Who understood in heaven no other cries
Than those of storm-winds, nor on earth beside
The roars of beasts; had seen no other guests
Than fellow-foresters, now sees—in heaven
A wondrous fire-blaze glowing, in the forest
A crashing hears; some wandering cannon-ball,
Strayed from the field of battle, seeks its way
Amid the forest, rending all its stems,
Its branches severing. The bison, reverend
Greybeard, did tremble in the moss, erected
The long hair of his mane, and half arose,
Leaned on his forelegs, shook his beard, and gazed
Bewildered on the embers, glimmering
On sudden ’mid the broken clods. It was
A wandering grenade, that whirled around,
And raged, and hissed, and burst with thunder-noise.
The bison, for the first time in his life,
Felt fear, and to the deepest refuge fled.
“A battle! where? In what part?” asked the youths.
They seized their weapons, women raise their hands
To heaven; all sure of victory, with tears
Cry, “Heaven is with Napoleon, he with us!”
O spring! I, who beheld thee in our land,
Spring-time renowned for war! spring-time of beauty!
O spring! I, who beheld thee blossoming
With corn and grass, and gleaming all with men,
Fruitful in doings, pregnant thou with hope,
I see thee yet, fair phantom of a dream!—
In slavery born, chained yet in infancy,
I had but one such spring-time in my life!
Right by the high-road Soplicowo lay,
Whereby two leaders marched from Niemen’s side,244
Prince Joseph and Jerome, Westphalia’s King.
They had already conquered part of Litva,
From Grodno unto Slonim, when the King
Commanded three days’ halt to breathe the troops.
But spite of weariness the Polish soldiers
Lamented that the King forbade their march,
So gladly they would reach the Muscovite.
The Prince’s chief staff in the neighbouring town
Was quartered, but in Soplicowo stood
The camp of forty thousand, with their staffs;
The Generals Dombrowski, Kniaziewicz,
And Malachowski, Giedroic, Grabowski.
Late was it when they entered; therefore each
Where best he might found quarters—in the castle,
And in the mansion. Orders swift were given;
The sentinels were posted; each man, wearied,
Went to his chamber for repose;—with night
All things were silent, camp, and house, and field.
Alone were seen, like shadows, wandering
Patrols, and here and there the camp-fires’ gleam,
And circling watch-words heard of army posts.
All slept—the master of the house, the leaders,
And soldiers. But the Wojski’s eyes alone
Taste no sweet sleep; the Wojski must set forth
Next day a banquet, whereby he will make
Soplica’s house renowned for evermore;
A banquet dear to hearts of Polish guests,
And suiting a great day’s solemnity,
Feast of the Church, and of the family.
To-morrow shall three couples be betrothed;
But General Dombrowski yester-eve
Had said he wished to have a Polish dinner.
Though late the hour, the Wojski gathered quick
Cooks from the neighbourhood; of these were five.
They serve, he plays the master. As chief cook,
He girded him with apron white, indued
A white cap, and his sleeves to elbow rolled.
In one hand was his fly-scare, to drive off
The miserable insects, greedily
Upon the tit-bits falling; with the other
He wiped his spectacles and put them on,
Drew forth a book, and opened it, and read.
The book entitled was, “The Perfect Cook.”245
Therein all specialties were plainly written
Of Polish tables; after its direction
The Count of Tenczyn those famed banquets gave
In Italy, whereat the Holy Father,
Urban the Eighth, so marvelled.246 After them
Charles Radziwill, “Belovèd,” later on,
When he in Nieswiez King Stanislas
Received, that memorable banquet made,
Whose glory even now through Litva lives
In story of the people. What the Wojski
Reading did understand, and did explain,
The cooks intelligent at once fulfilled.
The labour seethes, some fifty knives are clattering
Upon the board, the scullions bustle round,
As demons black; some carry wood, some jugs
With wine and milk, they pour it into kettles,
Stewpans, and saucepans. Smoke bursts forth; two scullions
Beside the oven sit, and blow the bellows.
The Wojski, that the wood might easier burn,
Commanded melted butter to be poured
Upon the wood-permitted such excess
Is in a wealthy house. The scullions heap
Upon the fire dry brushwood; others place
Upon the spits enormous roasts of beef,
Of venison, quarters of the boar and stag;
Some pluck great heaps of birds, the feathers fly
In clouds—grouse, heathcocks, chickens, all are stripped.
But fowls were not in plenty; since that inroad
Which at the period of the foray made
The murderous young Dobrzynski on the henhouse
When he Sophia’s care reduced to nought,
Nor left of reparation means, not yet
In Soplicowo, once renowned for poultry,
The birds again might flourish. For the rest
Of every kind of meat was great abundance,
Which might be gathered there from house and shambles,
And from the forests and the neighbourhood,
From near and far;—thou’dst say the only thing
They could not furnish forth was milk of birds.247
Two things a liberal master seeks in feasts
Were joined in Soplicowo, art and plenty.
Already had arisen the solemn day;
The weather was most fair, the hour was early,
And the clear heaven was drawn around the earth
Like to a hanging sea, still, concave-arched.
A few stars glimmered from the deep, like pearls
From sea-depths through the billows; on one side
A white cloud, one alone, flies lightly upward,
And in the deep-blue sky were plunged its wings,
Like parting pinions of a guardian angel,
Who by the nightly prayer of men detained,
And over-late, hastes to return among
His fellow-denizens of heaven. Now quenched
The last faint pearls of stars, and in the depths
Of skies extinguished were, and heaven’s brow
Is paler midmost. Its right temple, laid
Upon a pillow of shade, is swarthy still;
The left aye redder blushes; farther off,
A circle, like an eyelid broad, opes wide,
And in the midst the white part of an eye
Is seen, the iris and the pupil; now
A sunbeam darted forth, and in the round
Of skies it gleamed refracted, and it hung
Upon a white cloud like a golden lance.
Upon this arrow, signal of the day,
A sheaf of fires flew forth, a thousand rockets,
That o’er the circle of the world did cross.
And rose the sun’s eye. Somewhat yet asleep,
It winked, and trembling shook its radiant lashes,
Shining at once with all its seven hues.
At once it shone with sapphire, redly glowed
In ruby, yellow with the topaz light;
Till all
