No More Learning

Have you no church? Have you no house of God?
No pastor who the Word declares? "
" I knew not from my childhood's early day.
Amidst the woods I've lived alone,
Nor wander hence. I have no time to stray,
But praise my God as best I've known.
11 Whether I sow, or gather sheaves of grain,
Or whether I am making hay. ,
Whether the sun shines bright, or falls the rain,
I praise and thank my God alway. "
The pastor marveling his knowledge spare,
Began the worth of prayer to tell,
Explained its nature, taught him the Lord's prayer,
And spoke of God and virtue well.
And when he deemed that he had well impressed
His teaching on the peasant's heart,
And said the prayers once more with him, he blessed
The boor, and went his way apart.
With a slow pace traveling o'er the sand
He passed at length around the lake,
And saw the evening star in luster grand
Above the hills in beauty wake.
Through the immensity of heaven's blue,
Swimming in the effulgent light,
Its rays from the lake's bottom glitter through,
Like memories of past delight.
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? 400 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
Its brightness seemed close to the bottom clasped,
Like virtue to an upright heart;
It will last unchanged, though by whirlpools grasped,
Though billows over it roar and dart.
As the mist of the valley upward goes
By sunbeams from the meadow caught,
So the pastor's spirit heavenward rose
On wings of happy, pious thought.
Then he heard a voice. From afar it spake,
And, ah! he is filled with sudden fear.
For, walking on waves of the rolling lake,
He saw the peasant drawing near.
"Wait, O father! wait! " the peasant besought.
" Repeat the prayers before you go
Once more ; for what you told me I forgot,
Although I wish them well to know. "
The pastor, seeing such strong evidence
That in God's grace he had a part,
Said to him: " Son, in your own way pray hence; --
More than the words God loves the heart.
" Before the throne, my son, -- first precedence, --
Your virtue and industry take,"
The pastor said. The happy peasant thence
Returned in safety o'er the lake.
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? JULIAN KORSAK. 401
JULIAN KORSAK.
Julian Korsak has a peculiar characteristic of his
own in a certain style of lyrical boldness and loftiness,
and laudable competition in translations; and another
fact which is not to be overlooked is his noble en-
deavors (in which he was successful) to beautify the
Polish verse with flowers of Eastern poesy. The
whole is stamped with these attractions, and forms
quite a large volume -- "Poetry of Julian Korsak. "
In this volume his lyrics are flashing with resplendent
light. The two-sided soul of his poetry is glistening
toward the West with lyrics, and to the East with
" Bey ram. "
Korsak has done great service to Polish literature
by his translation of the " Divine Comedy " of Dante,
upon which he labored for twelve years, -- and we may
say the best part of his life. In this work, permeated
and carried away by the spirit of the great master's
Christian poesy, we find many explanations of points
in the poem very difficult to understand.
In the translation of this poem Korsak had not
alone in view his own personal fame, but also a con-
scientious responsibility; uniting his own spirit with
the spirit of Dante, he seemed to have acquired new
poetic strength as well as inspiration; all conceptions
and thoughts -- in fact all the spiritual powers -- un-
folded within him on the grandest scale, befitting the
bard who sung the great theme of Eternity.
He was born in 1807, and after finishing his educa-
tion in the University of Wilno, from 1826 to 1830, he
resided alternately at Warsaw and St. Petersburg, de-
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? 402 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
voting his time to still further improvement and cul-
ture. After the death of his father he succeeded as
heir to a large landed estate in the county of S? onim,
and was made the president of the county court ; but
at the expiration of his term he returned into rural
seclusion and devoted himself to literature and sciences.
In the year 1853, in order to improve his failing health,
he went to Nowogro? dek (Newtown), and after a few
months' illness died on the 30th of September, same
year.
His work " Poetry " was published at Posen, 1833,
and at St. Petersburg, 1839; " Lara," from Byron, 1836;
"New Parnassus," translation of Shakspeare's tragedy
of " Eomeo and Juliet" ; " Twardowski the Sorcerer,"
"Dramatic Dialogues," " Camoens in the Hospital,"
and many fugitive pieces. The " Divine Comedy "
was published in 1840.
THE FROZEN TEAR.
Soft o'er the white bed falls the moon's pure light; --
'Tis bleak and chill, but Love its vigil keeps,
As maiden hither comes each dreary night,
And at her loved one's tomb till morn she weeps.
'Tis bleak and chill, but neither drifting snow
Nor wintry storm the maiden's heart appalls.
She seeks his grave to pray -- her sad tears flow,
And one bright drop upon the gravestone falls.
The tear was hot, but, chilled by the cold blast
And storm at night, was frozen to the stone
Like drops of sleet to tree limbs frozen fast,
Through all the night all, all the day it shone.
An angel saw it and with joy divine
Within his hand the frozen tear-drop bore.
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? JULIAN KORSAK. 403
Pity in heaven willed that it should shine
A pearl in her bright crown forevermore !
MY BELOVED ONE.
Her lips are ever streaming
Sweet kisses unto me,
Her eyes which light are beaming
Are light as eyes can be; --
How beautiful is she !
Oh ! when to me she's speaking
My . soul her accents hears,
And though my heart were breaking
She'd soothe my grief and tears; --
How tender then is she!
Whene'er her true love greeting
She moves in airy grace,
Their lips in kisses meeting
And clasped in close embrace,
How passionate is she!
When change's wing soars over
Joys green and springing heath,
Misfortune finds her lover
And blasts him with his breath,
How constant then is she!
Before a week be flying
Another love she'll take,
And scorn her first love's sighing,
Although his heart should break; --
How fickle then is she!
She bids her lover smother
His feeling, and depart;
Her hand she gives another,
But no one owns her heart; --
How curst, how curst is she!
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? 404 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
WITWICKI.
Stephen Witwicki was born at Krzemieniec, in the
province of Poclolia, where his father was a professor
in the Lyceum. After finishing his education he went
to Warsaw, where he obtained a position of great
honor and importance, being appointed one of the
chiefs in the " Commission of Learning. " In the lit-
erary fights of those days between the Classics and
Romantics he joined the ranks of the latter. He left
his lucrative office, preferring to go to France, where
he became personally acquainted with Mickiewicz and
Zaleski, and turned his mind to the awakening of the
true religious feeling of the Polish people.
Witwicki was a thoughtful, careful, and a finished
poet. He wrote ballads, pastorals, and biblical po-
etry; also tales in verse, as, for instance, "Edmund,"
his "Life's Account of a Country Gentleman,"
"Spring," "A Change," and "The Voices," the last
especially of great Christian humility, but full of po-
etic power. His moral and literary miscellanies are
pleasing and instructive. His "Evenings of a Pil-
grim," and in fact all of Witwicki's poetical works,
were published in Warsaw, Paris, as also in Leon
Zienkowicz's "Library of Polish Poets," Leipsic,
1866; his "Gadu-Gadu" (Chit-Chats), at Leipsic in
1850, and at St. Petersburg, 1852. This honored bard
died in Kome, 1847.
CUPID.
A little boy of curious ways,
With brilliant eyes and rosy lips,
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? WITWICKI. 405
With golden hair and damask cheeks,
I met with on my morning trips.
I gazed upon him for a while,
Thinking he had a tale to tell --
When with a lurking, meaning smile,
He asked me " If my heart was well? "
But gazing at my visitor
I saw some arrows 'neath his wing;
Aha! said I, there's danger here,
With this mischievous little thing!
Again he asked, while there I stood,
If to his pangs I was a stranger?
I answered not, but quickly ran
From such a sudden, threat'ning danger!
With panting breast and bosom thrilling
At having 'scaped from such a storm,
I fled unto my Anna's dwelling,
To hide beside her lovely form.
But know ye what betel me there,
How I was caught in Cupid's snare?
I fell exhausted at her feet,
And lo! the little rogue was there.
THE WARRIOR.
('"Rrzy mo? j gniady, ziemie grzebie. ,? )
Yonder stands my sorrel neighing --
Parting time draws near;
Farewell father -- farewell mother,
Farewell sisters dear.
Haste my steed! the voics calls loudly
To the battle plain --
On the field thou lookest proudly,
Proudly shak'st thy mane.
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? 406 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND,
To the field where hosts assemble,
With the wind away!
Let the foe before us tremble --
We shall win the day!
'Mid the ranks of dead and dying
If I chance to fall,
Take thy way, my steed, in flying
Homeward free from thrall!
Hark ! I hear my sisters calling --
Shall we turn my steed?
No! to where the foe is falling
Let us haste with speed!
JOSEPHINE.
If thou shalt ever meet
Spring's sweetest, loveliest rose,
With balmy breezes sweet,
Whose cheek with brightness glows
Like Orion's purest light,
Whose words breathe but delight,
And if she ask with love for me
'Tis Josephine -- be sure 'tis she!
ii.
If like the silent stream,
When flowing without noise,
Or like the moon's sweet beam,
From thoughtless crowds she flies;
To all she knows is kind,
Pure, noble, and refined --
And if she ask with love for me
'Tis Josephine -- be sure 'tis she !
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? WITWICKI.
407
III.
If thou shalt see a tear
Roll down her rosy cheek,
And if she doth appear
With feeling pure to speak;
And in her brightest eye
Thou shalt see modesty,
And if she ask with love for me
'Tis Josephine -- be sure 'tis she !
iv.
If thou shalt ever see
Some orphans or the poor,
Who driven by poverty
Enter her welcome door;
And if her heart doth beat
With sympathy replete,
And if she ask with love for me
'Tis Josephine -- be sure 'tis she!
But if thou e'er of love
To her by chance shalt speak,
And if a tear of sorrow
Do not bedew her cheek;
And not a sigh she give,
Her bosom does not heave,
And if she does not ask for me, .
My Josephine, -- it is not she!
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? 408 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
GOS? AWSKI.
Maurice Gos? awski was born in 1805; a man of the
noblest heart and most exalted mind; not only one of
the greatest Polish poets, but also one of the truest of
Poland's sons. Being concerned in the revolution of
1831, he was never remiss in duty as a soldier, nor
neglected the cause of his country as a patriot. He
was so honest and honorable besides, that he had the
love of the whole country, and when he died we may
truly say that Poland lost not only one of her greatest
poets, but she also lost one of the most high-minded
and honorable of her sons. His death took place in
Stanis? awo? w (Galicia), 1839.
Almost all of his poetry breathes with most devoted
love to his country and a friendly and brotherly attach-
ment to the whole people. He is the author of "Po-
dolian Wedding," " Renegat," "Banco," and many
others. His fugitive pieces are full of great poetic
spirit and pathos.
HAD I THE ROYAL EAGLE'S WING.
"Gdyby or? em byc? .
"
Had I the royal eagle's wing
How soon Podolia's air I'd breathe,
And rest beneath that sunny sky
Where all my thoughts and wishes wreathe.
'Tis there I first beheld the light,
There passed by happiest, earliest years ;
'Tis there my father's ashes lay,
Sunned with my smiles, dewed with my tears.
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? GOS? AWSKI. 409
Oh! were I but the regal'bird,
I'd fly to where my steps once trod,
And where my hopes are buried up;
Then change me to an eagle, God!
Oh ! would I were a brilliant star
Whose light illumes Podolia's groves,
That I might gaze throughout the night
On her, the girl my spirit loves !
Then from the silvery clouds I'd send
Unto her eyelids visions bright
As those soft rays which Luna beams
Upon the lakes in summer's night.
To watch with eyes unseen her steps,
To gaze upon her form afar, --
My soul's transported with the thoughts ;
Change me, O heavens, to a star!
Why dream the thought, my bursting soul,
Thy aspirations are in vain; --
Exiled to far and foreign land,
Ne'er shall I see my home again.
Accursed am I ! yon eagle soars,
The star of night rolls glittering on ; --
My home is far, -- my soul is chained,
Tears flow around me, -- hope is gone!
UNCERTAINTY.
Dearest! I keep a secret still --
A holy secret, all my own;
My eyes with tears for sadness fill,
I smile and make my rapture known.
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? 410 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
But darling ! in those eyes of thine
There glistens neither tears nor joy;
I see not there the doom divine
Which shall uplift me or destroy.
Thou hast no need to tell me twice
Of the destruction held in store,
One look from thee will still suffice:
In it are all my hopes -- and more.
My soul 'tis easy to upraise
To that which makes it paradise;
Its only need or wish to gaze
Into the heaven within thine eyes.
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? RAYMUND KORSAK. 411
KAYMUND KOESAK.
Kaymund Korsak was born in 1767, in White Rus-
sia, and was a colonel in the Polish army. As a poet
he is mostly known by his elegant effusions " To Poe-
try," as also by his "Introduction" to the poem of
Kev. Baka on iw Infallible Death. "
He died in Podolia, 17th of November, 1817. His
friend, Bohusz, erected a monument to his memory,
with this inscription: "The memory of a' virtuous man
shall outlive ages. " He distinguished himself in lyric
poetry, especially in the composition of hymns.
ODE TO GOD.
Avaunt! ye empires, powers, kings,
That this too-little earth contains;
My Muse a higher theme now sings,
Heaven's pure regions she attains!
To her, my Muse, the Alpine height
Is as the valley spread below;
From turbulence she taketh flight,
From crash of storms that overthrow.
She speeds aloft on soaring wings,
And loses in aerial realms;
All monuments of earthly things
Before the glory that o'erwhelms.
Thou sovereign of birth and death!
At Thy command, -- supreme, divine, --
Rose suns and stars and worlds beneath,
But never was beginning Thine!
And what our feeble thoughts transcend,
Thou neither yet shalt have an end !
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? 412 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
Thou sittest on majestic throne;
Time at Thy word begun its course;
All omnipotence is Thy own;
Of wisdom Thou Thyself a source.
Stern justice rests within Thy hand,
For us Thy mercy still provides.
O Lord of all! whose sole command
Creates, exalts, upholds, divides!
Thou on unaided power dost rest,
Before whose thunder angels quake,
And through the heavens manifest
The might that stills when storms awake.
Thou lightest stars, and dost create
The rocks that hide not from Thy face;
Thou rulest o'er all human fate,
And with Thy presence fillest space.
In the beginning, self sustained,
Thy will itself created Thee,
Thy wisdom in its breadth contained
Of worlds the vast immensity !
Above the chaos spread around,
Mid elements confusion rent,
O'er darkness all unpierced by sound
Thy living breath, Thy touch, wast sent.
Then rose the sun with glowing ray,
And nature saw creation's day!
EXTRACT FROM A RELIGIOUS POEM.
For gifts bestowed since earth I trod,
That to my saddened heart were given,
I thank Thee mostly, O great God!
That but a mortal I am here.
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? GO? RECKI. 413
GOEECKL
Anton Goeecki was a writer of lyric poetry and
fables. The distinguishing marks of Gorecki's fables
are that they are in reality little satires, with a view
of pointing out the weak side of the society in which
he lived, and to correct faults and foibles in a general
way. His ballad "The Doom of the Traitor to His
Country " is truly beautiful. "The Taking of the Pass
of Samo-Siera " is also an uncommon production. All
his fugitive compositions are permeated by genuine wit
and patriotic feeling. As a poet his name will always
occupy a high place in Polish literature.
Go? recki was born in 1787, in the province of Wilno.
His education began at home and in the schools of
Wilno, and later he entered the University of Wilno.
In spite of the Russian government's orders he made his
way through to Warsaw and joined the army. In the
campaign of 1812 he distinguished himself as an officer
in the battle of Smolensk, and received the cross of the
Legion of Honor and participated in all battles. After
napoleon's return he went to Cracow to be healed of
his wounds. He settled in the country with the rank
of captain, and gave himself up to farming pursuits,
literature and poetry. After 1815 he traveled in for-
eign countries, visiting Germany and Italy. Returning,
he settled in Lithuania, and was one of the most active
members of the so-called society of "Ragamuffins,"
but in reality a club of young men of great talent, who
published a newspaper called "The Street News," a
very celebrated institution of its day. After the break-
ing out of the revolution of 1830 Go? recki, being a
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? 414 POETS AND POETEY OF POLAND.
member of the national committee of Wilno, was made
agent, and went to Switzerland, London and Paris,
where, after the end of the revolution, he remained till
after his death. He was in close connections with
Mickiewicz, Zaleski, Witwicki and other distinguished
men, and shared with them the vicissitudes of a life
generally experienced by refugees. He died the 18th
of September, 1861.
His works were published in Paris. "Poetry of a
Lithuanian," 1834; "Fables," 1839; "Seyba," 1837;
"New Collection," 1858; "Another Little Volume,"
1859; and "Miscellaneous," 1861.
DOOM OF THE TRAITOR TO HIS COUNTRY.
" S? mierc? Zdrajcy Ojczyzny. "
The night was dark! The gloomy silence poured
Calmness on Nature's breast, to peace restored;
Then the pale moon arose to view,
And nearer the appointed moments drew
When spirits, on their tireless wings,
Descend beneath the star-beamed glow
To soothe with sleep the sufferings
That mortals know.
Beside the river
Which flows forever,
Whose turgid billows moan unrest,
A stately castle rears its crest.
There a loathsome traitor lies
On gilded bed, that gives no ease,
And waits for sleep to close his eyes,
And bring his guilty bosom peace.
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? GO? RECKI. 415
Now and again the glimmering light
That from the costly lamps outshone
Showed through the shadows of the night
The wealth obtained through crime alone.
With care and labor, year by year,
Of gold he hoarded many a store.
The treasures of the world were here,
But, lacking peace, he slept no more.
The moments fly!
The town clock, striking solemnly,
Tolls twelve -- but yet no blessed sleep
Doth o'er his weary senses creep.
Yes ! from his pillow sleep goes hence
To huts, and lets its blessing fall
O'er those who lived in affluence
Ere for their country they lost all.
But he, his land's degenerate son,
Waits still for sleep to bring relief,
And, trembling like an autumn leaf,
Kemorseful shivers through him run.
Sleepless, he leaves his gilded bed,
Bends o'er the coffers filled with gold,
And thinks to soothe the spirit's dread
With glittering treasures there untold.
Hark! through the heavens a roll of thunder crashes!
The lightnings blaze in ire!
The flickering lights expire!
Backward the door, unhinged, the whirlwind dashes!
Then the pale moon gleams through,
Disclosing to the view
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? 416 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
A stately form, and staid,
In mourning garb arrayed.
A still and somber guest,
With pale hands folded on a bleeding breast.
Beholding that pale form,
The traitor trembles. Whether it is warm
With life he knows not, nor can comprehend.
His hair stands up on end,
And he cries out, " Who tries to frighten me?
Speak, or die instantly ! "
But from the form is heard
In answer not a word.
It only nearer draws, with silent tread,
And sighs instead!
The traitor then, despite his soul's alarms,
Growing more confident, resorts to arms.
The trigger pulls in ire!
The weapon flashes fire!
The bullet, in its eager thirst for blood,
Echoes through the air its thud,
And strikes the apparition -- but it draws
Nearer, with noiseless pace,
A noiselessness that awes,
And stands before the traitor face to face.
The phantom on his trembling shoulder lays
A hand whose chill dismays,
So death-like is its clasp!
His brow is dewed!
He sinks subdued,
Another weapon clutching in his grasp.
Then spoke a voice in gentle tones,
Like brooklet purling o'er the stones,
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? GO? RECKI. 41
As musical as sound of lute,
As sad as winds in church-yard mute.
11 Hold! for the ball is vainly sped.
I live not in this world, but with the dead.
Son, tho' thou wouldst doom me to the grave,
Yet still I live, and am here to save!
I see thy soul with keen remorse oppressed,
And I would win it to eternal rest,
And I forgive. No mother's heart is won
To turn against a son! "
But as she spoke the dwelling rocked,
As by an earthquake shocked.
The shades of night made moan,
And through their shadows thrown
A dark-winged shape appears.
And in an awful voice of thunder says:
" Forgiveness there is none for him who slays!
Who sheds his brother's blood must reap in tears,
Stand up therefor
Before God's judgment evermore
Then ceased the spirit. On the couch he cast
The traitor's lifeless form.
His soul he bore away through clouds and blast;
While moaned the wind, and lightning rent the storm.