! -- what cross ?
'Tis not a symbol of his sovereignty --
Troinace. It is a gift made by his new ally,
The Pope.
Ronelva. The Pope! -- The Pope! I know none such!
Who is this Pope ! -- Is't he who sends new gods
To old Litwania? Yes -- I've heard of him -- (A pause)
Enter Mindowe, crowned, and arrayed in purple, with a dia-
mond cross upon his breast, and accompanied by Heidenric,
the Pope's Legate. Herman precedes them bearing a golden
cross. ? awski, disguised as a Teutonic knight, with a rose
upon his helmet and his visor down, bearing a casket.
Lutuver attending the king. ? awski stands apart.
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? 284 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
Ronelva. I feel that kindred blood is near, Mindowe!
Thy mother speaks ! approach ! [He approaches.
Hast thou returned
From some new expedition? Is thy brow
Covered with laurels, and thy stores
Replete with plunder? Do I hear the shouts,
Th 1 applause of the Litwanians, hailing thee
As conqueror. Returnest thou from Zmudzie,
From Dwina's shores triumphant? Has the Russian Bear
Trembled before thy sword? Does Halicz fear
Thy angry frown? Speak! with a mother's tears
I'll hail thee conqueror.
Mindowe. My mother! why
These tones and words sarcastic? knowest thou not
That victory perches on another's helm?
I am at peace, and am -- a Christian king.
Ronelva. Foul shame on thee, blasphemer T
Hast thou fallen
As low as this? Where is thy bold ambition!
To what base use hast placed thy ancient fame?
Is't cast aside like to some foolish toy
No longer worth the hoarding? Shame upon
Thy craven spirit! Canst thou live without
That glorious food, which e'en a peasant craves,
Holding it worthless as thy mother's love.
And thy brave father's faith?
Mindowe. Nay, mother, nay!
Dismiss these foolish fancies from thy brain.
Behold! my jeweled brow is bent before thee.
Oh, bless thy son!
Ronelva. Thou vile apostate! Thou
Dare ask for approbation? Thou! -- I curse thee!
Sorrow and hate pursue thy faltering steps.
Still may thy foes prove victors; subjects false;
Thy drink be venom, and thy joy be woe.
Thy mind filled with remorse, still mayst thou live.
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? S? OWACKI. 285
Seeking for death, but wooing it in vain;
A foul, detested, blasted renegade --
I have bestowed to earth a viper, but
From thee shall vipers spring, who like their sire
Shall traitors be unto their native land,
And eager plunge them into ruin's stream!
Depart! and bear thy mother's curse!
Mindowe. Mother,
My mother --
Ronelva. Call me not mother, viper!
I do disclaim thee: -- thee, -- and all thy seed!
[Exit Ronelva, leaning on Troinace.
Mindowe {speaking as though awe-stricken)*.
Heard ye that curse?
Heidenric. What are the frantic words
Of a revengeful woman? Empty air --
Mindowe. A mother's curse ! It carries pestilence,
Blight, misery and sorrow in its train.
No matter ! It is, as the Legate says,
But " empty air. " (To Heidenric. ) What message do you bear?
Heidenric. Thus to the great Litwanian king, Pope Innocent
(Fourth of the name who've worn the papal crown)
Sends greeting: Thou whose power extends
From fartherest Baltic to the shores of Crim,
Go on, and prosper. Though unto thy creed
He thinks thy heart is true, still would he prove --
(Mindowe starts, and exclaims " Ha! ")
Send thou to him as neighboring monarchs do
An annual tribute. So he'll bless thy arms
That ere another year elapses Russ' shall yield,
And Halicz fall before thy conquering sword.
Mindowe. Thanks to the Pope. I'll profit by his leave;
I'll throw my troops in Muscovy, and scourge
The hordes of Halicz, move in every place
Like an avenging brand, and say: The Pope
Hath giv'n me power. But, hark ye ! Legate,
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? 286 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
What needs so great a priest as he of Rome
With my red gold to buy him corn and oil?
Explain ! I do not understand the riddle.
Heidenric. He merely asks it as a pledge of friendship,
But nothing more. The proudest kings of Europe
Yield him such tribute.
Mindowe. Tribute! base priest!
Whene'er thy master asks for tribute, this --
{Striking his sword. )
Is my reply. What hast thou there?
Heidenric. A gift --
A precious relic of most potent virtue.
Thou'st heard of St. Sebastian? holy man!
He died a martyr. This which brought him death
Is sent unto thee by his holiness --
{Presents a rusty spear-head. )
Mindowe. Fie on such relics ! I could give thy Pope
A thousand such! This dagger by my side
Has hung from childhood. It has drank the blood
Of many a foe that vexed my wrath ; and oft
Among them there were men, and holy men,
As holy, sir, as e'er was St. Sebastian.
Heidenric. Peace, thou blasphemer!
Mindowe {angrily). How! dost wish thy head
To stand in safety on thy shoulders?
What means this insolence, sir Legate?
Think'st thou that I shall kneel, and bow, and fawn,
And put thy master's iron yoke upon me?
They act not freely whom the fetters bind,
And none shall forge such galling chains for me!
There's not one more Mindowe in the world,
Nor is your Pope a crowned Litwanian king.
Heidenric. I speak but as the representative
Of power, supreme o'er earthly monarchs
Mindowe. Thou doest well to shelter thus thyself
Under the shield of thy legation. Hast
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? S? OWACKI. 287
Aught more to utter of thy master's words,
Aught more to give?
Heidenric. I have a gift to make
Unto thy queen.
Mindoive. The queen hath lain, sir prince,
In cold corruption for a twelvemonth back.
What means this mockery?
Heidenric. Pardon, my lord!
It was not known unto his holiness.
The forests of Litwania are so dark
They shut her doings from her neighbor's ken.
If then the queen be dead who shall receive
This goodly gift?
Mindoive. My mother --
Heidenric. If I may judge
By what I heard e'en now, she'd not accept
Our offering. ;
Mindowe. Then give the gorgeous gaw
To Lawski's widow -- she who soon will be
My crowned queen. Summon her hither, page.
[Exit Page.
Attendants, take from hence these costly gifts,
And give them in the royal treasurer's care --
[Exit Attendants, as Aldona enters.
Here comes my spotless pearl, the fair Aldona,
The choicest flower of the Litwanian vales.
Address thy speech to her.
Heidenric. Beauteous maid,
Accept these golden flowers from Tiber's banks,
Where they have grown, nursed by the beams of faith.
Nor deem less in value that they are
By the bright luster of thine eyes eclipsed.
Aldona. These costly jewels and the glare of gold,
Albeit they suit not my mourning weeds
May serve as dying ornaments. As such
I will accept them.
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? 288 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
Heidenric (aside). Ay! I warrant me.
Like to most women she accepts the gift.
No farther questions. Gold is always -- gold.
(Motions to ? awski to approach Aldona. He does so, trem-
blingly. )
Mindowe (to ? awski). Thou tremblest, Teuton !
(? awski raises his visor as he approaches Aldona. She recog-
nizes his features, shrieks, and falls. Exit ? awski. )
Mindowe. Help here, she swoons.
Without there.
(Enter Attendants. )
Bear her hence. Pursue that knight.
[Exit Attendants with Aldona.
(To Heidenric. ) What means this mystery?
Heidenric. I know not, sire.
He said that he had vowed whilst in our train
For certain time to keep his visor down.
He's taciturn. This with his saddened air,
Together with the rose upon his helm,
The emblem of the factious house of York,
Bespeak him English. To my thought, at least.
Mindowe. Think ye such poor devices can deceive?
He is a spy -- a base, deceitful spy.
Begone! for by my father's sepulcher
I see a dagger in my path. Begone !
[Exit Heidenric and Herman.
Approach Lutuver. Didst thou see that knight
Who left so suddenly?
Lutuver. I did so, sire,
But 'f all the group I least suspected him
Of treasonable practices. He's silent,
For no one understands his language here;
He keeps aloof from men, because he's sad;
He's sad, because he's poor; so ends that knight.
Mindowe (not heeding him).
I tell thee that my very soul's pulse throbbed,
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? S? OWACKI. 289
And my heart cast with quicker flow my blood,
When that young knight approached Aldona. (Muses. )
Now, by the gods, I do believe 'tis he --
The banished ? awski, here to dog my steps --
What thinkst thou, Lutuver?
Lutuver. Slay him, sire!
If it be he, he's taken from thy path,
If not -- to slay a Teuton is no crime.
Mindowe. Thou counselest zealously. But still, thy words
Fall not upon an ear which thinks them good.
I tell thee that this ? awski is my bane,
A living poison rankling 'fore mine eyes.
Men prate about the virtues of the man.
And if a timorous leaning to the right
From fear to follow where the wrong directs
Be virtue, then is he a paragon.
No wonder we are deadly foes. To me
The brightness which is shed o'er all his deeds
When placed in contact with my smothered hate
Seems as the splendor of the noonday sun
Glancing upon some idol's horrid form,
Making its rude appearance ruder still.
One word of mine, Lutuver, might destroy
This abject snail, who crawling near my hope
Hath scared it off. But I would have him live,
And when he meets his adorable wife,
When in th' excess of 'raptured happiness
Each fiber fills with plenitude of joy
And naught of bliss is left to hope for -- then
At fair Aldona's feet shall he expire,
And the full heart just beating 'gainst her own
Shall yield its living current for revenge.
And she -- his wife -- to whom I knelt in vain,
Who oft has said she courted my dislike,
And wished I'd hate her: -- she shall have her wish.
[Exeunt Mindowe and Lutuver, as the curtain falls.
19
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? 290 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
GARCZYNSKI.
Stephen Garczynski, the imitator and a great per-
sonal friend of Adam Mickiewicz, was gifted with
marked poetical abilities, but a long residence in for-
eign countries had a great influence over them. His
poetry when not considered from a national, artistic
standpoint, possesses unusual merits.