Jan Kochanowski

Biographical details

Portrait of Jan Kochanowski Jan Kochanowski,  Laments

“ Does not our private grief gain temperance?
Unhappy mother (if 'tis evil hap
We blame when caught in our own folly's trap)
Where are thy sons and daughters, seven each,
The joyful cause of thy too boastful speech?
I see their fourteen stones, and thou, alas,
Who from thy misery wouldst gladly pass
To death, dost kiss the tombs, O wretched one,
Where lies thy fruit so cruelly undone.
Thus blossoms fall where some keen sickle passes
And so, when rain doth level them, green grasses.
What hope canst thou yet harbor in thee? Why
Dost thou not drive thy sorrow hence and die?
”
Source: Gutenberg

Portrait of Jan Kochanowski Jan Kochanowski,  Laments

“ Like her poor mother, if more racking woe
It were to bear or bury them? Ah, meet
Are such delights to make the world more sweet!
But heaven hath purer, surer happiness,
Free from all intermingling of distress.
Care rules not here and here we know not toil,
Misfortune and disaster do not spoil.
Here sickness can not enter nor old age,
And death, tear-nourished, hath no pasturage.
[29] We live a life of endless joy that brings
Good thoughts; we know the causes of all things.
”
Source: Gutenberg

Portrait of Jan Kochanowski Jan Kochanowski,  Laments

“ Sharp thorns and nettles, cuts the little sprout,
It fades and, losing all its living hue,
Drops by the mother from whose roots it grew:
So was it with my Ursula, my dear;
A little space she grew beside us here,
Then Death came, breathing pestilence, and she
Fell, stricken lifeless, by her parent tree.
Persephone, Persephone, this flow
Of barren tears! How couldst thou will it so?
[12]
LAMENT VI
Dear little Slavic Sappho, we had thought,
Hearing thy songs so sweetly, deftly wrought,
That thou shouldst have an heritage one day
Beyond thy father's lands: his lute to play.
”
Source: Gutenberg

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