Act 3 — Scene I.

The Castle on the Wawel. Wanda surrounded by her Maidens. Leszek enters.

Leszek.

All 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,

38And 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,

39Before 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.

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