O’er lands, o’er seas, through burning sands and frost,
Amid strange peoples, where so oft in camp
This native song rejoiced and heartened them.
Thus thinking, sadly they bowed down their heads.
But soon they raised them. For the master raised
The tones, intensified and changed the time,
Proclaiming somewhat else; he scanned the strings,
He joined his hands, and smote with both the bars.
So artful was the stroke, and of such power,
That the strings sounded forth like brazen trumpets,
And from the trumpets the triumphal march
Rolled toward the sky, “Yet Poland is not dead!
Dombrowski! march to Poland!” and all clapped,
And all in chorus, “March! Dombrowski!” cried.
The master, as though marvelling at his song,
Dropped from his hands the bars, and raised his hands
On high; his cap of fox-skin from his head
Fell on his shoulders, and his reverend beard
Waved, lifted high; upon his cheek there stood
Circles of wondrous red, and in his glance
All full of spirit, shone the glow of youth.
Till when the old man turned his eyes upon
Dombrowski, with his hands he covered them;
Beneath his hands a flood of tears poured forth.
“General!” he cried, “long has our Litva waited
For thee, as we Jews our Messiah await!
Long singers ’mid the people have foretold thee,
And heaven proclaimed thee by a miracle!
Live thou, and fight!—Oh! thou, our”—speaking he
Kept sobbing, for the honest Jew our country
Loved like a Pole. Dombrowski gave his hand
To him, and thanked him. He, his cap removed,
Did kiss the leader’s hand. The Polonaise
Shall now begin. The Chamberlain does rise,
And lightly throwing back his kontusz cuffs,
And twirling his moustache, presents his hand
Unto Sophia, and bowing courteously
Invites her into the first couple. Following
The Chamberlain, there forms a rank in pairs.
The signal given, the dance begins; he leads.
Upon the turf the red boots shine, there gleams
A lustre from the sabre, the rich girdle
Shines brightly; but he slowly steps as though
Unwilling: but from every step, each motion,
The dancer’s thoughts and feelings may be read.
See, now he stands, as he would ask his lady;
He bends towards her, whispers in her ear;
The lady turns her head away, seems bashful,
She listens not; he takes his cap off, bends
Humbly; the lady deigns to cast a glance,
But keeps a silence obstinate; he tracks
Her glances with his eyes, and laughs at length,
Glad of her answer; quicker steps he forth,
Looks down upon his rivals; and his cap,
With heron’s plumes, now on his brow suspends,
Now shakes it o’er his forehead, till he lays it
Upon one side, and twirls round his moustache.
He goes, all envy him, rush on his traces;
He gladly with his lady would escape
Out of the crowd, at times stands in his place,
And courteously he lifts his hand, and that
They would approach him humbly doth entreat.
At times he thinks with skill to turn aside,
Changeth the path, glad to mislead the rest;
But with swift step importunate they follow.
So he grows angry, and his right hand lays
Upon his sword-hilt, while he seems to say,
“I care not for you! to the envious woe!”
He turns, with pride upon his brow, and with
Defiance in his eye, straight through the crowd;
The crowd of dancers dare not him approach,
They yield to him the way, and change their ranks;
Once more pursuing him. And loud applause
Resounds on all sides: “Ah! that is the last,
Maybe! look, look, young people, ’tis perhaps
The last who thus can lead a Polonaise!”
And pairs still followed pairs with noise and joy.
The circle now unwound, now wound again,
Like to a giant snake in thousand folds,
And change the varied, many hues of dresses
Of ladies, lords, and soldiers, like its scales
Gleaming, and gilded by the western sun,
On the dark cushion of the turf. The dance
Is seething, music sounding, healths and plaudits.
Alone the Corporal Dobrzynski Bustard
Hears not the band, nor dances, nor rejoices.
With hands behind his back he standeth, cross
And gloomy, thinking of his former suit
Unto Sophia, how he loved to bring her
Flowers, weave her baskets, capture birds’ nests, carve
Earrings! Ungrateful girl! Although he lavished
So many gifts upon her, though she fled
Before him, though his father did forbid him,
He yet how often on the garden wall
He sat, to gaze while she her garden weeded,
Or gathered cucumbers, or cockerels fed!
Ungrateful girl! He drooped his head at last;
He whistled a mazurka, then he pressed
The hat upon his ears, and to the camp
He went, where stood the watch beside the guns.
There to distract his mind he played at draughts
With soldiers, with the bowl his grief assuaged.
Such, for Sophia, Dobrzynski’s constancy.
Sophia dances joyously, but though
In the first couple, scarcely seen from far.
On the green surface of the courtyard wide,
In dress of green adorned with field-flowers, and
In flowery garland, ’mid the flowers and grasses
She circles round, in flight invisible,
The dance directing as an angel guides
The course of nightly stars. Thou guessest where
She is, for all the eyes are turned towards her,
All arms are stretched forth, towards her all the crowd
Do press. The Chamberlain in vain does strive
To stay beside her; envious men have now
Repulsed him from the first place, and the happy
Dombrowski might not long rejoice himself,
But yield her to another; and a third
Already hastened, and this one repulsed,
At once departed hopeless. Then Sophia,
Already wearied out, met Thaddeus
In turn, and fearful of a further change,
And wishing to remain with him, she ended
The dances, and towards the table went
To fill up goblets for the guests. The sun
Had set already; warm the evening was,
And stilly; heaven’s circle here and there
Was paved with clouds, above of bluish hue,
Rosy towards the west; these clouds forebode
Fine weather, light and shining; there like flock
Of sheep that slumber on the grass, and there
Are lesser clouds like flocks of water-fowl;
And in the west a cloud like veilly curtains,
Transparent, in deep folds; above like pearl,
Upon the borders gilded; in its depths
Of purple hue; yet with the western blaze
It sparkled, and it glowed, till gradually
It grew more yellow, paler, and then grey.
The sun has drooped his head, the cloud removed,
And giving one sigh with the warm air, slept.
But evermore the nobles drink, with healths
Unto Napoleon, to the generals,
To Thaddeus and Sophia, and at last
In turn of all
