Kochanowski, Jan Lament XIX http://www.wolnelektury.pl/lektura/laments http://wolnelektury.pl/katalog/lektura/treny-tren-xix-albo-sen/ Prall, Dorothea Kozioł, Paweł Lech, Justyna Niedziałkowska, Marta Fundacja Nowoczesna Polska Renesans Liryka Tren Publikacja zrealizowana w ramach projektu Wolne Lektury (http://wolnelektury.pl). Reprodukcja cyfrowa wykonana przez Bibliotekę Narodową z egzemplarza pochodzącego ze zbiorów BN. Dofinansowano ze środków Ministra Kultury i Dziedzictwa Narodowego. http://wolnelektury.pl/katalog/lektura/laments-lament-xix http://polona.pl/item/333575/1/ Jan Kochanowski, Laments, University of California Press, Berkeley 1920 Domena publiczna - Dorothea Prall xml text text 2014-11-18 enghttp://redakcja.wolnelektury.pl/media/cover/image/3351359784_0436d1a276_o.jpg Night Walk, Thanasis Anastasiou, CC BY 2.0 http://redakcja.wolnelektury.pl/cover/image/3801 Jan Kochanowski Laments Lament XIX The Dream Long through the night hours sorrow was my guest/ And would not let my fainting body rest,/ Till just ere dawn from out its slow dominions/ Flew sleep to wrap me in its dear dusk pinions./ And then it was my mother did appear/ Before mine eyes in vision doubly dear;/ For in her arms she held my darling one,/ My Ursula, just as she used to run/ To me at dawn to say her morning prayer,/ In her white nightgown, with her curling hair/ Framing her rosy face, her eyes about/ To laugh, like flowers only halfway out./ «Art thou still sorrowing, my son?» Thus spoke/ My mother. Sighing bitterly, I woke,/ Or seemed to wake, and heard her say once more:/ «It is thy weeping brings me to this shore:/ Thy lamentations, long uncomforted,/ Have reached the hidden chambers of the dead,/ Till I have come to grant thee some small grace/ And let thee gaze upon thy daughter's face,/ That it may calm thy heart in some degree/ And check the grief that imperceptibly/ Doth gnaw away thy health and leave thee sick,/ Like fire that turns to ashes a dry wick./ Dost thou believe the dead have perished quite,/ Their sun gone down in an eternal night?/ Ah no, we have a being far more splendid/ Now that our bodies' coarser claims are ended./ Though dust returns to dust, the spirit, given/ A life eternal, must go back to heaven,/ And little Ursula hath not gone out/ Forever like a torch. Nay, cease thy doubt,/ For I have brought her hither in the guise/ She used to wear before thy mortal eyes,/ Though mid the deathless angels, brighter far/ She shineth as the lovely morning star;/ And still she offers up her prayers for you/ As here on earth, when yet no words she knew./ If herefrom Springs thy sorrow, that her years/ Were broken off before all that endears/ A life on earth to mortals she might prove ---/ Yet think how empty the delights that move/ The minds of men, delights that must give place/ At last to sorrow, as in thine own case./ Did then thy little girl such joy confer/ That all the comfort thou didst find in her/ Could parallel thine anguish of today?/ Thou canst not answer otherwise than nay./ Then fret not that so early death has come/ To what was dearest thee in Christendom./ She did not leave a land of much delight,/ But one of toil and grief and evil blight/ So plenteous, that all which men can hold/ Of their so transitory blessings, gold,/ Must lose its value through this base alloy,/ This knowledge of the grief that follows joy./ «Why do we weep, great God? That with her dower/ She bought herself no lord, that she might cower/ Before upbraidings from her husband's kin?/ That she knew not the pangs that usher in/ The newborn child? And that she could not know,/ Like her poor mother, if more racking woe/ It were to bear or bury them? Ah, meet/ Are such delights to make the world more sweet!/ But heaven hath purer, surer happiness,/ Free from all intermingling of distress./ Care rules not here and here we know not toil,/ Misfortune and disaster do not spoil./ Here sickness can not enter nor old age,/ And death, tear-nourished, hath no pasturage./ We live a life of endless joy that brings/ Good thoughts; we know the causes of all things./ The sun shines on forever here, its light/ Unconquered by impenetrable night;/ And the Creator in his majesty/ Invisible to mortals, we may see./ Then turn thy meditations hither, towards/ This changeless gladness and these rich rewards./ Thou know'st the world, what love of it can do:/ Found thou thine efforts on a base more true./ Thy little girl hath chosen well her part,/ Thou may'st believe, as one about to start/ For the first time upon the stormy sea,/ Beholding there great flux and jeopardy,/ Returneth to the shore; while those that raise/ Their sails, the wind or some blind crag betrays,/ And this one dies from hunger, that from cold:/ Scarce one escapes the perils manifold./ So she, who, though her years should have surpassed/ That ancient Sybil, must have died at last,/ Preferred that ending to anticipate/ Before she knew the ills of man's estate./ For some are left without their parents' care,/ To know how sore an orphan's lot to bear;/ One girl must marry headlong, and then rue/ Her dower given up to God knows who;/ Some maids are seized by their own countrymen,/ Others, made captive by the Tatar clan/ And held thus in a pagan, shameful thrall,/ Must drink their tears till death comes ending all./ «But this thy little child need fear no more,/ Who, taken early up to heaven's door,/ Could walk all glad and shining-pure within,/ Her soul still innocent of earthly sin./ Doubt not, my son, that all is well with her,/ And let not sorrow be thy conqueror./ Reason and self-command are precious still/ And yielding all to blighted hope is ill./ Be in this matter thine own lord, although/ Thy longed-for happiness thou must forego./ For man is born exposed to circumstance,/ To be the target of all evil chance,/ And if we like it or we like it not/ We still can not escape our destined lot./ Nor hath misfortune singled thee, my son;/ It lays its burdens upon every one./ Thy little child was mortal as thou art,/ She ran her given course and did depart;/ And if that course was brief, yet who can say/ That she would have been happier to stay?/ The ways of God are past our finding out,/ Yet what He holds as good shall we misdoubt?/ And when the spirit leaves us, it is vain/ To weep so long; it will not come again./ And herein man is hardly just to fate,/ To bear in mind what is unfortunate/ In life and to forget all that transpires/ In full accordance with his own desires./ And such is Fortune's power, dearest son,/ That we should not lament when she hath done/ A bitter turn, but thank her in that she/ Hath held her hand from greater injury./ So, yielding to the common order, bar/ Thy heart to more disasters than now are;/ Gaze at the happiness thou dost retain:/ What is not loss, that must be rated gain./ «And finally, what profits the expense/ Of thy long labor and the years gone hence,/ While thou didst spend thyself upon thy books/ And knewest scarce how lightsome pleasure looks?/ Now from thy grafting pluck the fruit and save/ Something of value from frail nature's grave./ To other men in sorrow thou hast shown/ The comfort left them: hast none for thine own?/ Now, master, heal thyself: time is the cure/ For all; but he whose wisdom doth abjure/ The common ways, he should anticipate/ The healing for which other men must wait./ What is time's cunning? That it drives away/ Our former haps with newer ones, more gay,/ Or like the old. So man by taking thought/ Perceives them ere their accidents are wrought,/ And by such thinking banishes the past/ And views the future, quiet and steadfast./ Then bear man's portion like a man, my son,/ The Lord of grief and comfort is but one.»/ Then I awoke, and know not if to deem/ This truth itself, or but a passing dream.