Jan Kochanowski

Come, Heraclitus and Simonides, Come with your weeping and sad elegies: Ye griefs and sorrows, come from all the lands

If I had ever thought to write in praise Of little children and their simple ways, Far rather had I fashioned cradle verse

So, thou hast scorned me, my delight and heir; Thy father's halls, then, were not broad and fair Enough for thee to dwell here longer, sweet.

Thou hast constrained mine eyes, unholy Death, To watch my dear child breathe her dying breath: To watch thee shake the fruit unripe and clinging

Thou shouldst be purchased, Wisdom, for much gold If all they say of thee is truly told: That thou canst root out from the mind the host

Just as a little olive offshoot grows Beneath its orchard elders' shady rows, No budding leaf as yet, no branching limb,

Dear little Slavic Sappho, we had thought, Hearing thy songs so sweetly, deftly wrought, That thou shouldst have an heritage one day

Sad trinkets of my little daughter, dresses That touched her like caresses, Why do you draw my mournful eyes? To borrow

Thou hast made all the house an empty thing, Dear Ursula, by this thy vanishing. Though we are here, 'tis yet a vacant place,

My dear delight, my Ursula, and where Art thou departed, to what land, what sphere? High o'er the heavens wert thou borne, to stand

"Virtue is but a trifle!" Brutus said In his defeat; nor was he cozened. What man did his own goodness e'er advance

I think no father under any sky More fondly loved a daughter than did I, And scarcely ever has a child been born

Ursula, winsome child, I would that I Had never had thee if thou wert to die So early. For with lasting grief I pay,

Where are those gates through which so long ago Orpheus descended to the realms below To seek his lost one? Little daughter, I

Long through the night hours sorrow was my guest And would not let my fainting body rest, Till just ere dawn from out its slow dominions

Golden-locked Erato, and thou, sweet lute, The comfort of the sad and destitute, Calm thou my sorrow, lest I too become

Misfortune hath constrained me To leave the lute and poetry, Nor can I from their easing borrow

God hath laid his hand on me: He hath taken all my glee, And my spirit's emptied cup

We are thy thankless children, gracious Lord. The good thou dost afford Lightly do we employ,