Chapter II: Prologue: Bard

_On the banks of the Vistula opposite the Wawelberg[1] (Cracow)._

Bless Poland, bless the poet and his lay!
Look not upon the smallness of his gift,
But as the widow’s mite that gift receive;
Too well thou knowest whose the robber band
That on our treasures ruthlessly hath seized;
Alas! this nameless vampyre long hath quench’d,
In choicest life-blood, and in burning tears,
The lightning kindled fire of sacred song!
A hundred years with muffled tread have pass’d,
Since, by a threefold fetter firmly bound,
The tuneful harp hath ceased its thrilling voice,--
Since, by a threefold spell, the poet-soul
From home and country hath been exiled far.
Yet good and evil wage their wonted war
Here, as elsewhere, with varying success,
Though rarely may the good victorious rise,
And as the spirit of the age appear,
While the proud powers of darkness vanquish’d bow.
Then, and then only, glows one sudden gleam,--
Then, and then only, sounds one thrilling tone
From that charm’d cavern of oblivion’s shore
Where burn the poet’s harp and heart unseen;
Unseen as yet, but from those raging flames
Their seeming prey immortal yet shall rise,--
Rise, Phœnix-like, above the hostile blaze,
And win a wond’ring world’s admiring gaze.

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Footnote 1:

As it is at the present day, fortified by the Austrians _against_
Cracow.

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WANDA.