Pan Tadeusz

From Adam Mickiewicz, Pan Tadeusz, Book I.

Lithuania, my country! You are as good health:

How much one should prize you, he only can tell

Who has lost you. Your beauty and splendour I view

And describe here today, for I long after you.

Holy Virgin who shelters our bright Częstochowa

And shines in Ostra Brama! You, who yet watch over

The castled Nowogródek's folk faithful and mild;

As You once had returned me to health, a sick child,

(When by my weeping mother into Your care given,

I by miracle opened a dead eye to heaven,

And to Your temple's threshold could straightaway falter

For a life thus returned to thank God at the altar)

Thus to motherland's breast You will bring us again.

Meanwhile, bear my soul heavy with yearning's dull pain,

To those soft woodland hillocks, those meadows, green, gleaming,

Spread wide along each side of the blue-flowing Niemen,

To those fields, which by various grain painted, there lie

Shimmering, with wheat gilded, and silvered with rye;

Where grows the amber mustard, buckwheat white as snow,

Where, with maidenly blushes, clover flowers glow,

And all as if beribboned by green strips of land,

The balks, upon which scattered quiet pear trees stand.

Mid such fields years ago, by the edge of a rill,

In a grove of white birches, upon a slight hill,

Stood a gentleman's manor, of wood, but on stone;

The home's whitewashed walls brightly from faraway shone

Seeming whiter in contrast with dusky green trees,

The poplars, which stood guarding it from autumn's breeze.

The dwelling not too large, but well-cared for and neat,

With a barn very big, and with three stacks of wheat

Standing near, which the thatch could not fully contain;

One can see that the country is heavy with grain;

And one sees from the sheaves that in fields near the house

Shine as thickly as stars; from the number of ploughs,

Turning up early sods of the black fallow ground

Of the fields, stretching far, by the house doubtless owned,

Fields tidy and well tilled, like a trim garden border,

That one finds in this dwelling both plenty and order.

The gate wide open stands, and to strangers attests:

Guests are welcome, and all are invited as guests.

In a two-horse chaise, just then, a young man approached;

After circling the courtyard drew up at the porch,

And then leapt from the carriage; the team, left to wait,

Ambled, nibbling the grasses, towards the front gate.

The manor house seemed empty; the door was pulled to

And secured with a staple, with a peg pushed through.

The Traveller did not run to the farm to inquire,

Unlatched it, ran in quickly, to greet it desired:

A long time now from home, in a far distant town,

He had worked at his studies, now laid his books down.

He enters, with eyes hungry regards those walls ancient,

With a tender regard, as his friends old and patient.

Sees the same bits and pieces, same hangings and covers

He had loved in his childhood; but now he discovers

They are smaller than once seemed to him, and less glorious.

On the walls the same portraits of patriots and warriors:

Here is Kosciuszko, wearing his Kraków cap, kneeling,

Towards heaven eyes turned, sword in both hands, appealing

To God at his high altar, and swearing defiance:

This sword shall drive from Poland the three mighty giants

Or himself will fall on it. There, in Polish dress,

Sits Rejtan, he at freedom's loss quite comfortless,

In his hand, point to breast, he is holding a knife,

Before him, open, 'Phaedo' lies, and Cato's 'Life'.

Further, grim-faced Jasinski, youth fair, near his tried

And inseparable Korsak, erect by his side

On Praga's ramparts, sabring the foes from a mound

Of dead Russians, while Praga's aflame all around.

He even the old chiming clock well recollected

In its wooden case, close by the alcove erected,

And with old child-like pleasure he pulled at the chain,

Old Dabrowski Mazurka to hear once again.

...

The full text can be found at http://www.antoranz.net/BIBLIOTEKA/PT051225/PanTad-eng/PT-books/BOOK01.HTM.