Kochanowski, Jan
Lament XVII
http://www.wolnelektury.pl/lektura/laments
http://wolnelektury.pl/katalog/lektura/treny-tren-xvii
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-xvii
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 XVII
God hath laid his hand on me:/
He hath taken all my glee,/
And my spirit's emptied cup/
Soon must give its life-blood up.
If the sun doth wake and rise,/
If it sink in gilded skies,/
All alike my heart doth ache,/
Comfort it can never take.
From my eyelids there do flow/
Tears, and I must weep e'en so/
Ever, ever. Lord of Light,/
Who can hide him from thy sight!
Though we shun the stormy sea,/
Though from war's affray we flee,/
Yet misfortune shows her face/
Howsoe'er concealed our place.
Mine a life so far from fame/
Few there were could know my name;/
Evil hap and jealousy/
Had no way of harming me.
But the Lord, who doth disdain/
Flimsy safeguards raised by man,/
Struck a blow more swift and sure/
In that I was more secure.
Poor philosophy, so late/
Of its power wont to prate,/
Showeth its incompetence/
Now that joy proceedeth hence.
Sometimes still it strives to prove/
Heavy care it can remove;/
But its little weight doth fail/
To raise sorrow in the scale.
Idle is the foolish claim/
Harm can have another name:/
He who laughs when he is sad,/
I should say was only mad.
Him who tries to prove our tears/
Trifles, I will lend mine ears;/
But my sorrow he thereby/
Doth not check, but magnify.
Choice I have none, I must needs/
Weep if all my spirit bleeds./
Calling it a graceless part/
Only stabs anew my heart.
All such medicine, dear Lord,/
Is another, sharper sword./
Who my healing would insure/
Will seek out a gentler cure.
Let my tears prolong their flow./
Wisdom, I most truly know,/
Hath no power to console:/
Only God can make me whole.