Laments

By Jan Kochanowski

Jan Kochanowski (1530-84) was the greatest poet of Poland during its existence as an independent kingdom. His Laments are his masterpiece, the choicest work of Polish lyric poetry before the time of Mickiewicz.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Booklassic
• Release date: Aug 5, 2016

Jan Kochanowski

Jan Kochanowski (1530-1584) was one of the most eminent Polish Renaissance poets of the 16th century and is widely regarded as the most accomplished and the most significant representative of Polish literature until the 19th century. He is often referred to as the father of Polish literary language and is best known for his mastery of the Polish poetic language and forms.Born in 1530 into a noble family in Sycyna, Kochanowski studied at the Jagiellonian University in Kraków and later, between 1552 and 1559, at the University of Padua in Italy. His time in Italy exposed him to the great works of the Italian Renaissance, and he became fluent in Latin, Greek, and Italian, which significantly influenced his own work.Upon his return to Poland, Kochanowski served as a secretary at the royal court in Kraków. He was also a member of the Polish parliament, a courtier, and a landowner. Despite his duties, he dedicated his life to writing. His works covered a variety of genres and themes, including epigrams, epic poetry, lyrical poetry, and dramatic tragedy.Kochanowski's most renowned work is "Treny" (Threnodies, 1580), a series of elegies upon the death of his beloved daughter Urszula. It is considered a masterpiece of Renaissance literature, notable for its emotional depth and exploration of personal grief.Kochanowski's influence on Polish literature is immense. He elevated the Polish language to a high artistic level and set a precedent for the Polish literary culture. He died in 1584, leaving behind a legacy that continues to resonate in Polish literature and culture.

Book preview

Ursula.

Lament I

Come, Heraclitus² and Simonides³,  

Come with your weeping and sad elegies:  

Ye griefs and sorrows, come from all the lands  

Wherein ye sigh and wail and wring your hands:  

Gather ye here within my house today  

And help me mourn my sweet, whom in her May  

Ungodly Death hath ta’en to his estate,  

Leaving me on a sudden desolate.  

’Tis so a serpent glides on some shy nest  

And, of the tiny nightingales possessed,  

Doth glut its throat, though, frenzied with her fear,  

The mother bird doth beat and twitter near  

And strike the monster, till it turns and gapes  

To swallow her, and she but just escapes.  

«’Tis vain to weep,» my friends perchance will say.  

Dear God, is aught in life not vain, then? Nay,  

Seek to lie soft, yet thorns will prickly be:  

The life of man is naught but vanity.  

Ah, which were better, then — to seek relief  

In tears, or sternly strive to conquer grief?  

Lament II

If I had ever thought to write in