Chapter II: Introduction

A HUNDRED years have passed since first the Order Waded in blood of Northern heathenesse; The Prussian now had bent his neck to chains, Or, yielding up his heritage, removed With life alone. The German followed after, Tracking the fugitive; he captive made And murdered unto Litwa’s farthest bound.

Niemen divideth Litwa from the foe; On one side gleam the sanctuary fanes, And forests murmur, dwellings of the gods. Upon the other shore the German ensign, The cross, implanted on a hill, doth veil Its forehead in the clouds, and stretches forth Its threatening arms towards Litwa, as it would Gather all lands of Palemon together, Embrace them all, assembled ’neath its rule.

This side, the multitude of Litwa’s youth, With _kolpak_ of the lynx-hide and in skins Clad of the bear, the bow upon their shoulders, Their hands all filled with darts, they prowl around, Tracking the German wiles. On the other side, In mail and helmet armed, the German sits Upon his charger motionless; while fixed His eyes upon the entrenchments of the foe, He loads his arquebuse and counts his beads.

And these and those alike the passage guard. The Niemen thus, of hospitable fame, In ancient days, uniting heritage Of brother nations, now for them becomes The threshold of eternity, and none, But by foregoing liberty or life, Cross the forbidden waters. Only now A trailer of the Lithuanian hop, Drawn by allurement of the Prussian poplar, Stretches its fearless arms, as formerly, Leaping the river, with luxuriant wreaths, Twines with its loved one on a foreign shore. The nightingales from Kowno’s groves of oak Still with their brethren of Zapuszczan mount, Converse, as once, in Lithuanian speech. Or having on free pinions ’scaped, they fly, As guests familiar, on the neutral isles.

And mankind?—War has severed human kind! The ancient love of nations has departed Into oblivion. Love by time alone Uniteth human hearts.—Two hearts I knew.

O Niemen! soon upon thy fords shall rush Hosts bearing death and burning, and thy shores, Sacred till now, the axe shall render bare Of all their garlands; soon the cannon’s roar Shall from the gardens fright the nightingales. Where nature with a golden chain hath bound, The hatred of the nations shall divide; It severs all things. But the hearts of lovers Shall in the Wajdelote’s song unite once more.

THE ELECTION.

In towers of Marienbourg1 the bells are ringing, The cannon thunder loud, the drums are beating. This in the Order is a solemn day. The Komturs hasten to the capital, Where, gathered in the chapter’s conclave, they, The Holy Spirit invoked, take counsel who Is worthiest to bear the mighty sword,— Into whose hands may they confide the sword? One day, and yet another flowed away In council; many heroes there contend. And all alike of noble race, and all Alike deserving in the Order’s cause. But hitherto the brethren’s general voice Placed Wallenrod the highest over all

A stranger he, in Prussia all unknown, But foreign houses of his fame were full2 Following the Moors upon Castilian sierras, The Ottoman through ocean’s troubled waves, In battle at the front, first on the wall, To grapple vessels of the infidel The first; and in the tourney, soon as he Entered the lists and deigned his visor raise, None dared with him the strife of keen-edged swords,3 By one accord the victor’s garland yielding. But not alone amid Crusading hosts He with the sword had glorified his youth; For many Christian graces him adorn, Poverty, humbleness, of earth disdain.

But Konrad shone not in the courtly crowd By polished speech, by well-turned reverence; Nor e’er his sword for vile advantage sold To service of disputing barons. He Had consecrated to the cloister walls His youthful years; all plaudits he disdained, And ruler’s place, even higher, sweeter meeds. Nor minstrel’s hymn, nor beauty’s fair regard Could speak to his cold spirit. Wallenrod Listens unmoved to praise, and looks afar On lovely cheeks, enchanting discourse flies.

Had Nature made him thus unfeeling, proud? Or age? For albeit young in years, his locks Were grey already, withered were his looks, And sufferings sealed by age.—Twere hard to guess. He would at times divide the sports of youth, Or listen, pleased, to sound of female tongues, To courtiers’ jests reply with other jests; Or scatter unto ladies courteous words With chilly smile, as dainties cast to children— These were rare moments of forgetfulness;— And speedily some light, unmeaning word, That had no sense for others, woke in him Passionate stirrings. These words: Fatherland, Duty, Beloved,—the mention of Crusades, And Litwa, all the mirth of Wallenrod Instantly poisoned. Hearing them, again He turned away his countenance, again Became to all around insensible, And buried him in thoughts mysterious. Maybe, remembering his holy call, He would forbid himself the sweets of earth; The sweets of friendship only did he know, One only friend had chosen to himself, A saint by virtue and by holy state. This was a hoary monk; men called him Halban. He shared the loneliness of Wallenrod; He was alike confessor of his soul, And of his heart the trusted confidant O blessed friendship! saint is he on earth, Whom friendship with the holy ones unites. Thus do the leaders of the Order’s council Discourse of Konrad’s virtues. But one fault Was his,—for who may spotless be from faults? Konrad loved not the riots of the world, Nor mingled Konrad in the drunken feast. Though truly, in his secret chamber locked, When weariness or sorrow tortured him, He sought for solace in a burning draught; And then he seemed a new form to indue, And then his visage pallid and severe A sickly red adorned, and his large eyes, Erst heavenly blue, but somewhat now by time Dulled and extinguished, shot the lightnings forth Of ancient fires, while sighs of grief escape From forth his breast, and with the pearly tear The laden eyelid swells; the hand the lute Seeks, the lips pour forth songs; the songs are sung In speech of a strange land, but yet the hearts Of the hearers understand them. ’Tis enough To list that grave-like music, ’tis enough The singer’s form to contemplate, to see Memory’s inspiration on that face, To view the lifted brows and sideward looks, Striving to snatch some object from deep darkness. What may the hidden thread be of the songs? He tracketh surely, in this wandering chase, In thought his youth through deep gulfs of the past. Where is his soul?—In the land of memories!

But never did that hand in music’s impulse Mere joyful tones from out the lute evoke; And still it seemed his countenance did fear Innocent smiles, even as deadly sins. All strings he strikes in turn, one string except— Except the string of mirth;—the hearer shares All feelings with him,—one excepted—hope!

Not seldom him the brethren have surprised, And marvelled at his unaccustomed change. Konrad, aroused, did writhe himself and rage, Had cast away the lute and ceased to sing. He spoke out loudly impious words; to Halban Whispered some secret things; called to the host, Gave forth commands, and uttered dreadful threats, On whom they knew not. All their hearts were troubled. Old Halban tranquil sits, and on the face Of Konrad drowns his glance,—a piercing glance, Cold and severe, full of some secret speech. Something he may recall, some counsel give, Or waken grief in heart of Wallenrod, Whose cloudy brow at once is calm again, His eyes forego their fires, his rage is cool.

Thus when, in public sport, the lionward, Before assembled lords, and dames, and knights, Unbars the grating of the iron cage. The trumpet signal given, the royal beast Growls from his deep breast, horror falls on all. Alone his keeper moveth not a step, Folds tranquilly upon his breast his hands, And smites with power the lion,—by the eye. With talisman of an undying soul Unreasoning strength in bonds he doth control.