# Cheskian Anthology/M. Z. Polak

M. Z. Polak.
Born 1788.
Sil sem proso na sauwrati, nebudu ho žjti.
I've lov'd the maiden, and I shrink fromm calling her my own.
To saw and reap not-love and keep not—strange and sad decree;
Sown, not gather'd—lov'd, not wedded—luckless doom for me.
Beneath the ash tree, near the mill upon the mountain brow,
My maiden swore eternal love—where is her promise now?
I gave a garland—from a farland—and she gave a ring
To her lover—idle treasure—which no love could bring.
How often round that swan-like maid play'd like the breeze of heaven.
In love's own madness—danc'd with gladness—smil'd but 'twas to sigh:
Nights all-sleepless—chas'd the error—sad and lone was I.
At morning ere the matin bell—and ere the matin prayer
I rose to hear the choral songs of minstrels of the air.
The forests shaded—I invaded—and my hapless eye
Ah! false maiden—wretched lover—saw—O agony!
'Twas in the valley's deepest dell she sat—and not alone;
I heard the vow—I saw the kiss—she smil'd—he said 'Mine own'
Kraska to Kwétoslaw.
Na kwětných mne březých wždy nech obýwati.
Yes! let me wonder by that flower-bank'd stream
Which pours its fountains out by Praga's wall;
Go! toil for honor in the fields of fame:
Fame—all Bohemia wakens at its call.
Where my young days pass'd by in blissful thought
Is now a dreary solitude to me;
The scenes which peace and love and beauty brought
Are darkness all—because estrang'd from thee.
Thou wert an ever-sparkling light—but now
Art a pale meteor-trembling in the sky:
I see thy name carv'd on the maple's bough,
Or by the moon's gold sickle writ on high;
​There do my loud sighs wed them to the wind,
And harps æolian in the grotto play;
Be present to my eyes—as to my mind—
Hither again—O hither bend thy way.
'Midst the dark foliage in the full-moon's light
Thou didst first fan the fire of holiest love;
There did my pure lips pledge their early plight,
While listening nightingales were group'd above.
Hear (saidst thou) hear my words than blue-bright heaven;
Hear them, thou moon! whom yon fair stars attend;
And if I leave thee—curs'd and unforgiven
Let poison with each breeze, each breathing blend.
O thou wilt see, bewitching, blinding maids,
Maids who o'er youth's fond dreams supremely reign;
And thou wilt then forget Bohemia's shades,
And thou wilt wear affection's foreign chain.
Those ringlet-tresses—those black, beaming eyes
I know they will intoxicate—I know
How they will dazzle—while thy Kraska flies
Fading and fading more—and dwells with woe.
Is shaking 'neath the chargers—so begone.
I hear the drums loud rolling—and the mirth
Of battle-loving heroes—Kwétslaw—on!
On to the banner! yet one kiss—thou hold
Heart-chosen man—fame calls thee—no delay;
Take the sharp steel—'tis glittering in its hold;
Thy Kraska's hand shall bind it—now away!
Now battle like a Českian—and success,
Success walk still unwearied at thy side,
Courageous but discreet—Yet forward press
As cataracts adown the mountain side.
The kiss I give thee now, O let it burn
Like sacred fire upon thy lips—until
To thine enraptur'd maid thou shalt return—
Kwětoslaw to Kráska.
Wlast mne wolá, Krásko! oko drahé zgasni.
My country calls me, Kraska! dry thine eyes,
Disturb not with thy tears youth's quiet flow;
Rend not my heart—nor chill thine own with sighs;
Thy rosy cheeks are mantled o'er with snow—
Weep not because thy Českian leaves thee—No!
The mighty lion on the flag unfurl'd,
Roars with loud voice, and bids the warriors go—
Wealth, heart, and blood—our country—and the world.
How sweet and silent were our early days,
Gliding like meadow streamlets soft and still;
Enjoyment threw o'er every hour its rays,
Anxious, life's cup with flowing bliss to fill.
​But soon—too soon—that bliss has been o'ercast,
Which made me the world’s envy—now the frost,
The silver frost of sorrow malies a waste
Of my once glowing spirit—All is lost.
Yet will I prize thy love—the love I've sworn,
That love shall lead through immortality.
Think not that white-arm'd maidens' smile or scorn,
Can for an instant lure my thoughts from thee.
No dimples, howsoever lovely—grace,
Howe'er majestic—pearly teeth in rows—
Mouth breathing sweets—Can these—can these efface
Thy memory? Never!—or thy sway oppose?—
In the night's silence—at the twilight's dawn,
Whene'er I gird my sabre to my side—
When eve around the hills her clouds has drawn—
Then—always—shall I think of thee—and glide
In fancy to thy presence—midst the roar
Of cannons—and the flash of swords—bud hiss
Of bullets—while like seeds of thistles o'er
Torn limbs fly by—thy love shall be my bliss.
When the blest trump of peace is heard again,
What bliss—what bliss supreme to take thy hand—
How will my spirit thrill with rapture then!
Thy rosy lips my eager kiss shall press,
My arms around thy smiling form shall be;
Thine eyes—thy cheeks—the kiss of love shall bless;
O! the unutterable extasy!
Hark! hark ! the trumpet's call—the banner flies
High flapping in the wind—our lions shake
Their grisly manes—thou maid of Paradise,
Come hither—come—thy hero's sabre take,
And gird it on—and bless him—and one kiss—
One kiss—and then—and then—what words can tell
My thoughts—thou joy, hope, peace, song, love, and bliss—
* ↑ Na sauwrati—On the edge of the field.
* ↑ Na klekanj—The thrice-repeated singing in the Catholic churches to morning, noon, and evening prayers.
* ↑ W roklince—a small valley between two rocks.