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Song on the Birth of Our LordAuthor(s): Franciszek Karpiński and Watson KirkconnellSource: The Slavonic and East European Review, Vol. 14, No. 40 (Jul., 1935), pp. 3-4Published by: the Modern Humanities Research Association and University College London, School ofSlavonic and East European StudiesStable URL: http://www.jstor.org/stable/4203062 .
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POETRY.
FRANCISZEK KARPINSKI (I74I-I825) SONG ON THE BIRTH OF OUR LORD OUR God is born, vast powers tremble; The Lord of heaven-a naked child. Infinities their sway dissemble, While light grows dim and flames are mild. Bidding His glorious reign farewell, A mortal's lot to undergo, Th' Incarnate Word is come to dwell In flesh among us here below!
What hast thou, heaven, more than earth? God now has cast away thy pride, And here with men is come to birth, To love and suffer at their side. Impossible it seems to tell That He should share our guilt and woe. Th' Incarnate Word is come to dwell In flesh among us here below!
His birthplace is a wretched shed; A crib, the cradle where He lies; Rough shepherds are about His bed, And hay, and oxen's gentle eyes. To humble folk this grace befell- We greet Him ere earth's great ones know. Th' Incarnate Word is come to dwell In flesh among us here below!
Yet afterwards, as we adored, Came kings the Infant to behold And offer tribute to the Lord Of myrrh and frankincense and gold. The Deity accepts as well All gifts that rustic hands bestow. Th' Incarnate Word is come to dwell In flesh among us here below!
Hold up Thy hand, O Babe Divine, And bless the country that we love With counsels good and ways benign And holy power from above;
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THE SLAVONIC REVIEW. THE SLAVONIC REVIEW. THE SLAVONIC REVIEW.
Protect our homes, ill fate repel, And favour to this hamlet show ! Th' Incarnate Word is come to dwell In flesh among us here below!
ADAM MICKIEWICZ (I798-I855)
THE GRAVE OF THE POTOCKA IN pleasant gardens in the land of spring You died, sweet rose ! For memories of the past Into your pure, soft-petall'd bosom cast The maggot of nostalgic suffering. Thick through the northern skies a myriad stars Mark a bright highway to the land you loved; Ah, did your homesick eyes, that thither roved, Burn that high path as you escaped life's bars ? I, too, am fated to an exile's end. Strangers will lay me here in alien earth. But when some wandering poet shall attend Your grave with tribute in the tongue of home, Dreaming some lonely lyric into birth, My dust will wake and call to you to come.
BOHDAN ZALESKI (I802-1886)
THE CEDAR I HAVE a homeland with our Father, God, In the infinity of endless time. O nurse of fleeting shadows and vain rhyme, Terrestrial Poland, why this long, dark road?
Poland! Thou art a sprig from Eden's groves That hands divine have planted as they please- There on the plain, between two mighty seas, Thou growest to a cedar that God loves.
O cedar, Polish cedar, heavenly plant, Up-soaring, fresh and green and flowerless, Songs of a century thy praise express Where birds by prairie, stream and woodland chant.
Protect our homes, ill fate repel, And favour to this hamlet show ! Th' Incarnate Word is come to dwell In flesh among us here below!
ADAM MICKIEWICZ (I798-I855)
THE GRAVE OF THE POTOCKA IN pleasant gardens in the land of spring You died, sweet rose ! For memories of the past Into your pure, soft-petall'd bosom cast The maggot of nostalgic suffering. Thick through the northern skies a myriad stars Mark a bright highway to the land you loved; Ah, did your homesick eyes, that thither roved, Burn that high path as you escaped life's bars ? I, too, am fated to an exile's end. Strangers will lay me here in alien earth. But when some wandering poet shall attend Your grave with tribute in the tongue of home, Dreaming some lonely lyric into birth, My dust will wake and call to you to come.
BOHDAN ZALESKI (I802-1886)
THE CEDAR I HAVE a homeland with our Father, God, In the infinity of endless time. O nurse of fleeting shadows and vain rhyme, Terrestrial Poland, why this long, dark road?
Poland! Thou art a sprig from Eden's groves That hands divine have planted as they please- There on the plain, between two mighty seas, Thou growest to a cedar that God loves.
O cedar, Polish cedar, heavenly plant, Up-soaring, fresh and green and flowerless, Songs of a century thy praise express Where birds by prairie, stream and woodland chant.
Protect our homes, ill fate repel, And favour to this hamlet show ! Th' Incarnate Word is come to dwell In flesh among us here below!
ADAM MICKIEWICZ (I798-I855)
THE GRAVE OF THE POTOCKA IN pleasant gardens in the land of spring You died, sweet rose ! For memories of the past Into your pure, soft-petall'd bosom cast The maggot of nostalgic suffering. Thick through the northern skies a myriad stars Mark a bright highway to the land you loved; Ah, did your homesick eyes, that thither roved, Burn that high path as you escaped life's bars ? I, too, am fated to an exile's end. Strangers will lay me here in alien earth. But when some wandering poet shall attend Your grave with tribute in the tongue of home, Dreaming some lonely lyric into birth, My dust will wake and call to you to come.
BOHDAN ZALESKI (I802-1886)
THE CEDAR I HAVE a homeland with our Father, God, In the infinity of endless time. O nurse of fleeting shadows and vain rhyme, Terrestrial Poland, why this long, dark road?
Poland! Thou art a sprig from Eden's groves That hands divine have planted as they please- There on the plain, between two mighty seas, Thou growest to a cedar that God loves.
O cedar, Polish cedar, heavenly plant, Up-soaring, fresh and green and flowerless, Songs of a century thy praise express Where birds by prairie, stream and woodland chant.
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