Our ploughmen from their fields are torn,
Our maidens shameless slavery prove,
Our shepherds are to exile borne, --
Not to be exiled from their love.
Our maidens shameless slavery prove,
Our shepherds are to exile borne, --
Not to be exiled from their love.
Poland - 1881 - Poets and Poetry of Poland
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? NIEMCEWICZ. 168
28th. Kochanowski, a drama.
And a number of other works of great interest.
In 1830, the day preceding our revolution, the
supreme counsel of the kingdom having felt the neces-
sity of being supported by names dear to the natives,
called upon Niemcewicz to join its ranks. It was to
his venerable appearance, and the words of wisdom
and eloquence that he addressed to the people assem-
bled under the windows of the hall of government, that
the accomplishment of a revolution, unstained by
crimes or excesses, may be in a great measure attrib-
uted. As a member of the national government until
the creation of the dictator, he assisted in all the delib-
erations of the senators, of whom he was the secre-
tary. He had the signal honor of being elected senator
without the formalities prescribed by law, the senate
wishing to confer on him a mark of national gratitude
and veneration. The day of glory again dawned in
Poland, and the veteran of seventy-two embraced with
all the ardor of youth the cause of liberty; but to him
the revolution shone like an expiring lamp> for eternity
was opening before him. With a self-devotion and
energy of mind that neutralized the assaults of age,
Niemcewicz, deputed by the national government,,
undertook a journey to London to interest the British
cabinet in the cause of liberty and of Poland; but the
days of reverses arrived, and, exiled with the more
virtuous among his countrymen, he returned no more
to Poland. After living for a long time in retirement
in London, he went to Paris to rejoin the greater part
of his friends and colleagues, and from time to time
published little tracts or poems analogous to his cir-
cumstances. In 184:1 he ended his career with the
tranquillity resulting from a life of duty. The Polish,
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? 164 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
French, American and English residents in Paris united
in paying him the last tribute of respect due to man,
and accompanied his honored remains to the cemetery
of Montmorency.
Among the spectators at this melancholy scene we
iind Mr. Gibbs, an American gentleman, who thus said
to the assembled friends of the deceased: "Gentlemen,
the noble Polander to whom we pay the last tribute has
the sympathy of all my fellow-countrymen; as to the
American citizen, companion of Kos? ciuszko and to the
friend of liberty, I outrun, I am sure, and express their
wishes, when in their name and mine I pay to his
memory due tribute of profound esteem. Firm in his
principles, magnanimous and unconcerned for himself
in the hopes of prosperity for the cause of mankind,
his memory deserves the eulogies of good men of all
countries. His name will be placed among those of my
fellow-countrymen who are honored with the name of
benefactors of mankind. "
The professors and members of the Princeton Col-
lege (X. J. ), at a meeting called expressly for that pur-
pose, passed the following resolutions:
Resolved, That this society has learned with pro-
found grief of the death of their respected member,
Julian Ursin Niemcewicz;
Resolved, That this society, with numerous friends
of the departed, mourn his death, and as a proof of his
services and regard to his memory will wear usual
mourning for thirty days;
Resolved, That copies of these resolutions be sent to
the "Princeton Whig," "National Intelligencer" and
"New York Journal of Commerce. "
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? NIEMCEWICZ. 165
In a poetical epistle addressed to his old friend, Gen.
Kniaziewicz, thus he describes
AMERICA AND GENERAL WASHINGTON.
With my wounded commander* compelled to depart
From thee, oppressed Poland, the pride of my heart;
An asylum I sought o'er the dark rolling sea,
In the land of the noble, the brave and the free ;
But e'en there the sad thought of my country would rise,
And the tears of deep anguish would roll from my eyes.
In boundless savannas, where man never strayed,
Amid woods that ne'er echoed the axe's keen blade;
In the foaming abyss, where the clouds of bright steam
Round the falls of the roaring Niagara gleam;
And on the deep sea, when the white sails are spread,
Lo! the shade of my country, all gory and dead.
Full of bliss to my heart is the thought of that day
When to Washington's mansion I wended my way;
To visit the warrior, the hero and sage,
Whose name is the day-star to each coming age;
By his valor the new world rose happy and free,
And her glory his endless memento shall be.
His features are still on my memory denned,
With the fadeless and delicate colors of mind.
Full, noble, majestic, with a crown of swan-hair.
And a brow deeply writ with the finger of care:
Old Roman simplicity marked his fine face,
Expressive of dignity, grandeur and grace.
How oft on his accents with rapture I hung.
While wisdom and kindness distill'd from his tongue;
Kos? ciuszko.
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? 166 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
And whene'er the sad tale of our fall I'd relate --
How brilliant our struggle, yet awful our fate --
A sweet tear-drop of sympathy stole down his cheek --
Better pledge of affection than language could speak.
Precious tear ! a rich proof of his sorrow for thee,
Loved home of my fathers ! once peaceful and free.
And oh, could I that gem which so peerlessly grows,
In some costly and beautiful crystal enclose,
So priceless a treasure a witness I'd keep,
That o'er Poland's sad ruin a great man could weep.
And further down, such a picture he makes of his
abode in the
UNITED STATES:
When an exile from home, with deep sorrow oppressed,
In the new world a pilgrim, unknown and unblessed,
With no light to illumine the shadows that spread
Like the gloom of the sepulcher over my head,
My lonely condition made woman's bright eye
Mould the beautiful tear-drop of sweet sympathy.
But the feelings of pity were soon changed to love,
That bright seraph of mercy bequeathed from above !
With the gift of her fond heart she sweetened my woe,
Making hope's dying embers with sweet brightness glow;
Since then my neat cottage, the meadow, parterre --
Rich pleasures of freedom ! -- have been my sole care.
How oft has Aurora, from his soft couch of blue,
Found me cutting fresh grass, all so pearly with dew;
Or engrafting a shoot on the thriving young tree,
While nature was smiling in beauty and glee.
O delightful employment ! -- with pleasure how rife
Are the exquisite scenes of a pastoral life.
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? NIEMCEWICZ. I fi 7
Far away from the crowd of the giddy and vain,
From the thraldom of tyrants, the rude and profane;
From the folly of idlers that cumber the earth,
Wasting life's precious season in profitless mirth-
Ambition and av'rice disturb not the breast,
While hope points the soul to the realms of the blest.
So pure were the joys and so peaceful the life
That I shared with my lovely and beautiful wife,
I might have been happy, could man but forget
When his country with deadliest foes is beset.
But too oft the sad thoughts would convey me away
In the stillness of midnight, the bustle of day,
Thro' the foam-crested waves of the dark rolling sea,
To thee, distressed Poland -- once peaceful and free !
DUMA. *
GLIN? SKI. t
"W okropnych cieniach pieczaro? w podziemnych. "
In a dark, dreary dungeon, where the beam,
The cfladdenincf beam of sunlight never shone:
Where from the dismal roof its little stream
Of twilight pour'd a pendent lamp; -- alone
And conscience-tortured -- sat, to misery bound,
Glin? ski -- in victory and in crime renown'd.
His forehead years and grief had furrow'd o'er.
His grey hair hung disorders on his brow ;
His bloody sockets saw the light no more;
Plough'd were his wasted cheeks with scars and woe.
He sat and lean'd upon his hand: -- his groans
Were echoed by the dungeon's gloomy stones.
* A Duma, an elegiac poem; a plaintive song
t Glin? ski was a Polish chief who flourished at the beginning of
the sixteenth century. The events referred to in this Elegy took
place in 1515.
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? 168 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND-
With him his only child, his daughter fair,
A very gem of virtue, grace and youth.
She left the smiling world and the free air,
Her miserable father's woes to soothe;
Pleased in that fearful solitude to stay,
While life's young bloom fled silently away.
" Father! I pray thee by these tender tears " --
So spake the maid -- " be comforted, and chase
Despair; though chains hang heavy on thy years,
Yet hope deserts not e'en this desert place.
Time may smile upon thee; thou may'st rest
Thy gray old age upon thy country's breast. "
" My country! breathe not that dread name to* me,
For crimes rush down upon my tortured thought.
And wakened conscience gnaws the memory,
And gentle sleep these eyes will visit not.
Did I not head her foes! -- And can the name
Of * traitor ' but be link'd to death and shame?
"AH that can raise a man above mankind, --
All that is good and great in war or peace, --
Power -- riches -- beauty -- courage -- strength of mind,--
Yes! nature gave me these, and more than these.
I wanted nought but laurels -- which I found --
And glory's trophies wreathed my temples round.
" The locust-swarming hosts of Tartans broke
Upon Lithuania and Volhynia's land,
Plundering, destroying; their terrific yoke
Spared neither sex nor age ; the fiery brand
Of desolation swept the country o'er --
Children and mothers drown'd in fathers' gore.
" I sought the invaders' ravage to withstand.
Proud of their strength, in widespread camps they lay;
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? NIEMCEWICZ. 169
But they were scattered by my victor hand.
The misty eve look'd on the battle fray,
While corpses on the Niemen's waters rode,
And Infidel blood the thirsty fields o'erflow'd.
" When Alexander on his dying bed
Lay, mourn'd by all his children-subjects, came
The news that the defeated Tartars fled,
Upon his clouded brow joy's holy flame
Kindled sweet peace. ' Now let me, let me die,
For I bequeath to Poland victory ! '
" My deeds, my monarch's praises, warm'd my breast,
And love of daring violence grew. The fame
Of Zabrzezynki oft disturb'd my rest.
I -- a most foul and midnight murderer -- came
And butcher'd all in sleep. My Poles rebell'd --
I join'd with Poland's foes, by rage impelled.
"Flagitious sin, and memory's fiercest smart;
The eagle blended with the hurrying steed *
From cruelty and crime won not my heart,
Nor sheath'd the sword that did the cruel deed.
The foemen Russ I bent to my control,
And fought 'gainst Poles -- e'en I -- e'en I -- a Pole!
" I look'd upon the battle-field; I saw
Many a well-known corpse among the dead.
Then did fierce agony my bosom gnaw;
Then burning tears of conscious guilt were shed:
And I implored forgiveness -- from my king, --
Forgiveness for a vile and outcast thing.
" I told my penitent tale. My foes had wrought
Upon the czar, and roused him to distrust.
* The arms of Poland are a ichiie eagle. Those of Lithuania are a
horse galloping, with a rider holding a sword ready to strike. The
latter is called Pogon, from pursuing. Gonic means to pursw.
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? 170 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
He met indignantly my honest thought,
Dash'd my awakening virtue to the dust;
Bid them tear out my eyes, and bind me here
In galling fetters to this dungeon drear.
" Ten years have pass'd; and yet I live. The sun
And the gay stars shine on, but not for me.
Darkness and torments with my being run;
My strength decays; my blood flows freezingly
Through my chill'd veins; and death -- not gentle death
Lays its rude hand upon my weakening breath.
" Yet a few days -- this corpse, my grief's remains,
Will ask a handful of unfriendly earth.
Leave then, my child, these foul and foreign plains,
Blest who can claim the country of his birth.
The Poles forgive, -- and thou shalt be forgiven.
My child, be blest, and I be left to heaven.
" Yes! thou shalt see thy country, and its smile
Shall chase the memory of these gloomy days;
Thy father's princely hall shall greet thee, while
Thy thought o'er long-departed glory strays;
Thy friends, thy countrymen, shall welcome thee,
Give thee their love, -- but pour their curse on me.
" Yet e'en my death may hallow'd thoughts inspire ;
From this scathed trunk may wisdom's blossoms grow.
My history shall check revengeful ire, --
None other Pole shall join his country's foe.
Why should a traitor live when he hath bound
His veil'd and sorrowing country to the ground? "
Thus spake the miserable man. A groan,
A dark and hollow groan the dungeon fill'd;
On her pale breast his snow-white head was thrown ;
Death's shade o'ershadow'd, -- and all was still'd.
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? NIEMCEWICZ. 171
So died the mighty Glin? ski: -- better lot
Might have been his, -- but he deserved it not.
This Duma is one of the most popular in Poland. It
is also the subject of one of the best of the Polish trag-
edies by Wenz? yk.
DUMA.
POTOCKI.
" S? uchajcie rycerze m? odzi. "
Come, listen youthful warriors, now,
While my sad tale of grief is told;
And let it kindle glory's glow
While it records the deeds of old.
For I will sing the glorious wreath
Which erst the patriot hero wore
Who nobly died a hero's death
While crown'd with laurel'd victory o'er.
Chmielnicki's fierce and savage band
Had ravaged our Podolia's vales;
The cries of mothers fill'd the land,
Wide-echoed round from hills and dales.
Our ploughmen from their fields are torn,
Our maidens shameless slavery prove,
Our shepherds are to exile borne, --
Not to be exiled from their love.
Potocki -- old and hoary -- stood
Proud in felicity and fame,
When the loud shrieks, the cry of blood,
Like soul-disturbing tempests came.
He sigh'd; a stream of tears roll'd down
His venerable cheeks, while thought
Rush'd on the brighter moments gone.
But age had come, and left him -- nought.
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? 172 POETS AND POETKY OF POLAND.
The will, but not the power, was there.
Down dropp'd the falchion from his grasp.
But see his hero son appear --
Spring on his steed -- the war-brand clasp.
Why should he waste in ease and sloth
The brightness of his morning star,
When virtue and when valor both
Had charm'd his ear with tales of war?
" My son," -- his eyes with tears were fill'd --
"Thy country groans! Go, warrior! be
Thy bosom now thy country's shield, --
Be worthy of thy sires and me !
Go ! -- for thy country live ! Be blest
With triumph glorious and renown'd!
So calmly shall I sink to rest
When I have seen thee victory-crown'd. "
A fond farewell sent forth his son,
When he had bound him to his breast.
He put the heavy armor on;
The while a golden helmet prest
The raven ringlets of his hair:
Yet ere he sought his warriors he
Saw midst many a maiden fair
His maiden at a balcony.
She was a maid of beauty rare --
The loveliest maid Podolia knew --
Fair as the morning rose is fair
When blushing and when bathed in dew.
And she was true to love and fame,
And young, -- and pledged her hand and heart
To him whose valiant sword should claim
In battle fray the bravest part.
Then drew the ardent hero nigh,
And lowly bent on reverent knee:
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? NIEMCEWICZ. 173
"O thou, my heart's felicity,
All, all life's sweets I owe to thee!
Now bless me in the field of death,
And smile upon me, struggling there.
My heart's best blood, my latest breath,
I'll pour for fame and thee, my fair! "
His heart was full -- he spoke no more.
Her eyes were wet -- the maid unbound
The snow-white scarf her bosom wore,
And girt the hero's shoulders round.
" Go! rescue what is lost! My vow
By this pure pledge shall fail thee never!
Be crown'd with bright affection now,
Be crown'd with bliss, with fame, forever! "
Meanwhile the piercing clarions sound,
The dust-clouds o'er the plains arise;
The troops of warriors gather round.
While helms and armor dim the eyes.
The courts, the gates, the lofty walls
A thousand anxious gazers show.
The slow-descending drawbridge falls,
While to the gory fight they go.
? Twas evening. Through a gloomy night
Toward the Yellow Lake they sped.
The morning came, but not in light, --
'Twas wrapp'd in clouds opaque and red.
The mighty army of Bogdan
Spread countless o'er the extended land;
The brave Potocki led the van,
To smite the innumerable band.
Then dreadful havoc's reign was spread,
The murd'rous fires of death were there;
Swords cleft the helm and helmed head,
And hissing arrows fill'd the air.
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? 174 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
The dauntless chieftain fought, -- he press'd
The foremost on the foe, -- when deep
A deadly arrow pierced his breast;
He fell, -- fell lock'd in endless sleep.
Yet victory crown'd our arms. 'Twas vain; --
It was no triumph ; -- He away,
Courage and joy were turn'd to pain.
They throng'd around him in dismay:
They bathed his wounds; they wash'd the gore
With tears, -- while round the corpse they stand
Then on their shields that corpse they bore,
Their hope -- and of their fatherland.
And on a green and woody glade
'Neath a proud tomb his dust they set;
They hung his armor and his blade,
And that white scarf, -- with blood 'twas wet.
And there through many a day forlorn,
His joy-abandon'd maiden went;
And from the evening to the morn
She pour'd -- she wept -- love's sad lament.
Sleep, noble hero! sweetly sleep
Within this dark and sacred wood;
The silent moon her watch shall keep
Upon thy gravestone's solitude.
And should some future warrior come,
And the decaying trophies see,
His eye may linger on thy tomb,
And learn to fight and die from thee.
* Translation of the four lines on the frontispiece :
Ye exiles, roaming through the world so helplessly and long,
When will your weary feet find rest, O broken-hearted throng !
The wild dove finds its hidden nest, the worm its native clod,
But Poland's son can only claim of earth a burial sod!
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? FASTI DI ANA. 175
FASTIDIAKA.
(GUZDRALSKA. )
A HUMOROUS TALE OF THE THIRTEENTH CENTURY.
In an old tatter'd chronicle, whose pages
Had been defaced and stain'd by ruthless time,-
A dusty fragment of departed ages,
When Casimir, the monk, o'er Poland's clime
As sovereign ruled, -- but older far than he, --
I found this strange, recorded history.
Near ? enczyca, upon a flowery mound,
A proud and noble mansion look'd around, --
Its name I have forgotten; and 'twere vain
To rack my broken memory again.
But an old manuscript that long was hid,
Moth-eaten, 'neath a crumbling coffer-lid;
It tired my weary, eyes, -- though I possess'd
A microscopic glass, -- the brightest, best,
Which magnified a hundredfold, at last
Gave me some light, -- and my reward was vast.
There lived a noble, whose proud wish aspired
To honor, -- and he found what he desired.
A Truchses* now, -- and next a Stolnikf. His
Were piles of wealth, -- and towns and palaces.
That matters not: his pride, his boastings were
Of his fair daughter. She was passing fair;
And bounteous Nature o'er that maiden threw
All charms man loves, and all he honors too.
She was a very queen of grace, whose skill
Play'd with the heart and wielded it at will.
* Wine-bearer: f Plate-bearer; -- titles at court.
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? 176 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
The story of her beauty, like a breeze
That bears perfume, spread through the provinces, --
Spread o'er the land ; and many a raptured youth
Laid at her feet the vows of love and truth.
They saw her, and were lost: a single glance
Of that bright, lovely, laughing countenance
Won all the soul. No wonder; -- the control
Of wit and beauty ever wins the soul.
And was she faultless ? No ! one little sin --
For she was human -- one alone crept in ;
One little fault or error, which -- Heaven knows --
Was a dust-atom on a scarlet rose.
What could this little dangerous error be?
Time and the maiden never could agree.
She knew not wherefore years should be divided
In days and nights and hours, -- and years derided:
She thought that time, to please a maiden's whim,
Mighty tarry: -- little knew the maid of him.
She deem'd her smile should stop the hurrying day,
When in delights and feasts it sped away;
And the wing'd hours in their swift flight restrain,
And to a rock time's slippery spirit chain.
E'en thus she lived, and dreams like these employ'd
The shifting moments which those dreams enjoy'd.
Her dawn was noon, -- time's dawn her middle night,-
Always too late ; her place, though noblest, might
Remain unfill'd. At table she first came
When all was over; and 'twas just the same
E'en when a new piece charm'd the theater;
At the last act's last scene she would appear
Nor at the church, O mortal sin! before
The careful beadle closed the sacred door.
She was her parents' hope, her parents' bliss,
So no reproaches smote the maid for this.
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? FASTLDIAXA. 1 i ,
Yet there is pleasure, -- so the record says, --
Sweet pleasure in these lingerings, these delays:
And none of her admirers loved her less, --
Many and noble, -- for her tardiness.
But one was privileged o'er the rest, -- and he
Was the young Wojewod of Kujavy;
He bore Guzdawa's arms. (And those who bear
These old insignia, Paprocki* supposes
Were long distinguished for their length of noses,
Their large, bright eyes, their crisp and curly hair.
Unwearied in all enterprise, in war
Supremely valiant, -- rather superstitious, --
Amorous as born beneath love's famous star. )
Indeed our Wojewodzicf was ambitious
To be a true Guzdawa ; and the youth,
In size, form, virtues, was their heir, in truth.
His life was stainless, and 'twas decorated
With all the gems of talent. Happy fated,
He won the lady's promise to be his.
And parents' blessings crown'd the promised bliss.
Then his brains swam in joy. and rapture threw
Her sunshine on the moments as they flew.
Four weeks before the paschal feast began
The nuptial preparations. Mad desire
Made days and hours and moments as they ran
Linger like years, whose lingering footsteps tire:
But hope, and meditations, and soft sighs
Relieved their tardy passage, as he brought
Her paramount wit, her gentle voice, to thought:
The million graces playing round her eyes.
And her white hands, 'bove all, so purely fair,
Xo ivory with their brightness could compare.
* A famous heraldist of old time.
f Wojewodzie, son of the Wojewod; and so Sedzie, son of the judge;
Chnronz? yc, son of the ensign ; -- ic is here synonymous with the
Russian icicz, or vich, or citch.
12
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? 178 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
A thousand and a thousand times he said,
"She is indeed the sweetest, loveliest maid! "
And then a thought, -- sad thought, -- would oft intrude ;
" She's so forgetful, though so fair and good !
'Tis surely not her fault, but time's; who may,
And no doubt does, mistake the time of day.
But let us wed, -- this weakness shall be check'd;
'Tis a slight fault, and easy to correct.
Watches and clocks shall hang on every wall,
And silver hammers all the hours recall;
Hours, minutes, seconds, -- monitors like these
Will chase the maid's obliviousness with ease. "
So was he satisfied, -- and his doubts were gone.
The marriage contract sign'd, and all was done:
And the church doors were open'd for the pair;
Gorgeous and great was the assemblage there.
The bridegroom sallied forth from his abode,
And no unhappy omen stopp'd his road:
He came with friends and relatives who wore
Their sable furs -- adorn'd, as well became
Men who did honor to so proud a name,
With dazzling gold and sunny scarlet o'er.
The chronicle describes the gay parade,
And well-plann'd order of the cavalcade.
Twelve trumpeters in Flemish garments clad,
Which many a splendid decoration had.
And, as the Wojewodzie long had headed
His father's hussar troops, a numerous band
Of spearmen the procession next preceded;
Upon their shoulders wings of eagles flapp'd
And quivers full of silver arrows rattled
Behind them as they forward moved embattled;
Round each a leopard skin was loosely wrapp'd,
Its claws and tusks were fasten'd on the breast.
The standards revel'd with the winds, and prancing
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? FASTIDIANA. 179
Their richly saddled steeds appear'd advancing,
Their riders all in martial sternness drest. *
Then came a troop of Tartars, -- such as sate
With the lord's household, or watch'd round his gate;
And each his bows and arrows bore,
And a wide-flowing mantle wore,
Bending his proud and sprightly Bachmatf o'er.
Next thirty youthful squires led thirty steeds
To decorate the scene ; -- their race proceeds
From most renown'd Arabia, and the shore
Of the Euphrates, -- whence to Poland's plains
Transferr'd their fame, their ancient fame, remains;
So proud, so ardent, that the wearied hand
Of their tired rider could restrain no more
Their noble spirits to his mute command.
They toss'd their hoofs in air; -- the golden bit
Was cover'd o'er with foam ; -- their nostrils broad
As if with glowing sparks of fire were lit:
Proud were their trappings, as the knights who rode;
The saddles were all set in turquoises,
And the rich housings swept the very ground :
Pearls were profusely scatter'd o'er the dress;
A target at the saddle hung ; and near
A truncheon and a crooked scimitar;
Rubies and sapphires sparkled all around,
With smaragds, topazes, whose lights and dyes
Blinded the eyes.
Next came a troop of friends, sedate but gay ;
Their silk and velvet garments fill'd the way,
Bound with resplendent girdles; and they held
Their battle-axes, -- for their rank was high ;
Then six proud, dappled steeds the car impell'd,
Where sat the bridegroom in his ecstasy,
* This description, though rather grotesque, is a correct delinea-
tion of the costume of the old Polish hussars,
f Bachmat ; -- a Tartar horse.
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? 180 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
Eight golden columns bore a canopy
Of richest velvet, and the youth was clad
In most superb brocade; his under vest
Of crimson, which a row of buttons had
Of sapphires and of rubies of the East.
There was a clasp, whose glorious brightness never
Could be described -- so I shall not endeavor:
It was a carbuncle so large that kings -
Might envy, -- brighter than the sun which flings
His glories o'er the noon. Upon his head
High plumes above a splendid bonnet spread.
Two noble youths sate by him: one the son
Of the Wyszogro? d pennon-bearer; one
Grod's wealthy heir; but both of brilliant eyes,
And gay in humor; and their heads were bare. *
Next a long train of squires and knights appear,
With their attendants in rich liveries;
Each wore a splendid scarf with garments meet.
The cavalcade was closed by a long suite
Of six-horsed heavy-laden coaches, which
Bore presents for the bride, superb and rich.
Beautiful pearls from Uria, ear-rings, gems,
Bracelets, and jewels fit for diadems,
And fit a lady's eyes to please : nor were
The richest clocks and watches absent there.
While thus the sun toward the church was bent,
His busied father stay'd at home, intent
On the approaching festival. He stored
With giant goblets the capacious board,
With plates of silver and with cups of gold ;
Emboss'd tureens, and rich-carved bowls, to hold
Medals of ancient days, -- the cups and vases,
Gilded and rich, had their appointed places.
? NIEMCEWICZ. 168
28th. Kochanowski, a drama.
And a number of other works of great interest.
In 1830, the day preceding our revolution, the
supreme counsel of the kingdom having felt the neces-
sity of being supported by names dear to the natives,
called upon Niemcewicz to join its ranks. It was to
his venerable appearance, and the words of wisdom
and eloquence that he addressed to the people assem-
bled under the windows of the hall of government, that
the accomplishment of a revolution, unstained by
crimes or excesses, may be in a great measure attrib-
uted. As a member of the national government until
the creation of the dictator, he assisted in all the delib-
erations of the senators, of whom he was the secre-
tary. He had the signal honor of being elected senator
without the formalities prescribed by law, the senate
wishing to confer on him a mark of national gratitude
and veneration. The day of glory again dawned in
Poland, and the veteran of seventy-two embraced with
all the ardor of youth the cause of liberty; but to him
the revolution shone like an expiring lamp> for eternity
was opening before him. With a self-devotion and
energy of mind that neutralized the assaults of age,
Niemcewicz, deputed by the national government,,
undertook a journey to London to interest the British
cabinet in the cause of liberty and of Poland; but the
days of reverses arrived, and, exiled with the more
virtuous among his countrymen, he returned no more
to Poland. After living for a long time in retirement
in London, he went to Paris to rejoin the greater part
of his friends and colleagues, and from time to time
published little tracts or poems analogous to his cir-
cumstances. In 184:1 he ended his career with the
tranquillity resulting from a life of duty. The Polish,
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? 164 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
French, American and English residents in Paris united
in paying him the last tribute of respect due to man,
and accompanied his honored remains to the cemetery
of Montmorency.
Among the spectators at this melancholy scene we
iind Mr. Gibbs, an American gentleman, who thus said
to the assembled friends of the deceased: "Gentlemen,
the noble Polander to whom we pay the last tribute has
the sympathy of all my fellow-countrymen; as to the
American citizen, companion of Kos? ciuszko and to the
friend of liberty, I outrun, I am sure, and express their
wishes, when in their name and mine I pay to his
memory due tribute of profound esteem. Firm in his
principles, magnanimous and unconcerned for himself
in the hopes of prosperity for the cause of mankind,
his memory deserves the eulogies of good men of all
countries. His name will be placed among those of my
fellow-countrymen who are honored with the name of
benefactors of mankind. "
The professors and members of the Princeton Col-
lege (X. J. ), at a meeting called expressly for that pur-
pose, passed the following resolutions:
Resolved, That this society has learned with pro-
found grief of the death of their respected member,
Julian Ursin Niemcewicz;
Resolved, That this society, with numerous friends
of the departed, mourn his death, and as a proof of his
services and regard to his memory will wear usual
mourning for thirty days;
Resolved, That copies of these resolutions be sent to
the "Princeton Whig," "National Intelligencer" and
"New York Journal of Commerce. "
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? NIEMCEWICZ. 165
In a poetical epistle addressed to his old friend, Gen.
Kniaziewicz, thus he describes
AMERICA AND GENERAL WASHINGTON.
With my wounded commander* compelled to depart
From thee, oppressed Poland, the pride of my heart;
An asylum I sought o'er the dark rolling sea,
In the land of the noble, the brave and the free ;
But e'en there the sad thought of my country would rise,
And the tears of deep anguish would roll from my eyes.
In boundless savannas, where man never strayed,
Amid woods that ne'er echoed the axe's keen blade;
In the foaming abyss, where the clouds of bright steam
Round the falls of the roaring Niagara gleam;
And on the deep sea, when the white sails are spread,
Lo! the shade of my country, all gory and dead.
Full of bliss to my heart is the thought of that day
When to Washington's mansion I wended my way;
To visit the warrior, the hero and sage,
Whose name is the day-star to each coming age;
By his valor the new world rose happy and free,
And her glory his endless memento shall be.
His features are still on my memory denned,
With the fadeless and delicate colors of mind.
Full, noble, majestic, with a crown of swan-hair.
And a brow deeply writ with the finger of care:
Old Roman simplicity marked his fine face,
Expressive of dignity, grandeur and grace.
How oft on his accents with rapture I hung.
While wisdom and kindness distill'd from his tongue;
Kos? ciuszko.
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? 166 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
And whene'er the sad tale of our fall I'd relate --
How brilliant our struggle, yet awful our fate --
A sweet tear-drop of sympathy stole down his cheek --
Better pledge of affection than language could speak.
Precious tear ! a rich proof of his sorrow for thee,
Loved home of my fathers ! once peaceful and free.
And oh, could I that gem which so peerlessly grows,
In some costly and beautiful crystal enclose,
So priceless a treasure a witness I'd keep,
That o'er Poland's sad ruin a great man could weep.
And further down, such a picture he makes of his
abode in the
UNITED STATES:
When an exile from home, with deep sorrow oppressed,
In the new world a pilgrim, unknown and unblessed,
With no light to illumine the shadows that spread
Like the gloom of the sepulcher over my head,
My lonely condition made woman's bright eye
Mould the beautiful tear-drop of sweet sympathy.
But the feelings of pity were soon changed to love,
That bright seraph of mercy bequeathed from above !
With the gift of her fond heart she sweetened my woe,
Making hope's dying embers with sweet brightness glow;
Since then my neat cottage, the meadow, parterre --
Rich pleasures of freedom ! -- have been my sole care.
How oft has Aurora, from his soft couch of blue,
Found me cutting fresh grass, all so pearly with dew;
Or engrafting a shoot on the thriving young tree,
While nature was smiling in beauty and glee.
O delightful employment ! -- with pleasure how rife
Are the exquisite scenes of a pastoral life.
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? NIEMCEWICZ. I fi 7
Far away from the crowd of the giddy and vain,
From the thraldom of tyrants, the rude and profane;
From the folly of idlers that cumber the earth,
Wasting life's precious season in profitless mirth-
Ambition and av'rice disturb not the breast,
While hope points the soul to the realms of the blest.
So pure were the joys and so peaceful the life
That I shared with my lovely and beautiful wife,
I might have been happy, could man but forget
When his country with deadliest foes is beset.
But too oft the sad thoughts would convey me away
In the stillness of midnight, the bustle of day,
Thro' the foam-crested waves of the dark rolling sea,
To thee, distressed Poland -- once peaceful and free !
DUMA. *
GLIN? SKI. t
"W okropnych cieniach pieczaro? w podziemnych. "
In a dark, dreary dungeon, where the beam,
The cfladdenincf beam of sunlight never shone:
Where from the dismal roof its little stream
Of twilight pour'd a pendent lamp; -- alone
And conscience-tortured -- sat, to misery bound,
Glin? ski -- in victory and in crime renown'd.
His forehead years and grief had furrow'd o'er.
His grey hair hung disorders on his brow ;
His bloody sockets saw the light no more;
Plough'd were his wasted cheeks with scars and woe.
He sat and lean'd upon his hand: -- his groans
Were echoed by the dungeon's gloomy stones.
* A Duma, an elegiac poem; a plaintive song
t Glin? ski was a Polish chief who flourished at the beginning of
the sixteenth century. The events referred to in this Elegy took
place in 1515.
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? 168 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND-
With him his only child, his daughter fair,
A very gem of virtue, grace and youth.
She left the smiling world and the free air,
Her miserable father's woes to soothe;
Pleased in that fearful solitude to stay,
While life's young bloom fled silently away.
" Father! I pray thee by these tender tears " --
So spake the maid -- " be comforted, and chase
Despair; though chains hang heavy on thy years,
Yet hope deserts not e'en this desert place.
Time may smile upon thee; thou may'st rest
Thy gray old age upon thy country's breast. "
" My country! breathe not that dread name to* me,
For crimes rush down upon my tortured thought.
And wakened conscience gnaws the memory,
And gentle sleep these eyes will visit not.
Did I not head her foes! -- And can the name
Of * traitor ' but be link'd to death and shame?
"AH that can raise a man above mankind, --
All that is good and great in war or peace, --
Power -- riches -- beauty -- courage -- strength of mind,--
Yes! nature gave me these, and more than these.
I wanted nought but laurels -- which I found --
And glory's trophies wreathed my temples round.
" The locust-swarming hosts of Tartans broke
Upon Lithuania and Volhynia's land,
Plundering, destroying; their terrific yoke
Spared neither sex nor age ; the fiery brand
Of desolation swept the country o'er --
Children and mothers drown'd in fathers' gore.
" I sought the invaders' ravage to withstand.
Proud of their strength, in widespread camps they lay;
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? NIEMCEWICZ. 169
But they were scattered by my victor hand.
The misty eve look'd on the battle fray,
While corpses on the Niemen's waters rode,
And Infidel blood the thirsty fields o'erflow'd.
" When Alexander on his dying bed
Lay, mourn'd by all his children-subjects, came
The news that the defeated Tartars fled,
Upon his clouded brow joy's holy flame
Kindled sweet peace. ' Now let me, let me die,
For I bequeath to Poland victory ! '
" My deeds, my monarch's praises, warm'd my breast,
And love of daring violence grew. The fame
Of Zabrzezynki oft disturb'd my rest.
I -- a most foul and midnight murderer -- came
And butcher'd all in sleep. My Poles rebell'd --
I join'd with Poland's foes, by rage impelled.
"Flagitious sin, and memory's fiercest smart;
The eagle blended with the hurrying steed *
From cruelty and crime won not my heart,
Nor sheath'd the sword that did the cruel deed.
The foemen Russ I bent to my control,
And fought 'gainst Poles -- e'en I -- e'en I -- a Pole!
" I look'd upon the battle-field; I saw
Many a well-known corpse among the dead.
Then did fierce agony my bosom gnaw;
Then burning tears of conscious guilt were shed:
And I implored forgiveness -- from my king, --
Forgiveness for a vile and outcast thing.
" I told my penitent tale. My foes had wrought
Upon the czar, and roused him to distrust.
* The arms of Poland are a ichiie eagle. Those of Lithuania are a
horse galloping, with a rider holding a sword ready to strike. The
latter is called Pogon, from pursuing. Gonic means to pursw.
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? 170 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
He met indignantly my honest thought,
Dash'd my awakening virtue to the dust;
Bid them tear out my eyes, and bind me here
In galling fetters to this dungeon drear.
" Ten years have pass'd; and yet I live. The sun
And the gay stars shine on, but not for me.
Darkness and torments with my being run;
My strength decays; my blood flows freezingly
Through my chill'd veins; and death -- not gentle death
Lays its rude hand upon my weakening breath.
" Yet a few days -- this corpse, my grief's remains,
Will ask a handful of unfriendly earth.
Leave then, my child, these foul and foreign plains,
Blest who can claim the country of his birth.
The Poles forgive, -- and thou shalt be forgiven.
My child, be blest, and I be left to heaven.
" Yes! thou shalt see thy country, and its smile
Shall chase the memory of these gloomy days;
Thy father's princely hall shall greet thee, while
Thy thought o'er long-departed glory strays;
Thy friends, thy countrymen, shall welcome thee,
Give thee their love, -- but pour their curse on me.
" Yet e'en my death may hallow'd thoughts inspire ;
From this scathed trunk may wisdom's blossoms grow.
My history shall check revengeful ire, --
None other Pole shall join his country's foe.
Why should a traitor live when he hath bound
His veil'd and sorrowing country to the ground? "
Thus spake the miserable man. A groan,
A dark and hollow groan the dungeon fill'd;
On her pale breast his snow-white head was thrown ;
Death's shade o'ershadow'd, -- and all was still'd.
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? NIEMCEWICZ. 171
So died the mighty Glin? ski: -- better lot
Might have been his, -- but he deserved it not.
This Duma is one of the most popular in Poland. It
is also the subject of one of the best of the Polish trag-
edies by Wenz? yk.
DUMA.
POTOCKI.
" S? uchajcie rycerze m? odzi. "
Come, listen youthful warriors, now,
While my sad tale of grief is told;
And let it kindle glory's glow
While it records the deeds of old.
For I will sing the glorious wreath
Which erst the patriot hero wore
Who nobly died a hero's death
While crown'd with laurel'd victory o'er.
Chmielnicki's fierce and savage band
Had ravaged our Podolia's vales;
The cries of mothers fill'd the land,
Wide-echoed round from hills and dales.
Our ploughmen from their fields are torn,
Our maidens shameless slavery prove,
Our shepherds are to exile borne, --
Not to be exiled from their love.
Potocki -- old and hoary -- stood
Proud in felicity and fame,
When the loud shrieks, the cry of blood,
Like soul-disturbing tempests came.
He sigh'd; a stream of tears roll'd down
His venerable cheeks, while thought
Rush'd on the brighter moments gone.
But age had come, and left him -- nought.
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? 172 POETS AND POETKY OF POLAND.
The will, but not the power, was there.
Down dropp'd the falchion from his grasp.
But see his hero son appear --
Spring on his steed -- the war-brand clasp.
Why should he waste in ease and sloth
The brightness of his morning star,
When virtue and when valor both
Had charm'd his ear with tales of war?
" My son," -- his eyes with tears were fill'd --
"Thy country groans! Go, warrior! be
Thy bosom now thy country's shield, --
Be worthy of thy sires and me !
Go ! -- for thy country live ! Be blest
With triumph glorious and renown'd!
So calmly shall I sink to rest
When I have seen thee victory-crown'd. "
A fond farewell sent forth his son,
When he had bound him to his breast.
He put the heavy armor on;
The while a golden helmet prest
The raven ringlets of his hair:
Yet ere he sought his warriors he
Saw midst many a maiden fair
His maiden at a balcony.
She was a maid of beauty rare --
The loveliest maid Podolia knew --
Fair as the morning rose is fair
When blushing and when bathed in dew.
And she was true to love and fame,
And young, -- and pledged her hand and heart
To him whose valiant sword should claim
In battle fray the bravest part.
Then drew the ardent hero nigh,
And lowly bent on reverent knee:
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? NIEMCEWICZ. 173
"O thou, my heart's felicity,
All, all life's sweets I owe to thee!
Now bless me in the field of death,
And smile upon me, struggling there.
My heart's best blood, my latest breath,
I'll pour for fame and thee, my fair! "
His heart was full -- he spoke no more.
Her eyes were wet -- the maid unbound
The snow-white scarf her bosom wore,
And girt the hero's shoulders round.
" Go! rescue what is lost! My vow
By this pure pledge shall fail thee never!
Be crown'd with bright affection now,
Be crown'd with bliss, with fame, forever! "
Meanwhile the piercing clarions sound,
The dust-clouds o'er the plains arise;
The troops of warriors gather round.
While helms and armor dim the eyes.
The courts, the gates, the lofty walls
A thousand anxious gazers show.
The slow-descending drawbridge falls,
While to the gory fight they go.
? Twas evening. Through a gloomy night
Toward the Yellow Lake they sped.
The morning came, but not in light, --
'Twas wrapp'd in clouds opaque and red.
The mighty army of Bogdan
Spread countless o'er the extended land;
The brave Potocki led the van,
To smite the innumerable band.
Then dreadful havoc's reign was spread,
The murd'rous fires of death were there;
Swords cleft the helm and helmed head,
And hissing arrows fill'd the air.
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? 174 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
The dauntless chieftain fought, -- he press'd
The foremost on the foe, -- when deep
A deadly arrow pierced his breast;
He fell, -- fell lock'd in endless sleep.
Yet victory crown'd our arms. 'Twas vain; --
It was no triumph ; -- He away,
Courage and joy were turn'd to pain.
They throng'd around him in dismay:
They bathed his wounds; they wash'd the gore
With tears, -- while round the corpse they stand
Then on their shields that corpse they bore,
Their hope -- and of their fatherland.
And on a green and woody glade
'Neath a proud tomb his dust they set;
They hung his armor and his blade,
And that white scarf, -- with blood 'twas wet.
And there through many a day forlorn,
His joy-abandon'd maiden went;
And from the evening to the morn
She pour'd -- she wept -- love's sad lament.
Sleep, noble hero! sweetly sleep
Within this dark and sacred wood;
The silent moon her watch shall keep
Upon thy gravestone's solitude.
And should some future warrior come,
And the decaying trophies see,
His eye may linger on thy tomb,
And learn to fight and die from thee.
* Translation of the four lines on the frontispiece :
Ye exiles, roaming through the world so helplessly and long,
When will your weary feet find rest, O broken-hearted throng !
The wild dove finds its hidden nest, the worm its native clod,
But Poland's son can only claim of earth a burial sod!
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? FASTI DI ANA. 175
FASTIDIAKA.
(GUZDRALSKA. )
A HUMOROUS TALE OF THE THIRTEENTH CENTURY.
In an old tatter'd chronicle, whose pages
Had been defaced and stain'd by ruthless time,-
A dusty fragment of departed ages,
When Casimir, the monk, o'er Poland's clime
As sovereign ruled, -- but older far than he, --
I found this strange, recorded history.
Near ? enczyca, upon a flowery mound,
A proud and noble mansion look'd around, --
Its name I have forgotten; and 'twere vain
To rack my broken memory again.
But an old manuscript that long was hid,
Moth-eaten, 'neath a crumbling coffer-lid;
It tired my weary, eyes, -- though I possess'd
A microscopic glass, -- the brightest, best,
Which magnified a hundredfold, at last
Gave me some light, -- and my reward was vast.
There lived a noble, whose proud wish aspired
To honor, -- and he found what he desired.
A Truchses* now, -- and next a Stolnikf. His
Were piles of wealth, -- and towns and palaces.
That matters not: his pride, his boastings were
Of his fair daughter. She was passing fair;
And bounteous Nature o'er that maiden threw
All charms man loves, and all he honors too.
She was a very queen of grace, whose skill
Play'd with the heart and wielded it at will.
* Wine-bearer: f Plate-bearer; -- titles at court.
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? 176 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
The story of her beauty, like a breeze
That bears perfume, spread through the provinces, --
Spread o'er the land ; and many a raptured youth
Laid at her feet the vows of love and truth.
They saw her, and were lost: a single glance
Of that bright, lovely, laughing countenance
Won all the soul. No wonder; -- the control
Of wit and beauty ever wins the soul.
And was she faultless ? No ! one little sin --
For she was human -- one alone crept in ;
One little fault or error, which -- Heaven knows --
Was a dust-atom on a scarlet rose.
What could this little dangerous error be?
Time and the maiden never could agree.
She knew not wherefore years should be divided
In days and nights and hours, -- and years derided:
She thought that time, to please a maiden's whim,
Mighty tarry: -- little knew the maid of him.
She deem'd her smile should stop the hurrying day,
When in delights and feasts it sped away;
And the wing'd hours in their swift flight restrain,
And to a rock time's slippery spirit chain.
E'en thus she lived, and dreams like these employ'd
The shifting moments which those dreams enjoy'd.
Her dawn was noon, -- time's dawn her middle night,-
Always too late ; her place, though noblest, might
Remain unfill'd. At table she first came
When all was over; and 'twas just the same
E'en when a new piece charm'd the theater;
At the last act's last scene she would appear
Nor at the church, O mortal sin! before
The careful beadle closed the sacred door.
She was her parents' hope, her parents' bliss,
So no reproaches smote the maid for this.
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? FASTLDIAXA. 1 i ,
Yet there is pleasure, -- so the record says, --
Sweet pleasure in these lingerings, these delays:
And none of her admirers loved her less, --
Many and noble, -- for her tardiness.
But one was privileged o'er the rest, -- and he
Was the young Wojewod of Kujavy;
He bore Guzdawa's arms. (And those who bear
These old insignia, Paprocki* supposes
Were long distinguished for their length of noses,
Their large, bright eyes, their crisp and curly hair.
Unwearied in all enterprise, in war
Supremely valiant, -- rather superstitious, --
Amorous as born beneath love's famous star. )
Indeed our Wojewodzicf was ambitious
To be a true Guzdawa ; and the youth,
In size, form, virtues, was their heir, in truth.
His life was stainless, and 'twas decorated
With all the gems of talent. Happy fated,
He won the lady's promise to be his.
And parents' blessings crown'd the promised bliss.
Then his brains swam in joy. and rapture threw
Her sunshine on the moments as they flew.
Four weeks before the paschal feast began
The nuptial preparations. Mad desire
Made days and hours and moments as they ran
Linger like years, whose lingering footsteps tire:
But hope, and meditations, and soft sighs
Relieved their tardy passage, as he brought
Her paramount wit, her gentle voice, to thought:
The million graces playing round her eyes.
And her white hands, 'bove all, so purely fair,
Xo ivory with their brightness could compare.
* A famous heraldist of old time.
f Wojewodzie, son of the Wojewod; and so Sedzie, son of the judge;
Chnronz? yc, son of the ensign ; -- ic is here synonymous with the
Russian icicz, or vich, or citch.
12
? ? 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
? 178 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
A thousand and a thousand times he said,
"She is indeed the sweetest, loveliest maid! "
And then a thought, -- sad thought, -- would oft intrude ;
" She's so forgetful, though so fair and good !
'Tis surely not her fault, but time's; who may,
And no doubt does, mistake the time of day.
But let us wed, -- this weakness shall be check'd;
'Tis a slight fault, and easy to correct.
Watches and clocks shall hang on every wall,
And silver hammers all the hours recall;
Hours, minutes, seconds, -- monitors like these
Will chase the maid's obliviousness with ease. "
So was he satisfied, -- and his doubts were gone.
The marriage contract sign'd, and all was done:
And the church doors were open'd for the pair;
Gorgeous and great was the assemblage there.
The bridegroom sallied forth from his abode,
And no unhappy omen stopp'd his road:
He came with friends and relatives who wore
Their sable furs -- adorn'd, as well became
Men who did honor to so proud a name,
With dazzling gold and sunny scarlet o'er.
The chronicle describes the gay parade,
And well-plann'd order of the cavalcade.
Twelve trumpeters in Flemish garments clad,
Which many a splendid decoration had.
And, as the Wojewodzie long had headed
His father's hussar troops, a numerous band
Of spearmen the procession next preceded;
Upon their shoulders wings of eagles flapp'd
And quivers full of silver arrows rattled
Behind them as they forward moved embattled;
Round each a leopard skin was loosely wrapp'd,
Its claws and tusks were fasten'd on the breast.
The standards revel'd with the winds, and prancing
? ? 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
? FASTIDIANA. 179
Their richly saddled steeds appear'd advancing,
Their riders all in martial sternness drest. *
Then came a troop of Tartars, -- such as sate
With the lord's household, or watch'd round his gate;
And each his bows and arrows bore,
And a wide-flowing mantle wore,
Bending his proud and sprightly Bachmatf o'er.
Next thirty youthful squires led thirty steeds
To decorate the scene ; -- their race proceeds
From most renown'd Arabia, and the shore
Of the Euphrates, -- whence to Poland's plains
Transferr'd their fame, their ancient fame, remains;
So proud, so ardent, that the wearied hand
Of their tired rider could restrain no more
Their noble spirits to his mute command.
They toss'd their hoofs in air; -- the golden bit
Was cover'd o'er with foam ; -- their nostrils broad
As if with glowing sparks of fire were lit:
Proud were their trappings, as the knights who rode;
The saddles were all set in turquoises,
And the rich housings swept the very ground :
Pearls were profusely scatter'd o'er the dress;
A target at the saddle hung ; and near
A truncheon and a crooked scimitar;
Rubies and sapphires sparkled all around,
With smaragds, topazes, whose lights and dyes
Blinded the eyes.
Next came a troop of friends, sedate but gay ;
Their silk and velvet garments fill'd the way,
Bound with resplendent girdles; and they held
Their battle-axes, -- for their rank was high ;
Then six proud, dappled steeds the car impell'd,
Where sat the bridegroom in his ecstasy,
* This description, though rather grotesque, is a correct delinea-
tion of the costume of the old Polish hussars,
f Bachmat ; -- a Tartar horse.
? ? 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
? 180 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
Eight golden columns bore a canopy
Of richest velvet, and the youth was clad
In most superb brocade; his under vest
Of crimson, which a row of buttons had
Of sapphires and of rubies of the East.
There was a clasp, whose glorious brightness never
Could be described -- so I shall not endeavor:
It was a carbuncle so large that kings -
Might envy, -- brighter than the sun which flings
His glories o'er the noon. Upon his head
High plumes above a splendid bonnet spread.
Two noble youths sate by him: one the son
Of the Wyszogro? d pennon-bearer; one
Grod's wealthy heir; but both of brilliant eyes,
And gay in humor; and their heads were bare. *
Next a long train of squires and knights appear,
With their attendants in rich liveries;
Each wore a splendid scarf with garments meet.
The cavalcade was closed by a long suite
Of six-horsed heavy-laden coaches, which
Bore presents for the bride, superb and rich.
Beautiful pearls from Uria, ear-rings, gems,
Bracelets, and jewels fit for diadems,
And fit a lady's eyes to please : nor were
The richest clocks and watches absent there.
While thus the sun toward the church was bent,
His busied father stay'd at home, intent
On the approaching festival. He stored
With giant goblets the capacious board,
With plates of silver and with cups of gold ;
Emboss'd tureens, and rich-carved bowls, to hold
Medals of ancient days, -- the cups and vases,
Gilded and rich, had their appointed places.
