Kochanowski, Jan: Song XXIV (Pieśń XXIV in English)
Pieśń XXIV (Polish)Niezwykłym i nie leda piórem opatrzony Miasty wzgardzę. On, w równym szczęściu urodzony, Już mi skóra chropawa padnie na goleni, Terazże, nad Ikara prędszy przeważnego, O mnie Moskwa i będą wiedzieć Tatarowie, Niech przy próznym pogrzebie żadne narzekanie,
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Song XXIV (English)Endowed with a pinion that is mighty and rare,
A poet of two forms, I will take to the air: I will not remain on this earth any longer, But, above envy, I will look with disfavor At crowded cities. Not I, the one lowly-born, Not I, whom you call your friend, by Death shall be borne, Dear Myszkowski, nor will I be held prisoner By the black arms of the mournful Stygian water. At once with rough skin my shins are being covered, At once my crown is turning into a white bird, Small feathers are sprouting all over my fingers And enormous wings are growing from my shoulders. Even now more swiftly than the brave Icarus I'll visit the bare shores of the loud Bosporus And Syrtes, the bird consecrated by Muses. And the plains far beyond northern territories. Moscow and the Tartars will find out about me And the English who live in a far-off country, Germans, brave Spaniards will hold me in high esteem, And those who drink water from the Tiber's deep stream.
Let there be no sobs at my empty funeral, |