Adam Bernard Mickiewicz

Adam Bernard Mickiewicz was a Polish poet, dramatist, essayist, publicist, translator, and professor. He is regarded as one of Poland's greatest Romantic poets and is a leading figure in Polish Romanticism. Mickiewicz's major works include the epic poem 'Pan Tadeusz,' a national epic of Poland, set during the Napoleonic era. His works often reflect themes of Polish nationalism and patriotism, and he became an important symbol of the Polish struggle for independence.

December 24, 1798

November 26, 1855

Polish

Alushta By Day

The mighty mountain flings its mist-veil down;
        With little flowers the gracious fields are bright,
And from the forest colors flash to sight
        Like gems that drop from off a Calif's crown.
Upon the meadows settles shimmering down
        A band of butterflies in rainbow flight;
Cicadas call and call in day's delight,
        And bees are dreaming in a blossom's crown.

The waves beneath the cliff are thunder-pale,
        Now upward, upward in their rage they rise
And tawny are their crests as tigers' eyes.
        The sun is focused on one white, far sail
And on blue, shining deeps as smooth as glass
        Wherein slim cranes are shadowed as they pass.

Adam Bernard Mickiewicz

Alushta By Night

The drooping, weary day night pushed aside;
        On Tschatir Dagh the sullen sun and low
Paints phantom purple upon ancient snow;
        While forest ways within, the wanderers hide.
Night veils the mountains and the valleys wide;
        The thunderous brooks are dream-held, dulled, and slow;
Beneath the blackness fragrant flowers blow
        And rich leaf-music clothes each valley side.

Almost my waking eyes are dream-held too;
        With gold a meteor marks the deep-domed sky
And fountain-like the fiery sparks float by.
        Oh! Beauty of the Eastern Night, you woo
My spirit like the odalisque, who held
        Men captive till her kiss the dream dispelled!

Adam Bernard Mickiewicz

Baktschi Serai

In ruin are the spacious, splendid halls
        With frozen forest of white columns where
The Tartar Khan his palace builded fair,
        Where loneliest the shrilling cricket calls.
The ivy blackens over shining walls
        Enscribing in gigantic letters there
Some curse Belshazzar-like: Beware! Beware!--
        Then black as crepe from crested columns falls.

Within the burnished banquet room there sings
        The fountain of the harem pure and clear,
Just as of old it sang in twilights drear.
        But whither love and fame speed--on what wings?
When all things else must perish these endure!
        Yet both are gone! The fountain ripples pure.

Adam Bernard Mickiewicz

Baktschi Serai By Night

From out the mosques the pious wend their way;
        Muezzin voices tremble through the night;
Within the sky the pallid King of Light
        Wraps silvered ermine round him while he may,
And Heaven's harem greets its star array.
        One lone white cloud rests in the azure height--
A veiled court lady in some sorrow's plight--
        Whom cruel love and day have cast away.

The mosques stand there; and here tall cypress trees;
        There--mountains, towering, black as demons frown,
Which Lucifer in rage from God cast down.
        Like sword blades lightning flickers over these,
And on an Arab steed the wild Khan rides
        Who goes to Baktschi Serai which night hides.

Adam Bernard Mickiewicz

Baydary

Give wings unto the storm, and spurs to steed,
        I'd move unchained as wind across the world,
Sweep onward like a torrent mountain-hurled,
        Nor sea, nor height, nor valley pause to heed.
The twilight spreads a dimness o'er our speed,
        And shows the diamond-stars from hoofs up-whirled,
Since daylight now her curtained blue has juried,
        And mystery and magic shadows breed.

The earth sleeps, but not I--not I--not I--
        Who hasten to the shore where waves are loud
And toward me in the darkness whitely crowd.
        Beneath them I would still my soul's deep cry--
Like ships the whirlpools seize to drag to death--
        I'd plunge within the silence, sans thought, breath.

Adam Bernard Mickiewicz

Becalmed

The flag is listless, limp. It dances not.
        As deep the sea breathes from a gentle breast
As any bride who dreams at love's behest,
        And wakes and sighs, then casts with dreams her lot.
Sails hang upon the masts--useless-forgot--
        Like folded standards which the warriors wrest
And bring home broken from the battle's crest.
        The sailors rest them in some sheltered spot.

O Sea! within your unknown deeps concealed,
        When storms are wild, your monsters dream and sleep,
And all their cruelty for the sunlight keep.
        Thus, Soul of Mine, in your sad deeps concealed
The monsters sleep--when wild are storms. They start
        From out some blue sky's peace to seize my heart.

Adam Bernard Mickiewicz

Mountains From The Keslov Steppe

(Pilgrim)

What would Great Allah with the frozen sea?
        Would he of icy clouds a throne carve bright,
Or would the demons of the deepest night
        A bar build where the shining stars sweep free?
It gleams like pagan cities fired, kings flee.
        When Day was anciently destroyed by Night
Did Allah amid chaos fix this light
        To guide the star-worlds of eternity?

(Mirza)

Up there I've journeyed where the winter reigns,
        And seen the rivers bitten black like lines
On Tschatir Dagh, where the white cloud reclines,
        Which not the wildest eagle's shadow stains,
Where cradled under me the thunders sleep
        And Allah and the stars their watches keep.

Adam Bernard Mickiewicz

On Juda's Cliff

On Juda's Cliff I love to lean and look
        On waves that battling beat and break with might,
While farther seaward in a bland delight,
        I see them shining where a rainbow shook.
On Juda's Cliff I love to lean and look
        On waves that like sea-armies swing to sight,
To send upon the shore their billows white,
        And, ebbing, to leave pearls in every nook.

Thus, Poet, in your youth when storms are wild
        And passions break upon the heart and brain,
To leave their ruin there--shipwreck and waste--
        Pick up your lute! Upon it undefiled
You'll find song-pearls that your heart-deeps retain,
        The crown the years have brought you, white and chaste.

Adam Bernard Mickiewicz

The Ackerman Steppe

Across sea-meadows measureless I go,
        My wagon sinking under grass so tall
The flowery petals in foam on me fall,
        And blossom-isles float by I do not know.
No pathway can the deepening twilight show;
        I seek the beckoning stars which sailors call,
And watch the clouds. What lies there brightening all?
        The Dneister's, the steppe-ocean's evening glow!

The silence! I can hear far flight of cranes--
        So far the eyes of eagle could not reach--
And bees and blossoms speaking each to each;
        The serpent slipping adown grassy lanes;
From my far home if word could come to me!--
        Yet none will come. On, o'er the meadow-sea!

Adam Bernard Mickiewicz

The Grave Of Countess Potocka

In Spring of love and life, My Polish Rose,
        You faded and forgot the joy of youth;
Bright butterfly, it brushed you, then left ruth
        Of bitter memory that stings and glows.
O Stars! that seek a path my northland knows,
        How dare you now on Poland shine forsooth,
When she who loved you and lent you her youth
        Sleeps where beneath the wind the long grass blows?

Alone, My Polish Rose, I die, like you.
        Beside your grave a while pray let me rest
With other wanderers at some grief's behest.
        The tongue of Poland by your grave rings true.
High-hearted, now a young boy past it goes,
        Of you it is he sings, My Polish Rose.

Adam Bernard Mickiewicz

The Graves Of The Harem

They sleep well here whom Allah loved and kept
        And treasured in his vineyard fair and fine,
Most lustrous of the Orient pearls that shine,
        Which youth found where the waves of passion swept.
Here, where in peace perpetual they have slept,
        A turban beckons where the roses twine,
A banner flutters out in silken line,
        And sometimes here a Giaour's name is kept.

Oh! roses of this paradise of old,
        The eyes that loved not Allah saw you not,
Nor arms that prayed not eastward could enfold!
        But now a Christian treads this hallowed spot;
Wise Allah, curse not him who bows his head
        Amid the marble shrines of Allah's dead!

Adam Bernard Mickiewicz

The Pass Across The Abyss In The Tschufut-Kale

(Mirza)

Pray! Pray! Let loose the bridle. Look not down!
        The humble horse alone has wisdom here.
He knows where blackest the abysses leer
        And where the path in safety leads us down.
Pray, and look upward to the mountain's crown!
        The deep below is endless where you peer;
Stretch not the hand out as you pass, for fear
        The added weight of that might plunge you down.

And check your thoughts' free flight, too, while you go;
        Let all of Fancy's fluttering sails be furled
Here where Death watches o'er the riven world.

(Pilgrim)

        I lived to cross the bridge of ancient snow!
                But what I saw my tongue no more can tell,
        The angels only could rehearse that well.


(MIRZA...

Adam Bernard Mickiewicz

The Ruins Of Balaclava

Oh, thankless Crimean land! in ruin laid
        Are now the castles that were once your pride!
Here serpents and the owls from daylight hide,
        And robbers arm them for the nightly raid.
Upon the lettered marble boasts are made,
        Brave words on battered arms in gold descried,
And broken splendor years have scattered wide,
        Beside the dead who made them are arrayed.

The Greek set shining, columned marble here.
        The Latin put the Mongol horde to flight,
And Mussulmans prayed eastward morn and night.
        The owl and vulture of dark wing and drear
Are fluttering like black banners overhead
        In cities where the pest piles high the dead.

Adam Bernard Mickiewicz

Tschatir Dagh (Mirza)

The reverent Mussulman bends low to greet
        You, Tschatir Dagh, Crimea's bright-masted ship!
World-altar,--minaret--the place where dip
        Down stairs from golden Heaven for the feet!
You guard the door of God in splendor meet,
        Like Gabriel with holy sword on hip;
In bright mist mantled from the toe to lip,
        Tour turban set with alien stars and sweet.

If winter rule the world, or summer's sun,
        If Giaour rage about, or winds are wild,
Above them, Tschatir Dagh, you, changeless one,
        Are like to Allah, pure and undefiled;
Aloft you tower from out the lowly sod
        To give to men again the will of God.

Adam Bernard Mickiewicz

Tschatir Dagh (The Pilgrim)

Below me half a world I see outspread;
        Above, blue heaven; around, peaks of snow;
And yet the happy pulse of life is slow,
        I dream of distant places, pleasures dead.
The woods of Lithuania I would tread
        Where happy-throated birds sing songs I know;
Above the trembling marshland I would go
        Where chill-winged curlews dip and call o'er head.

A tragic, lonely terror grips my heart,
        A longing for some peaceful, gentle place,
And memories of youthful love I trace.
        Unto my childhood home I long to start,
And yet if all the leaves my name could cry
        She would not pause nor heed as she passed by.

Adam Bernard Mickiewicz