that region. He attended school in the city of Human
from 1815 to 1819. Humafi is situated within but a
short distance from the most beautiful garden in Europe,
from which the poet Trembecki drew his inspiration
when he wrote his famous poem " Sofiowka." The
garden is so named, and one would not go much amiss
to infer that the resplendent beauties of the garden
might have first awakened Zaleski's poetic genius. It
is not an unpleasant fact for the editor of this work to
here record that he, too, rubbed his back against the
walls of that famous institution, and remembers well
the severity of its rules. He knows not whether the
institution is still in existence, but at the time when he
was a student there the professors' chairs were filled
by the most learned and ablest men of the order of
Basilians.
In 1820 Zaleski went with Severyn Goszczyfiski to
Switzerland, and thence to the University of Warsaw.
Later he was a private teacher with a Mr. Gorski and
the son of General Shembeck, until 1830. In that
year he left Poland and went to Paris, then to Italy.
Returning to Paris he filled the office of the Superin-
tendent of the Polish School at Batignolle, where we
believe he still resides.
His work "Poetry" was published by Edward
lelowicki in 1841; "Dumy and Dumki," published by
Raczynski in Posen; "Poetry," at St. Petersburg in
1851. The Poet's Oratorium in " Dumy and Dumki "
was dedicated to his wife, published at Posen, 1866.
No nation had a sweeter and' more feeling poet than
Zaleski not even excepting Petrarch.
ZALESKI, 297
THE POET'S SONG.
When Spring unfolds her foliage green,
And birds their songs begin to breathe,
My strain, like theirs, is free from care;
I fly above, descend beneath !
I fly and haunt the vanished past,
'Mid tempests' low and wavering moan;
I gaze upon the regions vast,
And listen to the whirlwind's tone!
I feel the world's bright aspect 'round,
From flowers sweet I take my life;
I list to angels' praising sound,
And soon forget all earthly strife.
And if my heart at times complains,
In spite of all its earthly joys,
I try to soothe its bitter pains,
As children do with pleasing toys.
If for a while my bosom beats,
And trembles, filled with pain and fear,
My mind to Heaven then retreats,
And there dispels each bitter tear.
Thus then I pass away my time,
In joy my moments quickly glide;
Not fond of solving mysteries,
I smile at human thoughtless pride.
But when I end life's short career,
And bid this world a last adieu,
Another world again will cheer
The heart that seldom sorrow knew.
Although the body pass from hence,
The soul immortal shall not die;
A few remaining thoughts on earth
May tell I soared beyond the sky.
298 POETS AND POETEY OF POLAND.
'TIS DIFFERENT WITH US.
.
"U nas inaczej."
'Tis sad, brethren, sad, beyond -the Danube's tide,
Moist are our eyes, but our feelings we must hide;
Irksome is the world, the people weary me;
How strange 'mid bustling crowds look all things I see!
Here the Kozak's * spirit must pleasureless roam ;
'Tis so different all from our own loved home!
'Tis different with us! ah, the Polish land
Is our mighty queen 'tis a Slavonic band ;
At a sign from her, brethren, death we will dare,
And ever we'll dream of Ukraine the fair.
Here the Kozak's spirit must pleasureless roam;
'Tis so different all from our loved home !
'Tis different with us! blithe and buoyant instead,
Away with mounds sepulchral whose shadows outspread ;
The eagle eye desires ev'ry thing to see,
Bathing in wild grasses contented and free !
Here the Kozak's spirit must pleasureless roam;
'Tis so different all from our loved home!
'Tis different with us ! 'neath the dark blue skies
O'erhanging Ukraine plaintive songs arise
From many sweet singers wand'ring far and near;
God, their sad strains ever deafen the ear!
Here the Kozak's spirit must pleasureless roam;
'Tis so different all from our loved home!
* See annotations to Malczewski. We can only add here that
the word " Kozak" applies figuratively especially to those who were
bora in Ukraine ; hence when one says he conies from " Kozaczyzna,"
it means that he comes from the land of the " Kozaks," that is to say,
from " Ukraine." Here the poet, though a nobleman calls himself a
Kozak, being born and brought up in Ukraine.
ZALESKI. 299
U NAS INACZEJ.
(Bohdana Zaleskiego.)
Smutnoz tu smutno, bracia, za Dunajem,
I w oczach mokro, bo sercami tajem;
Ludzie nas nudzq. i swiaf caly nudzi;
Cudzo och pusto srod s"wiata i ludzi!
Nie ma bo rady dla duszy kozaczej ;
U nas inaczej inaczej inaczej !
U nas inaczej Och! Ojczyzna Lasza,
To wszech sJowianska i krolowa nasza,
Bracia, zginiemy za ni^., kiedy skinie,
Ale snid b^dziem o swej Ukrainie.
Nie ma bo rady dla duszy kozaczej ;
U nas inaczej inaczej inaczej !
U nas inaczej ! I bujnie i milo,
Hej ! nie zast^puj na drodze mogilo !
Nie s*ciel si$ cieniem! niech sokole oko
K^pie w burzanach lubo a szeroko!
Nie ma bo rady dla duszy kozaczej ;
U nas inaczej inaczej inaczej !
U nas inaczej ! Po nad Ukrain%,
Wskros okolic% jarz%c% si, sin%,
Boze spiewaki ci%gn^. w w rozne strony;
Az w uszach klaszcze, taki gwar zm^cony!
Nie ma bo rady dla duszy kozaczej ;
U nas inaczej inaczej inaczej !
300 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
'Tis different with us! what I've secretly planned,
Or in Duma sing, my horse can understand ;
He neighs in his way; of his tabun * thinks he?
Ah, he and I are twins, both yearning to be free!
Here the Kozak's spirit must pleasureless roam;
'Tis so different all from our own loved home!
'Tis different with us! sad notes e'er are sung,
Because 'tis sepulchral, and the graves among;
They breathe the spirit of our great sires and praise
Glories and victories of their olden days!
Here the Kozak's spirit must pleasureless roam ;
'Tis so different all from our own loved home !
'Tis different with us ! far more glad and gay,
Lively beats the heart; pour out no wine I pray!
Intoxication seems the air itself to fill ;
When I wish to carouse I shall with a will!
Here the Kozak's spirit must pleasureless roam;
'Tis so different all from our own loved home!
'Tis different with us! love and longing here
As two strands of the thread of this life appear.
With tears, God, I entreat a boon of Thee,
That in Heaven Thou'll give Ukraine to me!
Here the Kozak's spirit must pleasureless roam;
'Tis so different all fi-om our own loved home!
* A herd of wild horses.
ZALESKI. 301
U nas inaczej Co zaSpiewam w dumie,
Co w glowie knowam brat kon moj rozumie ;
Rzy po swojemu: czy tabun pami^ta?
Och! za wolnosci% t^sknimy blizni^ta!
Nie ma bo rady dla duszy kozaczej ;
U nas inaczej inaczej inaczej !
U nas inaczej ! Wci^z nuta zaloby,
Bo namogilna, bo pomiedzy groby
Ku duchom ojcow przygrywa wspaniale
ich minionych i bojach i chwale:
Nie ma bo rady dla duszy kozaczej ;
U nas inaczej inaczej inaczej !
U nas inaczej ! JakoS Izej weselej,
Krew gra burzliwiej: oj wina mi nie lej!
Samem powietrzem po pianemu
A kiedy hulam to na teb, na
Nie ma bo rady dla duszy kozaczej ;
U nas inaczej inaczej inaczej !
U nas inaczej ! Milosd i t^sknota,
To jak dwie prz^dki naszego zywota.
Bozez moj, Boze! Izami rnodl^ Ciebie!
Jak umr^, daj mi Ukrain^ w niebie!
Nie ma bo rady dla duszy kozaczej ;
U nas inaczej inaczej inaczej !
302 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
TO MY GUITAR.
Thou dear companion of my spring,
My soul confides its grief to thee ;
Let the sad plainings of each string
Drown all rny sighs melodiously.
And let thy murmurs, joined with mine,
A soothing as of dreams impart,
While from these walls at day's decline,
Their notes rebounding thrill my heart.
Sweetly intoxicate each sense,
Chase from my eyes this mist of pain;
From earth's cold desert bear me hence,
My only solace! on thy strain.
Through all my sad and vanished years
Few happy hours to me were known ;
Hope's longing only joined to fears
And disappointment were my own.
One moment comes, another goes,
My years like autumn leaves grow dry;
When will this pilgrim journey close
This exile and an end draw nigh?
I do not dread Eternity;
Death in my soul awakes no fear:
There wait the golden days for me,
Which I have sought so vainly here.
Companion of my life's sad spring,
My soul confides it's grief to thee;
Let the low plaining from thy string
Drown all my sighs melodiously.
.fACHOWICZ. 303
JACHOWICZ.
STANISLAUS JACHOWICZ was born at Dzikow, in Ga-
licia, 17th of April, 1796. His father (who was a
plenipotentiary of Count Tarnowski) died when Stan-
islaus was but a child; but his pious mother took great
care in his education. The boy exhibited excellent
qualities of heart and mind from his very childhood;
no punishment was ever resorted to in bringing up the
lad; an appeal from the mother to her son's heart
sufficed in every instance. He went to the gymnasium
at Stanislawow, where he was always the first among
the scholars in learning and deportment, and afterward
attended the Faculty of Philosophy in the University
of Lemberg from 1815 to 1818. The celebrated Pro-
fessor Maas prized him very highly, and corresponded
with him. In the latter part of 1818 he went to War-
saw, where he entered in an official capacity the depart-
ment of Procurator-General of the Kingdom of Poland.
It was here that he became acquainted with the poet
Brodzinski. But the duties of an official life had no
charms for him; the bent of his mind led him alto-
gether in a different direction; he soon gave himself up
to the occupation of a private teacher. His first fables
were published at Plock in 1824. Five of his smaller
works passed through two editions; one passed through
three, and his fables through six, different editions.
Then came the publication of " Thoughts in Regard
How to Gain a Correct Knowledge of the Foundations of
the Polish Language " Warsaw, 1828. Jachowicz left
in manuscript " Sketches of Polish History," in verse;
also a spelling-book, copiously illustrated with wood-cuts.
304 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
All who knew lachowicz personally testify to the
nobleness of his nature, and to his great friendship of
children; and so long as the little rising generation will
speak the language of their grandmothers they will
carry his name to the remotest posterity. His fables
and proverbs can be found in almost every house in
Poland. The last edition of his works was published
in Warsaw in four volumes 1848. Besides these he
published a new collection entitled "A Hundred New
Stories " Warsaw, 1853. The substance of his fables
is an invention adapted for the understanding and the
necessities of children. In these little stories we find
the children's world dramatized; their subjects do not
touch the concerns of grown people, or any intricate
relations of life; they simply concern the relations of
children, their little adventures, contacts, and relations
with their parents, society, etc. The author endeavors
to imbue the little folks with virtues of religion and
pleasing shadings of their e very-day situations. He
pursues their little shortcomings and their little foibles
in the same good-natured way and degree of childish-
ness ; the form, too, in which they are written possesses
also its peculiarly interesting manner. Jachowicz
understood that the essence of a fable is not an alle-
gory, but an example, and that allegorical examples
are not practical for children; for a child there is no
better example than to show it the doings of another
child. Jachowicz also comprehended the truth that the
heroes of his stories were not animals or trees, but
children. His manner of telling things is so easy and
lucid that every child can understand him without any
trouble, although sometimes he moralizes too long.
He died in Warsaw the 24th of December, 185T.
JACHOWICZ. 305
SUNSET.
The sun went down, with it one more day has passed away;
The church-bell heralded its death through the twilight grey:
To-morrow, at the same time and hour, with bell-tones clear,
Another day shall disappear ;
And after that a third, and so
Our whole life day by day shall go
An old man thought, up and down he paced with feeble tread.
What does the old man mutter? the thoughtless children said.
THE OLD MAN.
Gaily with your pastimes you amuse yourselves to-day,
But your life is fleeting imperceptibly away.
See you the sunset, children fair?
Only look! see over there:
The clouds with red and gold inwrought,
Their play a moment was forgot.
And while they looked with earnestness
The old man spoke of sinfulness
Repentance and a saving grace,
How swiftly day to day gives place ;
And of the vanities of earth,
They understood not then its worth.
In riper years alone their might
The sunset shone upon their sight.
They thought of what the old man said many years ago,
And finer feelings filled their hearts all with a holy glow.
The world's snares deceived them no more,
Love of wealth and glory was o'er;
Flown away as if with the wind,
And if for earthly joys they pined
The old man's sunset crossed their mind.
20
306 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
THE LITTLE ORPHAN.
Mother! but speak, dispel my dread,
'Tis your own daughter, hear her plea;
I kneel and weep beside your bed,
Awake and say a word to me!
Mother ! the hands my lips have pressed
Are cold as ice. Oh, for God's sake
No longer in this coffin rest;
Open your eyes, mother, awake!
I cannot think you will not rise,
They say you will waken never;
mamma dear, open your eyes,
Don't you love me well as ever?
Arise, arise, from that white bed,
It looks as if it were a tomb,
And press me to your breast instead,
My heart will break within this gloom!
Ah, you keep still, my mother dear,
You wish me all alone to stay;
Must I be left an orphan here,
Torn from my mother's arms for aye?
1 have never been away from you,
Oh, may I never, never be;
But to the grave let me go, too,
Can you seek Heaven without me?
You are so good, mother, I plead
That you will look on me with love,
And with the good Lord intercede
To join us in his home above!
JACHOWICZ. 307
MOTHER'S WARNING.
My son, said a mother, if you would be my delight,
From thy soul's depths love truth and right;
Teach your heart to loathe deeply every form of wrong,
Shun evil when alone as when 'mid a watchful throng.
The youth promised his mother, and in his eye shone clear
The light of truth she knew that his promise was sincere.
In a few days thereafter it happened on his way
The youth passed a neighbor's garden filled with blossoms
gay
Just at that time of summer when fragrant buds disclose
In its charming beauty the queen of flowers, the rose,
To reach and pluck the fairest the eager youth essayed,
When something whispered him of the promise he had
made.
His hand dropped he paused to think he listened to the
voice,
A future life of right or wrong waited on his choice.
But another voice said: what does one rose signify?
The owner will forgive it, no harm therein can lie,
If you leave them as they are their hours of bloom are few;
Reach and pluck one, you shall take a sweet rose home with
you.
No one will reprove you; there are plenty, take your choice;
And he almost believed for a time that evil voice.
Your promise to your mother, 'twas his heart's voice he heard,
He who is good and honest will never break his word.
He resisted the temptation, the flowers untouched remained,
He heard his mother's warning, and a victory was gained!
THE LITTLE JEWESS.
A little Jewish girl, pale and thin, in humble guise,
Was walking, with her hands covering her eyes,
When a lady from her window marked her feeble tread,
And sent her maid to her with a piece of bread.
308 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
Thus having done her duty she felt much happiness.
What is more pleasant than easing the distress
Of the poor orphan? But out of breath the maid came back.
"Do you know," she said, " my mistress dear, alack!
That is a Jewish girl; who e'er thought to help a Jew?"
The good lady was offended. " Shame on you!
She is poor, and therefore she deserves our aid," she said;
" Go forthwith, I bid you, give to her the bread.
She is a fellow creature; the creeds don't signify;
The sun shines upon us all, impartially."
THE WIDOW'S MITE.
A money-box was fastened up in a public place,
And many with indiff'rence as they passed apace
Bead "Offering for the Poor;" thereon they turned away
Without putting in a penny for many a day.
It stood quite empty, till at last
A poor woman dropped her mite, a penny, as she passed.
Next, seeing her, a rich man stopped,
Who some ducats dropped.
The less wealthy, moved by the sight, added to the store
Each a florin more.
Another one, who had seen the widow give her mite,
Dropped a dollar bright.
Whence comes this liberality, this golden shower?
'Tis the example of the good. It is virtue's power
That brings the penny shining gold.
Perhaps to this hour time had rolled,
And the money-box, now burdened, remained empty quite
Had not the poor and humble widow given her mite.
Good example works wonders for the right'
KORZENIOWSKI. 309
KORZENIOWSKI.
JOSEPH KORZENIOWSKI, at the beginning of his career,
was a poet of purely classic character, but when the
inspiration of new ideas came upon him he was regen-
erated in the spirit. Still this awakening was not spon-
taneous, but was caused by side influences, and it was
doubtless for this reason that his own influence on the
Polish literature, at the beginning of this change, was
so inconsiderable. He was one of the young poets
who began to write -originally for the stage. He shifted,
however, from classic tragedy to a new style of dramas,
in which he imitated Shakspeare. His classic trag-
edy bears the name of "Pelopids," but his "Clara"
and "Angelique," written in measured rhyme, are of a
different cut. "The Carpathian Mountaineers" is a
drama which is considered a masterpiece in Polish lit-
erature. The same merit claims " The Monk," telling
of a life of temptation and the death of Boleslas the
Bold. But perhaps still greater is his historical drama,
"Andrew Batory," where, for the first time, Korzen-
iowski endeavored to awaken the remote past and en-
rich the literature of his country with an historical play,
and in this difficult task he came out victorious. He
delineated in a masterly manner all the characters of
the drama with great historical truth, with which he
embellished this remarkable production.
In the comedy "The Jews" the poet shows unmis-
takably that he is well experienced in the ways of the
world and a superior judge of the human heart. He is
the first, too, who showed what significance comedy
had in a social point of view. In his comedy "The
310 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
Moustache and the Wig" old Polish types stand in
bold relief alongside of Frenchified ways of the times
of Stanislaus Augustus.
Although Korzeniowski is a perfect master of the
language in all his pieces, he evinces great carelessness
in interesting his reader or spectator. In the old dia-
logues of the prologue it was announced at the begin-
ning what the subject of the play would be; so it is
with Korzeniowski. He tells us in advance what will
be the text of the drama, weakening thereby the inter-
est of the play; and unmindful about carrying out the
intrigue he loses the power of the comic. On that ac-
count he is placed below Fredro,* but his lyric poetry
belongs to the first class.
Korzeniowski was born in 1797, in Galicia, and was
educated at Czernovitz, and then at Krzemieniec.
After finishing his studies he went to "Warsaw, where
he accepted a situation as a private teacher, offered him
by Gen. Vincent Krasinski, and later he obtained a
position as librarian in the great library of Count
Zamoyski. In 1823 he was called to the professorship
of Polish literature at Krzemieniec, where he lectured
till 1830. The year after he entered the cathedra of
literature and Roman antiquities at the University of
Kiev, and in 1836 of Polish literature, where he lec-
tured only a few months, the cathedra being abolished.
In 1837 he was one of the directors of the Universit}'
of Charkow, and in 1846 was appointed the director of
the state gymnasium at Warsaw. He then was hon-
ored with the dignity of the office of Visitator of schools
and colleges, and still later was made a commissioner
of creeds and instruction. While occupying this im-
portant office he was greatly influential in the arrange-
*A distinguished Polish dramatist.
KORZENTOWSKL 311
ment of plans for the chief school at Warsaw. In 1862,
suffering from ill health, he journeyed to -a Bohemian
water-cure, but that availed him not, and he died at
Dresden in 1863.
His dramas were for the first time published at Poc-
zajow, in 1826; "The Carpathian Mountaineers" at
Wilno, 1843; "The Monk" at Warsaw, 1830; it was
translated into Hebrew by Julian Klaczko; "Andrew
Batory," Warsaw, 1846; "The Jews," Wilno, 1843.
THE LAST LABOR.
(DUMA.)
Through thicket and through brush and field
Traveled a man whose form revealed
The weight of years. His eyes anon.
Fell on the staff he leaned upon.
Slowly he walked his native strength
Trouble and age had sapped at length
With many deep and cruel wounds
Gained on forgotten battle-grounds.
Every day he this path would trace,
On his shoulder bearing a spade.
In the graveyard, resting a space,
To dig a grave he then assayed.,
Till, weary with his work, at length
Again he rested in the shade
And at his feet he placed the spade.
Once refreshing his wasted strength,
He thus reposed with his dim eyes
Resting heavenward on the skies,
As if he sought throughout the space
The bright shades of his past to trace,
The pleasures of his by-gone days
That never more shall meet his gaze.
312 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
Filled with emotion as he thought,
His faint and trembling voice awoke,
Called back the past with mem'ry fraught,
And thus unto himself he spoke:
Evening's hush the valleys keep,
The sun descends behind the hill;
O'er the grass the dew-drops creep,
The fragrant wind sighs soft and still,
While utter silence reigns alone.
No stir about; all life seems past
Save that my heart, so weary grown,
Beats, oh! so loudly, and so fast!
The spell of utter silence round
Most grave and solemn thoughts recall.
Here is the inevitable bound!
This is .the heritage of all !
For all the roads are leading here,
And wafted on their wings we come.
Every earthly hope and fear
Endeth here their weary sum.
Entrance 'tis to the spirit home,
Welcome resting place for mortals,
I would gladly pass its portals,
Never more to toil and roam.
Willingly would I meet the change
Happily lie upon thy breast,
Not feeling that the land is strange,
But as I were at home and rest.
I have lived through many a year,
Have seen on earth much change and gloom;
Relations, brothers, friends so dear,
Are sleeping in the silent tomb.
My voice, that sleep can never wake,
But through the gloom this thought steals o'er,
Life's billows bearing me shall break,
KORZENIOWSKI. 313
And cast me on the unknown shore.
My hold upon the earth is weak,
My sunset rays so dimly blend,
A few more tears upon my cheek,
A few more sighs, and then the end-!
All the phantoms of younger days,
And all delusions of the heart,
Pleasures of glory, love's sweet ways,
Like sounds of yesterday depart.
Long lines of years have disappeared
Like a cloud scattered by the blast,
Troubles that vexed, pleasures that cheered,
All come to nothing at the last.
Few the memories that we gain
From such a harvest large and full
From the abundance there remain
Few roses mid the thorns to pull.
All was silent. He ceased so speak,
And with tears on his pallid cheek
Rose to his feet, and tremblingly
Began to dig his grave once more,
Till, growing weary as before,
Reposed again beneath the tree,
With the spade lying at his feet.
Thus toiled and rested he each day,
When shades of night the sunset meet,
And o'er the world in darkness lay
His last rude shelter in the land
He dug with his own trembling hand. .
Thus in the graveyard he was found,
His head uplifted from the ground,
His eyes in his last sleep composed
And his blue lips were tightly closed.
Still was his voice at rest each limb
And his grave was ready for him.
314 POETS AND POETRY OF POLAND.
WASILEWSKT.
EDMUND WASILEWSKI was a poet of the heart. He
seemed to prefer being shut- up within himself to ex-