Chapter IV: Act II

_The scene changes to the bank of the Vistula, opposite the tomb of
Krakus, at Cracow. Divisions of cavalry and infantry march with music
and flying banners towards Cracow. The last division of infantry
draws up in line of battle._

SCENE I.

WARRIORS, MAIDENS, _later_, WANDA.

CHORUS OF WARRIORS.

Great were the numbers of the foe,
Their haughtiness as great,
Soon, soon they thought to lay us low,
In boastful scorn elate;
Yet still floats Poland’s banner
Triumphant to the wind;
The snow-white eagle soars unscathed,
And leaves the field behind;
The field where insolence gave way
To valour true and bold,
And love of country held her sway
O’er lust of power and gold.
Praise, praise the great celestial powers,
Th’ almighty gods adore,
For the foe that long hath threaten’d us,
Shall threaten us no more.

Wanda has proved herself a Pole,
A hero in the fight,
Though a modest maiden in her home,
Where gentleness is might.
All through his life mourn’d Krakus,
And in his dying hour,
That, when the oak should fall, there lived
But the wreathing fragile flower;
That no young chieftain of his name
Might wear his father’s crown;
That to a tender maiden’s hand
The sceptre must go down:
But as reflected sunbeams
Within the planet shine,
Thus, thus within thy daughter’s soul,
Oh, Krakus! dwelleth thine.
Thank’d be the gods, bless’d be the gods,
All hail, immortal powers!
The foe must hide his vanquish’d head,
And Poland yet is ours.

CHORUS OF MAIDENS (_approaching mounted_).

Alone rode forth Wanda, and left us behind her,
Stern foe to all fetters, yet duty can bind her;
“But deem not that battle is woman’s vocation,
Oh ye! to whom gods grant a happier station,
The duties of queens ever form an exception,
Retirement quit ne’er, save at Heaven’s direction.”
Thus saying, she mounted; her fair figure tracing
We watch’d, till it met th’ horizon’s embracing,
Noon melting the clouds away, fold after fold,
Enwrapt her in raiment of azure and gold.
The tumult of battle she hid from our sight,
But we saw her when vict’ry succeeded to fight,
With hands upward raised and with knees lowly bending,
’Twixt enemies flying and warriors home wending;
She follows us now, while in praise we unite,
The last on the field, and the first in the fight.
Thank, thank the great gods! we are free as the air,
See Cracow once more, and the Vistula hear--
The silver-voiced Vistula--gliding along,
The pride of our land, of our minstrels the song.
The sun’s parting beams on old Wawel’s head play,
Their gold-wreath is hiding his time-honour’d grey,
Glad symbol inviting our thoughts to ascend,
For light is eternal, though time hath an end.

Yet as the muttering thunder-clouds
Deep silence follow,
Thus to peaceful joy succeed
Sharp thrills of sorrow;
And the rapture of the present,
Too glad for earth,
Tells, since gods are even-handed,
Of coming dearth.
Ever must life’s cup be mingled,
Pain is our due,
Purest nectar we have tasted,
Now for the rue!
Dark foreboding pales the glowing
Of parting day,
In those creeping mists embodied
Dun and grey.

WANDA (_dismounting_).

Dismount, my sisters, give your steeds the rein,
And let us kiss our country’s precious soil;
Hail to thee, Wawel! hail, fair Vistula!
Ye are our parents, reverence and love
Rise in our hearts whene’er we gaze on you;
For you the Pole girds on his sword; for you
Each Polish mother, from its very birth,
Teaches her child that to renounce oneself
From love of country is the loftiest aim:
With patriotic songs the infant ear
Is soothed to slumber, and again they thrill
When morning sun-beams scatter happy dreams,
His laughing eyes unsealing; woe to those
Who, chill’d in heart by numbing selfishness,
In private interests wrap their meagre souls,
With eyes averted from the public weal!
Embitter’d are their lives by conscience-stings,
And general contempt: when death arrests,
And bears them trembling to the viewless world,
The gods avert their faces; unrestrain’d,
Darkness and chaos claim their lawful prey,
For selfishness is hateful to the gods.
Ah! dying words from dear paternal lips!
Though twelve long weary months have drifted by,
Since they were utter’d, yet I hear them still
In yon broad river’s eager rushing tide,
Re-echoing as a glorious welcome back;
The winds repeat them as they hurry past,
Borne from Carpathian summits; and methought
The deep-mouth’d trumpets thrill’d them in mine ear,
When raged the conflict. Dearest father, hear!
Soul of my soul! ’tis with thy heart I love
My country, worthily to serve her cause.
This is my only wish-- [_After a pause._
Yet no aspiring _wish_, but iron _will_
Has won the day; thy long embattled hosts,
Who know defeat in theory alone,
Have quell’d the boasting voice of insolence
In thunderings of valour, teaching thus
Big words not always mate with lofty deeds.
Though by a woman led, the Poles are free!
Not through _my_ virtue; _thy_ remembrance fired
Each warrior breast with superhuman zeal;
Krakus, though viewless, was their leader still.
Yet oh, these battles! they may bring us fame,
Yet are the curse of nations, for renown
May dim our love of peace, as golden lures
May chill the peasant toward his humble cot
I’the rural valley, industry must droop,
The car of triumph override the plough;
War tears the husband from his wife and child,
The lord of home becomes a stranger there.
Woe, woe to those with whom the thirst for fame
Exceeds the love of country! yet, alas!
’Tis through this wretched wrangling for my hand
That clang of arms and tramp of hosts are heard:
This feeble hand the sceptre cannot wield.
Sharp are the winds round mountain peaks that blow;--
The isolated splendour of a throne
Is dreary for a woman; not for her
The glory and the pomp, but modest shade,
Far otherwise her lot by Heaven decreed,
To watch o’er children, nestling to her side;
To smooth care-furrows from her husband’s brow,
Wafting around the perfume sweet of love,
And meekness, as the wilding clematis
Clasps the dark fir-tree with caressing wreath.
Wanda can never be her country’s shield:
Her weakness still new discords will awake,
Midst cowards round her, clam’rous for her crown.
Alas! that heroes should have grown so rare
Among our neighbours! Oh, the weariness
Of ruling! Poland needs a worthy head,
And yet no chieftain will her sons elect,
While lives the daughter of their darling prince.
Though yearning for a king, they long to see
The snow-white banner by his grandson rear’d.
My sorrows and my orphan-hood alone
Deter the generous people from complaint
Of Wanda’s hesitation to adopt
The holy marriage vow. Immortal gods!
Be witness that ’tis not cold-heartedness
That bids me still delay, but rather fear
Lest through ill-choice I mar my country’s weal.
Forbid it, Heaven, that, through a fatal error,
Wanda should set a tyrant o’er her land.
Yet who, alas! to Krakus can succeed
Nor seem unworthy? To the brilliant sun,
The brightest star gives but a glow-worm’s light.

HALINA (_earnestly and affectionately_).

My lovely foster-sister, and my queen,
Why of thyself and thine these dreary doubts
On such a day of glorious victory?
In whose clear brilliancy the golden bond
’Twixt queen and people shines with added glow.
Say, have the Poles less bravely fought to-day
Than is their wont, or was thy leadership
Inferior to a sterner chieftain’s? No!
The timid harebell, and the modest fern,
Seek the same spot that rests the ardent wing
Of sunward soaring bird in upward flight;
Thus grace and valour, maid and warrior, meet
In thee, thou gifted darling of the gods.
Death for their fatherland is sweet to those
Who to thy rule a glad obedience yield;
And danger with her trumpet-call shall rouse
But to a firmer union, kindling all
The singly-scatter’d fires of ardent souls
To _one_ bright flame of power invincible.
The shrouding silence of the solemn past
Thrills into echo at the voice of fame,
Which, roused to memory of thy ancestors,
By deeds of thine, attesting thy descent,
Recounts their glory, bids them live again
In thee embodied; in the midnight heaven,
We hail a newly-risen star with praise,
And for our Wanda thank the immortal gods.
To them we yield the keeping of our land,
Secure and trusting, though their choice elect
Not the proud eagle, but the brooding dove.
And, rather than the eyrie, choose the nest
To guard from desecration; fear thou not,
No sable feathers of ill-omen’d birds
That croak around thee, shall contrast with thine
In hated union, while grey Wawel stands
To blunt the feeble lances of our foes,
And cool their rashness in the rolling flood.

[_Exeunt omnes._

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