Boleslav, King of Poland

Fame and glory’s feeble embers
Fade o’er many a hero brave;
But the faithful Pole remembers
The good prince--King Boleslav.

True to love, though purple-girded--
True to friendship, though a king;
In his inner soul there herded
Thoughts for ever festering.

He was happy--but two brothers
Saw with dark and secret hate
Their proud father-land another’s--
They aspired to rule the state.

They were loved--the king delighted
All his love to pour on them;
But a maiden’s faith was plighted,
And he saw the promised gem.

As the lily, courted only
By the breezes of the wood;
So Volhynia’s princess lonely,
Shrouded her in solitude.

Sbignei saw--and loved--communion
Of affections swiftly grew:
They were sworn to holy union,
Sworn to Hymen’s pledges true.

List!--the trumpets call the forces;
See the dust clouds on the fields;
Hark!--the impatient neigh of horses--
‘To the fight!’--and Sbignei yields.

To the town the monarch drew him,
Not in pride of victory;--
Saw the princess--and he threw him
Bending at the lady’s knee.

Tears adown her cheeks were flowing,
And in agony she cried:
‘Whither is my Sbignei going?
O desert me not--thy bride!’

Yet two moons had told their story--
Sick with love is Boleslav;
He forgot his martial glory,
And his army true and brave.

Sbignei now all truce hath broken,
His Bohemian troops he calls;
See his rebel standard-token
Marching on Volhynia’s walls.

’Tis in vain--he is forsaken--
The Bohemian bands have fled;
He himself a prisoner taken--
But his vizor veils his head.

See!--the jealous king espies him
Sleeping on Volhynia’s knee--
Draws his dagger and destroys him--
’Twas his brother!--’twas not he!

Who shall tell the murderer’s madness--
Who shall paint his deathlike look?
There he stood, in grief and sadness,
Staggering--starting--thunderstruck.

Fain his steel he would have buried
In his tortur’d throbbing breast;
But th’ attendant courtiers hurried,
From his hand that steel to wrest.

Then he left his kingly palace,
All he left--except his woe;
To the spot that Calvary hallows,
Pilgrim-like he vow’d to go.

Every city where he wander’d
Heard his crime, and heard his prayers:
O’er his wretched fate he ponder’d,
Asking pardon even with tears.

Be he pardon’d!--his repentance--
May it bring his soul relief:
Mournful is man’s earthly sentence,
Glory is no shield from grief.

* * * * *

She bent her head, and the tears that fell
Were veil’d as there were shame in tears:
Her lips were closed, but a low ‘farewell’
Had glided from those lips of hers.

The pale moon shone, and she raised her eye,
It sparkled in the heavenly ray--
A smile awoke, and the tear was dry--
And the maiden sped her on her way.