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
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2014-11-18
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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.