PROLOGUE.

Bard.

On the banks of the Vistula opposite the Wawelberg^[1] (Cracow).

Bless 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,

10The 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.

11

WANDA.