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Wanda

Chapter 1: WANDA.
By Juliusz Rawicz Przyjemski
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About This Book

A dramatic poem set in legendary Poland retells the sacrifice of a queen who confronts suitors, national peril, and the choice between private love and public duty. The work blends spoken scenes, choral passages, and supernatural tableaux—goblins, water-spirits, and a prophetic bard—to stage moral debates about patriotism, feminine virtue, and the role of song in sustaining national identity. Its structure moves from lyrical prologue through courtside deliberations to a tragic resolution in which self-sacrifice is presented as the ultimate patriotic act, framed by romantic imagery and national lament.

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Title: Wanda

a dramatic poem

Author: Juliusz Rawicz Przyjemski

Translator: Anna Maria May

Release date: January 16, 2026 [eBook #77708]

Language: English

Original publication: London: The Chiswick Press, 1863

Credits: Charlene Taylor and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WANDA ***
WANDA.
❦

WANDA.

A DRAMATIC POEM.
BY COLONEL J. PRZYIEMSKI,
AUTHOR OF “SKETCHES OF THE POLISH MIND.”
“Noch köstlicheren Samen bergen
Wir, trauernd, in der Erde Schoos,
Und hoffen, dass er aus den Särgen
Erblühen soll zu schönerm Loos.”
Schiller.
TRANSLATED BY A. M. M.
PRIVATELY PRINTED.
1863.

INTRODUCTION.

s the early history of Poland is almost unknown in England, it may be necessary to state that this little poem is merely a poetical version of a real event, the memory of which is dear to every Polish heart. Wanda (the daughter of the great founder of Cracow), having really devoted herself to death for the sake of her country, under the circumstances and from the motives which are here assigned.

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

Wanda, Queen of Poland.
} her Maidens.
Lesja,
Halina,
Rzewna,
Leszek, a Polish Officer.
A Bard.
Hermann, Ambassador to Rüdiger, Prince of Germany.
A Fisherman.
Choruses of Maidens, Warriors, People, Goblins, and Water Spirits.

PROLOGUE.

Bard.
less Poland, bless the poet and his lay!
Look not upon the smallness of his gift,
But as the widow’s mite that gift receive;
Too well thou knowest whose the robber band
That on our treasures ruthlessly hath seized;
Alas! this nameless vampyre long hath quench’d,
In choicest life-blood, and in burning tears,
The lightning kindled fire of sacred song!
A hundred years with muffled tread have pass’d,
Since, by a threefold fetter firmly bound,
The tuneful harp hath ceased its thrilling voice,—
Since, by a threefold spell, the poet-soul
From home and country hath been exiled far.
Yet good and evil wage their wonted war
Here, as elsewhere, with varying success,
Though rarely may the good victorious rise,
And as the spirit of the age appear,
While the proud powers of darkness vanquish’d bow.
Then, and then only, glows one sudden gleam,—
Then, and then only, sounds one thrilling tone
From that charm’d cavern of oblivion’s shore
Where burn the poet’s harp and heart unseen;
Unseen as yet, but from those raging flames
Their seeming prey immortal yet shall rise,—
Rise, Phœnix-like, above the hostile blaze,
And win a wond’ring world’s admiring gaze.

1.  As it is at the present day, fortified by the Austrians against Cracow.

WANDA.

ACT I.

CRACOW, AS IN LEGENDARY TIMES.

Scene I.

Goblins, Water Spirits.
Chorus of Goblins.
ing on, thou weird old salamander,
In magic fiery mazes wander,
Thy burning song may hurt thyself,
But cannot warm one shivering elf;
’Twill disenchant thy mind deluded,
And yet our power is not illuded,
In baleful spells we keep thee bound,
And firmly are the fetters wound.
List to that magic spell, and say
If thou canst exorcise its sway,
But for a time,
By foamy froth of hollow hope,
Or reminiscences raised up
Of Poland’s prime!—
Hither, ye demons dire,
Of rapine, and murder, and spite,
Perjury, falsehood, conspire,
All in one compact unite;
Reach out the hand,
A chosen band
Of mortals shall greet you,
And lovingly treat you,
As brothers in arms;
Who sneer down as vain
Each national claim,
And of right
Make light,
Though pray’d for in common humanity’s name.
What, tremble ye, cowards! delay not, draw near,
If God be a fiction, what is there to fear?
By your gorgon-like aspect, congeal’d into stone,
All helpless and heedless the nations look on.
In the name of all things holy
Desecration shall be bless’d,
Sin itself be canonized,
At the triple crown’s behest.
Hither spirits, powers of evil!
Soon your mighty chief, the Devil,
Gives that watchword to your ring
Which no minstrel can out-sing.
Write then, weak poet, on the changing sand
Which skirts the boasted river of thy land;
Write thy dull song of Poland’s daughters rare,
And all the heroic virtues of the fair;
Oblivion’s waves shall soon engulf thy rhymes,
Siberia’s snows be wafted o’er the lines,
Ashes of Polish bones that moulder’d down,
Where Spielberg and Spandau portentous frown,
Shall closely hide them with a spectral pall,
And from the shuddering eye shall cover all.
Sing, if thou wilt, of patriotic queens,
Of sacrifice of self, and all such themes;
Foreign oppressors soon, short-sighted fool,
Triumphantly shall reign with iron rule,
Though fearing, hating you with deadly hate,
And kindling you to hatred all too late:
When ye shall see the Vistula, beside
Her hundred sisters, with your life-blood dyed,
And when the Polish Wawel’s cannon shows
A front ’gainst Poland, not ’gainst Poland’s foes.
Then to your poets, into exile driven
Will time and leisure bounteously be given
To groan in cadence drear a worthless song,
To wail those foreign hills and groves among;
There, where a happy ignorance of grief
Forbids e’en sympathy to lend relief,
Where echo only answers with a groan,
The language and the woe alike unknown.
Chorus of Water Spirits from the Vistula.
Away, ye dark spirits, in vain are your cries,
Who mock at misfortune, and virtue despise.
Ye symbols of hard and material prose,
Of poetry living or rhyming the foes;
Away! for the poet’s vocation sublime
To you is a problem unsolved for all time;
Heaven’s bolts lifeless fall when they reach the morass,
And thus the ideal with minds of your class.
Look up then, and know that your reign’s at an end;
From the Wawel see Wanda’s fair maidens descend;
At the aspect of innocence, beauty and love,
Quail, quail, ye dark demons! and shrinking remove;
Haste ere your weak vision be quench’d by the light,
Ye birds of ill-omen, ye owls of the night!
[Exeunt.

Scene II.

A Bard (lost in meditation); Lesja, at the head of a train of Maidens; Wanda soon after; Rzewna later.
Lesja.
ail to thee, Bard, thou favour’d of the gods!
Their very language not unknown to thee,
Through whom the aspirations of mankind,
Formless and voiceless, dreaming i’ the dark,
Instinctive upward, shape immortal find,
And, dumb no longer, blossom into song.
We seek thee, Wanda seeks thee, she, our queen,
Would fain from thy experience counsel draw,
And in the labyrinth where she walks perplext,
Sighs for the clue of wisdom; as I speak,
See she approaches with enquiring face.
Wanda.
Friend of my father, servant of our gods!
Thou knowest well the answer I have given
To all the messengers by princes sent,
Who thirst for power, not love, who thinly veil
’Neath flattering smiles ambition’s anxious eye,
Seeking not Wanda’s heart, but Poland’s throne.
Yet may I always distance suitors thus,
And can I, ’mid the gaudy counterfeits
Round me, sincerity’s fair form discern,
And know to whom through very love for ME,
My dearer self, my people, will be dear?
Say, on what altars shall I incense burn?
What oracle consult? I stand in doubt,
In me the maiden and the queen contend.
Fain to the gods would I be consecrate
In vestal purity, as priestess dwell,
Tending the sacred fire; yet can it be?
Say, minstrel, may such blissful lot be mine?
Bard.
Nay, nay, my queen, th’ eternal law of love,
In earth and heaven the same, such choice forbids;
Blessing and fruitfulness are e’er twin terms;
Society is usefulness and pleasure;
Queens have a high vocation, to uphold—
Pure morals, fervent zeal for public good,
And glad obedience to their country’s laws,
By eloquent example; ’tis the soul
Of precept, words must cold and lifeless fall,
When contradicted by the life, my queen.
Thy blessed mother with myself, her friend,
Have taught thee both to shun hypocrisy,
And own the faith sincere and true of love,
Obeying thus the dread celestial powers.
Unfruitfulness is their most dreadful curse
To mother earth, and to her earthly daughters;
Look round where’er thy eye, thy thoughts can bear thee,
Where do the gods command to loneliness?
Where rather do they not with blessing join
Their ancient edict, “Love and multiply?”
The grain of sand beside the Vistula,
The vast Carpathians round our land that rise,
The lowly worm that creeps unnoticed by,
The lordly eagle soaring to the sun,
All things in earth and air, and in the seas,
Obey alike the great primeval law.
Let but the will of gods be reverenced,
And sin to nature wears a stranger’s face.
Free-will, our highest gift, confuse thou not
With self-will, which is sin, and learn to know,
“In union there is strength.” The marriage bond,
By Heaven appointed, is a sacred tie;
Contempt of it, a devilish invention.
Heart-chills and conscience-stings seek solitude,
And immorality her cloak assumes;
Despite the many sanctimonious names
’Neath which cold-heartedness and egotism,
The weak, the timid, or the bad, invite,
To seek withdrawal from our human claims:
Celibacy is still and must be sin!

[Confused voices are heard outside, and presently Rzewna enters.

Rzewna.
Celibacy is still and must be sin!My queen!
Rüdiger’s messenger is here, the same
Who ten days since sued for your sovereign hand;
Fiercely he storms, demanding to be heard.
The sacred rules of hospitality
Alone deter the offended sentinels
From striking down the swearing ruffian;
The tumult grows, they wait their queen’s commands.
Wanda.
Let him come in, though a bird of omen ill,
Yet bread and salt should never be denied.

[Exeunt Rzewna, Lesja, and the Maidens.

Scene III.

Wanda, the Bard, later Hermann.
Wanda (with emotion).
instrel! thou seest, not causelessly I seek thee;
Now, from the store experience provides,
Give me a crumb of counsel; youth so proud
In knowledge, yet in wisdom is but poor.
Oh! of thy inspiration let one beam
Illume a mind oppress’d by fogs of doubt.
Bard.
Be thy own heart thy guide, thence issues forth
The fount of inspiration, and there holds
Conscience her awful oracle, and there
Honour to duty hath an altar rear’d.
Our best adviser is our conscience still,
Though often to her voice our ears are deaf,
To honied flattery list’ning ’stead of truth.
Bad counsellors are poisoners of our bliss,
And dig the grave of honour; this concerns
Princes yet more than peoples.

[Hermann enters.

Hermann.
No greetings, queen, for courtesies have ceased
Between my lord and you; he, Rüdiger,
The mighty Prince of Germany, brooks not
From you the insult of a daring “No!”
But on the frontier of your Poland stands—
Soon, soon to be its frontier no more—
To quench with trusty steel his vengeance thirst,
To tame your pride down into lack of will,
Through utter helplessness of slavery, yet still
Pitying, he lingers, graciously declares
Yet once again, if you will now receive
His proffer’d hand, the gathering cloud shall clear,
And ’twixt the rival hosts no blood shall flow.
But if your bold defiance you repeat,
Woe to you then, rash woman, and false queen.
The German armies, ranged in dread array,
Uplift the sword already, which will teach
That right is to the strongest.
Wanda (with dignity, and in a tone of proud contempt).
“As is the master, so the servant,” thus
Our proverb says, and truly, if I judge
Your lord from you, your people from you both,
I needs must deem, as neighbours you are bad,
As men unpolish’d, and as warriors!—
Why that’s to prove!—we’ll test your skill in arms.
Conquest and spoil we seek not, Poland’s sons
Take no fierce pleasure in the clang of war,
And know too well what love of country means
To stretch with greedy grip toward other lands.
The plough, the pruning hook, the poet’s dream,
The minstrel’s harp, and sweet domestic joys,
These are their dear delight; but dearer yet,
Dearer than life itself, is liberty!
And when their peaceful industry is marr’d,
And hostile voices thunder, duty’s call
Presses the sword in the reluctant grasp,
And rings our watchword, “Trust th’ immortal gods!”
Threats and the threat’ner alike we scorn!
Hermann.
What! scorn to Rüdiger?
Wanda.
Peace! servant of a master who would fain
Subdue a feeble woman through her fears;
Know that our virtue to weakmindedness
Degenerates not, nor to the coward soul;
And if the guest insults the ancient rules,
Which form the code of hospitality,
From all its duties is the host set free.
In you I see the unblushing messenger
Of jarring words, uncourteous and harsh;
One moment, and you cease to be my guest,
And of my neighbour, the ambassador.
Say to your prince, my no still no remains;
With us a word once given is never changed.

[Exit Hermann.

Scene IV.

Wanda, Leszek.
The clang of arms is heard in the distance.
Leszek (entering hurriedly.)
y queen! I bring this strange intelligence:
The German army, with a vast array,
Have cross’d the weakly guarded frontier;
Havoc and sacrilege their march attend.
Wanda.
Let all the dukes their varied corps assemble,
Wanda herself will lead them to the field;
The bravest people that the world can boast,
Shall never murmur at their timid queen,
But rather say, she burns to be our guide;
To combat for our country, and our gods;
Dread powers! be this, our rightful cause, your care,
’Tis yours to award us victory, or death!

[Exeunt omnes.

ACT II.

The scene changes to the bank of the Vistula, opposite the tomb of Krakus, at Cracow. Divisions of cavalry and infantry march with music and flying banners towards Cracow. The last division of infantry draws up in line of battle.

Scene I.

Warriors, Maidens, later, Wanda.
Chorus of Warriors.
reat were the numbers of the foe,
Their haughtiness as great,
Soon, soon they thought to lay us low,
In boastful scorn elate;
Yet still floats Poland’s banner
Triumphant to the wind;
The snow-white eagle soars unscathed,
And leaves the field behind;
The field where insolence gave way
To valour true and bold,
And love of country held her sway
O’er lust of power and gold.
Praise, praise the great celestial powers,
Th’ almighty gods adore,
For the foe that long hath threaten’d us,
Shall threaten us no more.
Wanda has proved herself a Pole,
A hero in the fight,
Though a modest maiden in her home,
Where gentleness is might.
All through his life mourn’d Krakus,
And in his dying hour,
That, when the oak should fall, there lived
But the wreathing fragile flower;
That no young chieftain of his name
Might wear his father’s crown;
That to a tender maiden’s hand
The sceptre must go down:
But as reflected sunbeams
Within the planet shine,
Thus, thus within thy daughter’s soul,
Oh, Krakus! dwelleth thine.
Thank’d be the gods, bless’d be the gods,
All hail, immortal powers!
The foe must hide his vanquish’d head,
And Poland yet is ours.
Chorus of Maidens (approaching mounted).
Alone rode forth Wanda, and left us behind her,
Stern foe to all fetters, yet duty can bind her;
“But deem not that battle is woman’s vocation,
Oh ye! to whom gods grant a happier station,
The duties of queens ever form an exception,
Retirement quit ne’er, save at Heaven’s direction.”
Thus saying, she mounted; her fair figure tracing
We watch’d, till it met th’ horizon’s embracing,
Noon melting the clouds away, fold after fold,
Enwrapt her in raiment of azure and gold.
The tumult of battle she hid from our sight,
But we saw her when vict’ry succeeded to fight,
With hands upward raised and with knees lowly bending,
’Twixt enemies flying and warriors home wending;
She follows us now, while in praise we unite,
The last on the field, and the first in the fight.
Thank, thank the great gods! we are free as the air,
See Cracow once more, and the Vistula hear—
The silver-voiced Vistula—gliding along,
The pride of our land, of our minstrels the song.
The sun’s parting beams on old Wawel’s head play,
Their gold-wreath is hiding his time-honour’d grey,
Glad symbol inviting our thoughts to ascend,
For light is eternal, though time hath an end.
Yet as the muttering thunder-clouds
Deep silence follow,
Thus to peaceful joy succeed
Sharp thrills of sorrow;
And the rapture of the present,
Too glad for earth,
Tells, since gods are even-handed,
Of coming dearth.
Ever must life’s cup be mingled,
Pain is our due,
Purest nectar we have tasted,
Now for the rue!
Dark foreboding pales the glowing
Of parting day,
In those creeping mists embodied
Dun and grey.
Wanda (dismounting).
Dismount, my sisters, give your steeds the rein,
And let us kiss our country’s precious soil;
Hail to thee, Wawel! hail, fair Vistula!
Ye are our parents, reverence and love
Rise in our hearts whene’er we gaze on you;
For you the Pole girds on his sword; for you
Each Polish mother, from its very birth,
Teaches her child that to renounce oneself
From love of country is the loftiest aim:
With patriotic songs the infant ear
Is soothed to slumber, and again they thrill
When morning sun-beams scatter happy dreams,
His laughing eyes unsealing; woe to those
Who, chill’d in heart by numbing selfishness,
In private interests wrap their meagre souls,
With eyes averted from the public weal!
Embitter’d are their lives by conscience-stings,
And general contempt: when death arrests,
And bears them trembling to the viewless world,
The gods avert their faces; unrestrain’d,
Darkness and chaos claim their lawful prey,
For selfishness is hateful to the gods.
Ah! dying words from dear paternal lips!
Though twelve long weary months have drifted by,
Since they were utter’d, yet I hear them still
In yon broad river’s eager rushing tide,
Re-echoing as a glorious welcome back;
The winds repeat them as they hurry past,
Borne from Carpathian summits; and methought
The deep-mouth’d trumpets thrill’d them in mine ear,
When raged the conflict. Dearest father, hear!
Soul of my soul! ’tis with thy heart I love
My country, worthily to serve her cause.
This is my only wish—
[After a pause.
Yet no aspiring wish, but iron will
Has won the day; thy long embattled hosts,
Who know defeat in theory alone,
Have quell’d the boasting voice of insolence
In thunderings of valour, teaching thus
Big words not always mate with lofty deeds.
Though by a woman led, the Poles are free!
Not through my virtue; thy remembrance fired
Each warrior breast with superhuman zeal;
Krakus, though viewless, was their leader still.
Yet oh, these battles! they may bring us fame,
Yet are the curse of nations, for renown
May dim our love of peace, as golden lures
May chill the peasant toward his humble cot
I’the rural valley, industry must droop,
The car of triumph override the plough;
War tears the husband from his wife and child,
The lord of home becomes a stranger there.
Woe, woe to those with whom the thirst for fame
Exceeds the love of country! yet, alas!
’Tis through this wretched wrangling for my hand
That clang of arms and tramp of hosts are heard:
This feeble hand the sceptre cannot wield.
Sharp are the winds round mountain peaks that blow;—
The isolated splendour of a throne
Is dreary for a woman; not for her
The glory and the pomp, but modest shade,
Far otherwise her lot by Heaven decreed,
To watch o’er children, nestling to her side;
To smooth care-furrows from her husband’s brow,
Wafting around the perfume sweet of love,
And meekness, as the wilding clematis
Clasps the dark fir-tree with caressing wreath.
Wanda can never be her country’s shield:
Her weakness still new discords will awake,
Midst cowards round her, clam’rous for her crown.
Alas! that heroes should have grown so rare
Among our neighbours! Oh, the weariness
Of ruling! Poland needs a worthy head,
And yet no chieftain will her sons elect,
While lives the daughter of their darling prince.
Though yearning for a king, they long to see
The snow-white banner by his grandson rear’d.
My sorrows and my orphan-hood alone
Deter the generous people from complaint
Of Wanda’s hesitation to adopt
The holy marriage vow. Immortal gods!
Be witness that ’tis not cold-heartedness
That bids me still delay, but rather fear
Lest through ill-choice I mar my country’s weal.
Forbid it, Heaven, that, through a fatal error,
Wanda should set a tyrant o’er her land.
Yet who, alas! to Krakus can succeed
Nor seem unworthy? To the brilliant sun,
The brightest star gives but a glow-worm’s light.
Halina (earnestly and affectionately).
My lovely foster-sister, and my queen,
Why of thyself and thine these dreary doubts
On such a day of glorious victory?
In whose clear brilliancy the golden bond
’Twixt queen and people shines with added glow.
Say, have the Poles less bravely fought to-day
Than is their wont, or was thy leadership
Inferior to a sterner chieftain’s? No!
The timid harebell, and the modest fern,
Seek the same spot that rests the ardent wing
Of sunward soaring bird in upward flight;
Thus grace and valour, maid and warrior, meet
In thee, thou gifted darling of the gods.
Death for their fatherland is sweet to those
Who to thy rule a glad obedience yield;
And danger with her trumpet-call shall rouse
But to a firmer union, kindling all
The singly-scatter’d fires of ardent souls
To one bright flame of power invincible.
The shrouding silence of the solemn past
Thrills into echo at the voice of fame,
Which, roused to memory of thy ancestors,
By deeds of thine, attesting thy descent,
Recounts their glory, bids them live again
In thee embodied; in the midnight heaven,
We hail a newly-risen star with praise,
And for our Wanda thank the immortal gods.
To them we yield the keeping of our land,
Secure and trusting, though their choice elect
Not the proud eagle, but the brooding dove.
And, rather than the eyrie, choose the nest
To guard from desecration; fear thou not,
No sable feathers of ill-omen’d birds
That croak around thee, shall contrast with thine
In hated union, while grey Wawel stands
To blunt the feeble lances of our foes,
And cool their rashness in the rolling flood.

[Exeunt omnes.

ACT III.

Scene I.

The Castle on the Wawel. Wanda surrounded by her Maidens. Leszek enters.
Leszek.
ll hail! accept my reverence, gracious queen!
Behold me from the field return’d, where all
The nation, minstrels, priests, and warriors,
In concourse vast assembled, offer’d praise
And thanks most heartfelt for the vict’ry won.
Your queenly message faithfully I bore,
Commanding to elect a worthy king,
And grant you from the cares of power release.
Vain the command; a murmur low replied,
That swiftly grew to tumult: “Choose a king!
It shall not, cannot be! For though, in truth,
Our Wanda’s lightest wish should be obey’d
With eager loyalty, this wish we hold
To militate against the country’s weal,
She loves beyond her life.” Then rose the Bard,
First of our minstrel sages, and declared,
“The daughter’s wish must to the father’s will
Yield filial obedience, and that will
Bade on her choice depend her country’s fate.”
He ceased; loud rose the general applause,
And each and all in this response unite:
“Whatever prince by Wanda’s queenly hand
Shall be ennobled, him we hail our king;
If none be worthy found, it matters not,
Our maiden queen remains our honour’d chief.
While yet her father lived, his word was law
To every Pole, shall it be less so now,
Stamp’d with the impress of eternity?
In the dark night of loss, each single word,
Before but slightly heeded, gem-like shines.
While Wanda lives, no meaner prince shall rule;
Thus swears the nation: is it falsely said,
The voice of peoples is the voice of gods?”
Wanda (turning away).
Enough! I must submit; and yet ’tis strange,
That voice makes discord with the whisper’d tones
Of conscience, which unceasingly repeat
My people’s love is fatal to their weal.
The very name of such a king as once
Held sway o’er Poland, would restrain our foes;
While Wanda’s name allures to bloody war,
Where greedy tyrants wrangle for the prize.
Return, good Leszek, but accept my thanks;
’Tis good to break a hope whose agonies,
Stretch’d on the rack of terrible suspense,
Crave from despair the death-stroke. Leave me now;
The gods be with thee.
[Exit Leszek.

Scene II.

Wanda, Halina, Maidens.
Chorus of Maidens.
er people’s voice vainly would Wanda withstand,
The glory of Poland, the pride of our land,
Though her father’s proud war horse her gentle hand reins,
Our modest companion in peace she remains.
To her warriors a chieftain, by duty made strong,
Though joining with us in the dance and the song;
To the good who surround us, a rainbow of light,
To the evil, a thunderbolt crashing with might.
As the dawn-waken’d bird, on the blossoming spray,
Heralds in with soft warblings the coming of day,
Thus, Wanda, the deeds of thy future shall ring,
In the song which we hasten in chorus to sing.
“Up, snow-white eagle, up,
The sable wings destroy
That flutter round thy lofty home,
All eager to annoy;
To desecrate thy eyrie
The foe shall not prevail,
Safe in the keeping of the gods,
Thy cause shall never fail.”
Wanda.
Songs, O my sisters, are like ardent sunbeams,
Children of light, they kindle fires of joy!
The conscience of a nation speaks in song,
Fame warbles of the past with silver voice,
And to the dawning future hope sings clear.
Virtues of heroes, and their lofty deeds,
Give to the minstrel an inspiring theme;
Who round those hero brows his glorious songs,
Binds in immortal wreath; from song and fame
Spring the fair roses of eternal worth,
Which, bud on bud, shall ever richer grow,
And fill succeeding ages with perfume.
Halina.
Then will we cheer thee with melodious voice.
Say, shall we sing of Lech th’ aspiring one,
The finder of the snow-white eagle’s nest?
Or how thy father Krakus fought and slew
The dragon of grey Wawel’s dreary caves.
Wanda (sorrowfully).
Nay! break not thus the quiet of reflection,
Say, rather, of sad musings, like a mist,
Damp, cold, and deadly, creeping o’er my heart;
Within an unrelated element,
We lose our very breath, much more our ardour.
For manly deeds the nation praises me,
But Wanda’s glory is in womanhood.
Well says our proverb, “To remain unknown
Is woman’s happiest calling, and her best.”
All, all admire the sunward soaring eagle,
And upward gaze to watch his daring flight;
But with caressing smile the little swallow
By every heart is welcom’d, when she builds
Her soft and humble nest beneath the eaves.
Halina.
Then shall we say that men are earth’s sole rulers,
No fame for us? This, surely, is injustice!
Wanda.
Shall we, weak mortals, dare to call unjust
The dreadful powers who rule the universe?
Nay, rather let us hold as false and vain
Our own opinions; could our wills arrest
The torch of inspiration, and compel
The sudden gleam to yield a steady light
For years, instead of moments, by its rays
We well might read the book of nature, writ
In golden characters of truth and justice;
But in the grey of earthly dusk, ’tis vain
To strain our eyeballs. ’Tis enough to know,
That duty urges men into the field
When danger waits their country, that the world,
The wide, cold world, alone can yield them scope.
While our alloted sphere is quietude;
Nor powerless for that, nor lacking grandeur.
Say! is the awful power of tempests hid
In silent lightning, or in roaring thunder?
Does rosy morn with rash and noisy touch
Withdraw the curtains of the shrouding night,
Or melt them with her smiles, unveiling thus
Alike the eyes and energies of mortals.
The mighty work with tumult, but the mightiest
Can stoop to meekness, nor be less divine.
On us the gods bestow their highest gift;
Brave men befit great actions, loud renown,
But god-like is availing sympathy.
’Tis ours to mourn with mourners, to rejoice
With joyous souls, to polish into beauty
The rough unchisell’d gem that else were wasted;
The noble to caress, the wounded heart
With richly flowing love to soothe, and thus,
Through self-denial and untiring meekness,
To rule the mighty masters of the world.
And if we deem th’ alloted sphere of home
Too narrow for our restless energies, and seek
A wider range, we lose our magic sway.
But since to me the dread celestial powers
A woman’s sweetest privilege deny,
I own myself excepted, though from far
With deep-drawn sigh I view your happier lot.
I take the gods to witness that my heart,
My woman’s heart, thirsts not for empty fame,
But rather aches for love! this weary brow
Throbs bleeding from the leaden crown of power,
And fain would seek repose, forgetfulness,
Upon a loving breast; it may not be!
Why squander words? ’tis time the theme were done.
Adieu, my sisters, by grey Wawel’s walls
Remain protected, rest till morn shall kiss
Soft slumber from your eyelids, then come forth
And seek your Wanda on the tumulus
That covers Krakus; thither now I go
To seek for counsel from the immortal gods,
And learn the final answer I must give
To my expectant people!

Scene III.

Wanda, Leszek, People.

Wanda ascends the hill, the Chorus retires to the left, a vast crowd assembles on the right, and stands opposite the tumulus of Krakus.

Chorus of the People.
wixt queen and people how firm the tie
Of mutual love and loyalty!
Seek ye that magic the wide earth round,
And own that in Poland ’tis strongest found.
Yon mound, half hidden in shadowy haze,
Stands as a herald of better days,
As a word to nations as yet unborn,
An episode bright as the star of morn,
Gilding our history’s chequer’d page,
With beams that shall glitter from age to age.
Ah, better than sounding names and fair
Is the title the kings of Poland bear—
“Loved and loving,” their dearest aim
The hearts of the people to win and claim.
A Polish word is full of meaning,
For the Polish heart is rich in feeling;
Esteem and affection dictate our choice,
When a king is made by the nation’s voice;
And thus, elected by force of merit,
Is safer than those who thrones inherit.
If truth-loving, pious, and brave he prove,
He will ever be served with devotion and love,
And his children’s children we gladly choose,
When at Heaven’s decree the father we lose;
When national the monarch the people is royal,
To king and to fatherland equally loyal,
Since the two are united and blended in one,
And thus our palladium unconquer’d become.
Such! such! was our Krakus, and therefore we swear,
That Wanda, and Wanda alone is his heir!
High rises the tomb where his ashes repose,
Which handfuls of earth all unnumbered compose,
Each brought by a subject and friend as a token
Of fealty and love that can never be broken.
By its green covering sods, lo! we swear it again,
No monarch save Wanda o’er Poland shall reign!

[A thunderstorm approaches; Wanda appears on the summit of the tomb, kneeling, and with hands uplifted in prayer. Leszek steps forward from the midst of the People.

Leszek.
Around the dreary tomb the night wind moans,—
Moans like the voice of some despairing ghost,
Bearing from Cracow most mysterious echoes;
On thunder wheels the frowning storm rolls on,
Towards hoary Wawel, yet from yonder height
Shines our fair Wanda, like a ’wilder’d star.
What doth the dauntless maiden there alone?
On such a night fell spectres stalk abroad;
Methinks she communes with her father’s shade,
Nor trembles; wherefore no? To angel souls
The spirit world is more a home than ours,
Its forms of light to all their thoughts akin,
And Wanda is an angel!

[Wanda rises, descends towards the Vistula, and disappears from the eyes of the spectators, hidden by the declivity. The Bard alone appears before the People; at the same time the sun rises, and Wanda’s Maidens appear for a moment on the tumulus, and then run down the hill to the Vistula. Meanwhile the People’s Chorus is again heard.

People’s Chorus.
As the sunbeams scatter the early dew,
See Wanda’s train, to her orders true!
Yet they seek in vain where she bade them find her;
Each maiden glances before, behind her.
Now the banks of the Vistula rivet their eyes,
And the breeze bears toward us impassion’d cries;
With nameless horror our spirits quail,
What mean those gestures, that frantic wail?

Scene IV.

Leszek, the People, Fisherman, afterwards the Bard.
A Fisherman (coming in hastily).
glorious star hath fallen from the heaven,
That heaven our fatherland, the star our queen.
Yes, ours that was. Alas! our queen no more,
Save in her people’s hearts; the deed was done
Ere I could rescue, and the waters chill
Round Wanda’s lovely form embraced a corpse;
With reverence from that dreary winding-sheet
I raised it as a sad but sacred charge,
Yielding it over to her stricken train.
Oh mourn for Poland! for her light is quench’d.
Leszek (to the Bard, who just appears).
Minstrel, yon fisherman brings evil tidings.
Bard.
Whose grievous import, scarce one hour ago,
One fleeting hour, from Wanda’s lips I heard.
The People (impatiently).
How did you meet with her—where, minstrel, say?
Why did you not prevent the dreadful deed?
Bard.
Throng me not thus with questions, countrymen;
List’ners hear more than eager questioners,
When hearts for mutual satisfaction seek,
The ear must leave the mouth its share of time;
Not in thought only, but in speech and life,
Yield his own way to each; the poet’s soul
Lives ever in another world, although
In outward presence he may dwell with you,
Give him free scope, his words will bring you calmness.
While you choose kings, the bard admires a flower,
And while from pressure of the busy brain
Your full heads ache, his soul responsive thrills
To graceful aspens, trembling, zephyr-kiss’d,
And in the depths of downy dreams soft nestling
Sinks, lost in luxury of reverie.
My dearest hours glide by in yonder wood,
The moon’s pale face down-gazing, and the wind
With the dark fir trees wrestling as it shouts
Its war cry through the shadows: yestere’en,
When all glad mortals were in slumber wrapt,
That wild song deepen’d to a dreary howl;
The storm, approaching, drove me from the wood;
The lofty tomb of Krakus I ascended,
To pray with Manes of the great and good;
The kneeling form of Wanda startled me.
“Minstrel,” she said, “I pray’d th’ immortal gods
To bring thee hither; in the forest depths
I would not seek thee, for it is decreed,
That whilst I linger here one way alone
Is open for me, from this verdant mound
To where the Vistula’s dark waters flow,
To yield me burial; not in vain my prayer:
The sudden tempest, driving thee away
From thy beloved retreat, affords me proof
That Poswist, ruler of the viewless winds,
Hath heard my prayer, and that the powers above
Approve my dread resolve;—my choice shall be
Of Poland’s fate the final arbiter;
So runs my father’s will, and while I live,
Thus swears the people—mine shall be the throne;
Well! I have chosen, and my choice is death.
This very morn my good and loyal people
May crown a worthier king, nor break their faith.
I promised to their prayer a swift reply,
My lifeless corse, borne on the Vistula,
Shall give an answer, dumbly eloquent.
Thou, trusty friend, canst read my inner soul,
And make my motives to the people clear,
Bid them from me a warm and last farewell.”
Thus Wanda! Whosoe’er from his own heart
Hath learnt to read the hearts of other men,
Knows that heroic fire, by words persuasive,
Can be nor quench’d, nor kindled; I avow,
In silence I had listen’d and fulfill’d
The charge entrusted, with a dumb obedience,
Save that, long since, imperious opinion
Hath learnt to moderate her haughty voice
On much once held indubitably clear,
And thus a god-sent caution gave me pause;
My tongue was loosen’d: “Wanda, hear,” I said,
“The voice of conscience oft hath whisper’d me
That all below have their alloted posts,
Nor from these stations guiltless can withdraw,
Till death, the messenger of Heaven, shall come.
The soldier, hasting from the battle-field
Without his general’s express command,
The shameful stigma of deserter bears.
Life is the loan, but not the gift, of gods;
To them we owe its interest; but who,
Save they, shall dare resume it? Oh, my queen!
If rashly given back, all unrequired,
The gods, perchance, may grant no other boon.”

[Wanda’s Maidens are seen in the background, carrying her corpse towards Cracow.

The People.
Haste! let us yonder sad procession join,
And to our queen, for the last time, give escort;
Make way! and let us go!
Leszek (in a tone of reproof).
Stay! yon cold form is but our Wanda’s body,—
Her spirit lingers in the poet’s words:
Curb your hot haste, and to the nobler part
Give audience; afterward the dear remains
Claim fitting care; forgive the slight delay,
Kind minstrel, and resume the broken thread.
Bard.
Wanda was silent, but her earnest face
Upon my words intent, some courage kindled:
“In hours of inspiration I can see,”
Thus I continued, “gleams of far-off light,
That, when its perfect splendour is attained,
Shall fill the world with sunbeams; by its blaze
Our boasted present shall be greyest twilight,
And theories which have won our praise shall be
From truth’s fair circle banish’d, as delusions.
Prove thyself, Wanda, well, lest lack of courage,
Or weariness of life, with fair disguise,
Deceive thy mental vision, and assume
The form of patriotic sacrifice.”
“In light, in darkness, truth is still the same;
Should Poland in the future give her verdict,
That Wanda, in her self devotion, err’d,
Example’s voice shall not have vainly sounded.
Obedience to a father’s last commands,
Fulfilment of the people’s solemn oath,
Zeal for my country’s welfare, all conspire
To claim the sacrifice; I yield it freely.
Kind minstrel, cease thine efforts to dissuade,
Give me a father’s blessing, and farewell!”
I bless’d her, turn’d and hasted from the spot,
Pondering the message she had bade me bear.
The brief remainder of the mournful story
Yon fisher told, and all too well ye know it.
My countrymen! it is in vain to murmur,—
One day we all shall see that nought befalls,
Without the will of the immortal gods.

Scene V.

Leszek, the People, the Bard, Rzewna, Maidens.
Rzewna.
he mournful train of Wanda follows me;
Already we had ta’en the road to Cracow,
But without you, ye fathers of the land,
We would not bear our burden to the city,
Our steps retraced, to you we now confide
The precious relics of our martyred queen!

[The Funeral passes along the Stage.

Chorus of the People.
Save us, her people, how few beside
Will honour the motive for which she died!
How few our Wanda will understand,
In offering her life for her fatherland!
Chorus of Maidens.
Wanda! Wanda! shall ever our watchword be,
Wanda, martyr and priestess of liberty;
Should time ever tarnish our virtue’s pure gold,
So lovingly cherish’d, so precious of old,
Should maidenly modesty slacken her sway,
Should gentleness vanish, and meekness decay,
All, all shall revive in their glory again,
As the summer-dried verdure, ’neath soft-gushing rain,
When the harp-strings shall thrill to our Wanda’s name,
When echoes the lute to the mournful sound,
Our Wanda reposes ’neath Polish ground.
Bard.
Last sad home,
Fronting the tumulus where rests the father,
For this, his peerless daughter, we will rear
Its likeness, since their memories blend in one;
Listen, my countrymen! The dreadful future—
Dreadful, though glorious,—yet shall give to Cracow
A third sad sepulchre, most drear possession!
Three grassy funeral mounds, in which are hid
The hopes, the sorrows, and the fame of Poland.
Long shall these two in mournful grandeur stand,
Altars to fear of gods and love of men,
Till ancient virtue darken towards its setting:
An awful martyrdom awaits our country,
And when the tumult wild of battle ceases,
Through the clear’d air, and ’mid the rigid stillness,
The third last witness shall be seen uprising!
Yet spring shall follow in the wake of winter,
And through the virtue pure of Poland’s daughters,
Swaying, unconsciously, her hardy sons,
Once more shall they arise and prove their valour;
Our fatherland shall rouse to second life,
And thus the evil spell shall disappear,
Which long o’erwhelm’d her with infernal blight.
Thus, thus decrees the certain voice of fate,
Through the unworthy lips of me, your bard:
We minstrels are the heralds of the gods.
In the sad prelude of the oracle
Lose not the consolation which succeeds:
Listen, ye mourners at the tomb of Krakus,
For him and for his daughter, on the verge
Of the far future’s dim horizon glancing,
I see a star which rays out beams of hope!
List! and your bard shall read its mystic meaning:
“From the dark earth the golden corn shall spring.”
Leszek.
Now let us seek a spot the bard shall choose,
Meet to receive our Wanda’s precious clay!
Chorus of Maidens.
’Mid the flowers of Poland our Wanda shall rest,
As a seed-corn of virtue her mem’ry is blest;
It will bud, it will blossom, with sweetest perfume,
And her glorious example for ages illume,
Teaching childlike obedience, modesty pure,
Fear of gods, love to men, truth and faith to endure;
And to our redemption devoting the song,
Wanda slumbers the flowers of Poland among:
From the seed which to earth we now weeping confide,
The bright corn shall spring in its glory and pride.

[The Curtain falls.

CHISWICK PRESS:—PRINTED BY WHITTINGHAM AND WILKINS,
TOOKS COURT, CHANCERY LANE.