WANDA, HALINA, MAIDENS.
CHORUS OF MAIDENS.
Her people’s voice vainly would Wanda withstand,
The glory of Poland, the pride of our land,
Though her father’s proud war horse her gentle hand reins,
Our modest companion in peace she remains.
To her warriors a chieftain, by duty made strong,
Though joining with us in the dance and the song;
To the good who surround us, a rainbow of light,
To the evil, a thunderbolt crashing with might.
As the dawn-waken’d bird, on the blossoming spray,
Heralds in with soft warblings the coming of day,
Thus, Wanda, the deeds of thy future shall ring,
In the song which we hasten in chorus to sing.
“Up, snow-white eagle, up,
The sable wings destroy
That flutter round thy lofty home,
All eager to annoy;
To desecrate thy eyrie
The foe shall not prevail,
Safe in the keeping of the gods,
Thy cause shall never fail.”
WANDA.
Songs, O my sisters, are like ardent sunbeams,
Children of light, they kindle fires of joy!
The conscience of a nation speaks in song,
Fame warbles of the past with silver voice,
And to the dawning future hope sings clear.
Virtues of heroes, and their lofty deeds,
Give to the minstrel an inspiring theme;
Who round those hero brows his glorious songs,
Binds in immortal wreath; from song and fame
Spring the fair roses of eternal worth,
Which, bud on bud, shall ever richer grow,
And fill succeeding ages with perfume.
HALINA.
Then will we cheer thee with melodious voice.
Say, shall we sing of Lech th’ aspiring one,
The finder of the snow-white eagle’s nest?
Or how thy father Krakus fought and slew
The dragon of grey Wawel’s dreary caves.
WANDA (_sorrowfully_).
Nay! break not thus the quiet of reflection,
Say, rather, of sad musings, like a mist,
Damp, cold, and deadly, creeping o’er my heart;
Within an unrelated element,
We lose our very breath, much more our ardour.
For manly deeds the nation praises me,
But Wanda’s glory is in womanhood.
Well says our proverb, “To remain unknown
Is woman’s happiest calling, and her best.”
All, all admire the sunward soaring eagle,
And upward gaze to watch his daring flight;
But with caressing smile the little swallow
By every heart is welcom’d, when she builds
Her soft and humble nest beneath the eaves.
HALINA.
Then shall we say that men are earth’s sole rulers,
_No_ fame for us? This, surely, is injustice!
WANDA.
Shall we, weak mortals, dare to call unjust
The dreadful powers who rule the universe?
Nay, rather let us hold as false and vain
Our own opinions; could our wills arrest
The torch of inspiration, and compel
The sudden gleam to yield a steady light
For years, instead of moments, by its rays
We well might read the book of nature, writ
In golden characters of truth and justice;
But in the grey of earthly dusk, ’tis vain
To strain our eyeballs. ’Tis enough to know,
That duty urges men into the field
When danger waits their country, that the world,
The wide, cold world, alone can yield them scope.
While our alloted sphere is quietude;
Nor powerless for that, nor lacking grandeur.
Say! is the awful power of tempests hid
In _silent_ lightning, or in roaring thunder?
Does rosy morn with rash and noisy touch
Withdraw the curtains of the shrouding night,
Or melt them with her smiles, unveiling thus
Alike the eyes and energies of mortals.
The mighty work with tumult, but the _mightiest_
Can stoop to meekness, nor be less divine.
On us the gods bestow their highest gift;
Brave men befit great actions, loud renown,
But god-like is availing sympathy.
’Tis ours to mourn with mourners, to rejoice
With joyous souls, to polish into beauty
The rough unchisell’d gem that else were wasted;
The noble to caress, the wounded heart
With richly flowing love to soothe, and thus,
Through self-denial and untiring meekness,
To rule the mighty masters of the world.
And if we deem th’ alloted sphere of home
Too narrow for our restless energies, and seek
A wider range, we lose our magic sway.
But since to me the dread celestial powers
A woman’s sweetest privilege deny,
I own myself excepted, though from far
With deep-drawn sigh I view your happier lot.
I take the gods to witness that my heart,
My woman’s heart, thirsts not for empty fame,
But rather aches for love! this weary brow
Throbs bleeding from the leaden crown of power,
And fain would seek repose, forgetfulness,
Upon a loving breast; it may not be!
Why squander words? ’tis time the theme were done.
Adieu, my sisters, by grey Wawel’s walls
Remain protected, rest till morn shall kiss
Soft slumber from your eyelids, then come forth
And seek your Wanda on the tumulus
That covers Krakus; thither now I go
To seek for counsel from the immortal gods,
And learn the final answer I must give
To my expectant people!