from SEMPER TIRO

This was the last volume of his poems that Franko published. In tone it is much different from the melancholy which frequently obtruded itself in his poetry in previous years. In general, the tone is that of a calm, balanced philosopher, whose expressions are tinged with playful humor and gentle satire. But the poet is still occupied with the social themes which mark his earlier work. This is evident in his Conquistadores, which reflects the same ideas in another framework as are contained in his youthful Pioneers. The last poem in this selection is a fitting close to this anthology in English of a great man's poetic works.

        SEMPER TIRO

Man's life is brief, but what art infinite
It takes to live it as creative task!
At first it seems as though 'twere but to flit
In magic dreams, in fantasies to bask.
But soon it grows to bounds unknown before,
Demands thy hopes, begins thy soul to ask,
Takes all thy powers, and still cries out for more.

Then, with the fruitage of thy mind and heart,
Thou standest as before some deity.
To honor her thou dost thy blood impart,
Thy nervous force, thy brain's capacity,
As to a goddess that must be adored,
And feelest like a slave, no longer free,
While in thy heart thou say'st: "I will be lord!"

Believe it not! Deceptive is the Muse.
The goddess will suck out thine "I" to use
It as a vessel for her sportive play;
She'll drain thy soul and then cast it away.
Heed not the strains thou hearest from her lyre:
"As master, thou upon men's hearts shalt play,
And millions move with thy poetic fire."

Believe it not! If thou indeed must sing,
If poesy within thee is supreme,
Serve thou the goddess without wavering,
But to rule over her thou must not dream.
Let thy song at the feast of life ring free
And unconstrained. Know thou but this one thing:
The poet always must a learner be.

        THE CONQUISTADORES

Across the stormy ocean,

    While billows seethe and roar,
Our fleet sails onward, fighting,

    To reach an unknown shore,
With straining masts, torn canvas . . .

    When lo, the peaceful strand!
Now veer, and steer together

    To reach the longed-for land I
Cast out the rusty anchors!

    Leap out upon the bank!
No sound! . .. 'Tis scarcely dawning . . .

    All quiet. . . .Stand in rank!
The drowsy town still slumbers . . .

    We'll take them while they sleep . . .
We'll wake them with our war-cry,

    And then the victory reap.
But ere we start, our vessels

    With fire let us waste.
For us, there's no returning

    Back on the path we've traced.
A burst of smoke! A groaning

    Seems from our ships to rise.
In flames the ragged canvas

    Flares upwards to the skies.
O'er all the cordage raging

    The fire runs amain
Till but the masts are standing,

    Like candles wrapped in flame.
We care not though hereafter

    Beneath time's dust we lie;
We die or else we conquer!

    This is our battle cry.
The world belongs to heroes,

    The devil take all fears!

We win by blood and labor
    A home for coming years.

                   THE RIGHTEOUS MAN

Blest is the man who goes where evil reigns

And raises there his voice for righteousness;
Who, unabashed, the lawless ones arraigns,

And, unafraid, plucks at their consciences.

Blest is the man who, in times of decay,
When even boldest spirits are all cowed,
Will with his cries arouse the slumbering crowd
And then before their eyes the truth display.

Blest is the man who, in a clamorous throng,
Like oak immovable, will firmly stand;
To treat with evil ne'er puts forth his hand,
Will rather break than bow down to the wrong.

Blessed is he, for this by men abused,
Proscribed, yea, even slain to make him dumb;
'Tis they prepare his triumph yet to come;
By their own consciences they'll stand accused.

Blest be all those who did not fear the cost,
Whenever truth and justice were at stake;
Though to men's memories their names be lost,
Their blood shall all men's blood more noble make.

                        FOXES

The strength of Rus marched out to war,
The air filled -with the flags they bore.
The crimson flags like poppies seemed,
Their swords bright in the sunlight gleamed.
The foxes who in deserts bark,
Give forth no gleam, create no spark.

The strength of Rus marched out to war,
But not to shed their brother's gore;
Not over weaker ones to lord,
But to repel a savage horde
And save the country's sacred ark,
While foxes in the desert bark.

No harm to others we intend,
But what is ours we will defend;
For we are not like wooden posts,
To cringe before a foeman's boasts
And be for wounds and shame the mark—
Let foxes in the desert bark!

Yea! let them bark as on that day
Those others barked, when in array
They saw the strength of Rus surround
The land to its remotest bound,
And, like a conflagration, sweep
O' er all the steppe and saw it leap
From end to end in one fell blast

That made the foxes stand aghast;
And still in dreams are they dismayed,
Recalling what once Rus displayed:
A flower of youth which ne'er fell back,
The Kozak and the Haydamak,

Who never drew a coward's breath,
Who kept on fighting till the death,
And on the steppe poured out their blood
Till it rolled crimson like a flood
Down through the history of Ukraine. ...

The very thought that once again
The scourge might reoccur today
Still fills the whelps with deep dismay,
And when they see a gleam or spark,
They still like desert foxes bark.

       BY BABYLON'S RIVER
By Babylonia's river I sat down as though dazed,
And on my shattered harp in desperation gazed.

A Babylonian crowd around me mocked me sore:
"Sing us a song of Zion, a layabout Tabor!"

"A song of Zion, Tabor? 'Twould be a sorry tale,
For Tabor is a waste, on Zion stands a jail.

"I know but one old song on which I can rely.
'Tis: I was born a slave and as a slave I'll die.

"I came into the world amid the sound of blows,
And fathered by a slave who lived among his foes.

"I have been trained to bow and show a smiling face
Toward all those who oppress and castigate my race.

"My teacher was a dog who learns to stand and lick
The cruel hand of him who beats him with a stick.

"And though I were as straight as trees on Lebanon,
My soul would still be bent, a weed to tread upon.

"Though sometimes I may make my words like thunder

                    sound,

Tis but a hollow noise wherein no harm is found.

"And though at times my soul its freedom seeks to gain,
My blood is slavish blood, my brain's a captive's brain.

"And though on hands and feet no fetters do I bear,
My nerves are always fettered by a slavish fear.

"Though free I call myself, my back I always crook,
And freely in the face of no one can I look.

"Before all men's abuse, I humbly bow and blench;
The free word in my breast, I, like a candle, quench.

"Though night and day I toil with scanty food and sleep,
I do it as a serf, who sows while others reap.

"I love my work, yet e'er I'm by the thought restrained:
Thou'rt chained to it as slave is to his barrow chained.

"Though I some goods amass by foiling long and hard,
'Tis like a stranger's wealth o'er which I stand on guard.

"No matter whom I meet, I must the lesser be;
When it comes to a choice, the shorter end's for me.

"And though attimes my soul revolts and wants to fight,
To shake my fetters off, defend my human right—

"Alas, 'tis not a wrath that can avail to save,
'Tis but a weakling's rage, the fury of a slave.

"O Babylonian wives, depart and go your ways,
And with such wondering eyes no longer on me gaze!

"Lest curse of mine should blast your fruit with infamy,
And any bear a child to be a slave like me.

"O Babylonian maids, pass on, look not on me!
Let not your hearts be touched with sympathy for me,

"Lest your lot be a fate more bitter than the grave,
The greatest curse that could befall—to love a slave!"

            THE LEAVES OF KAAF

In dream I strayed into a valley fair,
Twas all so peaceful, calm, and glittering;
It seemed to me my steps were borne on air.

The valley lay adorned by beauteous spring,
Enveloped in sweet odors like a bride;
I heard a swarm of unseen songbirds sing.

A field of silvery rye waved on one side;
Above it roared and hummed a forest hoar
In whose cool depths dark mysteries abide.

And from the lea below the zephyrs bore

Perfumes so overwhelming that the breast
Expanded till the lungs could bear no more.

The perfumes came from flowers standing dressed
In gorgeous colors, varied forms, the like
Perhaps, no human hands have e'er caressed.

And, bending o'er those flowers so unlike
What I had ever known, I heard a sound
Of tender music on my hearing strike.

Amidst the flowers maidens walked around,
With hand in hand they paced, a gracious band,
All dressed in white, with lovely chaplets crowned.

Each held a tiny basket in her hand,
And some had watering pots, and one a spade.
In all the beds each flower bloom they scanned.

They did not pluck the singing flowers, but made
A choice and took from every plant a leaf,
And these with care they in their baskets laid.

I spoke to one of them who seemed the chief:
"To what end are these leaves effectual?
As food or for medicinal relief?"

She said: "We pluck them for our festival;
Not for the sick, but for the hale and strong;
And as for food, we need no carnival.

"Whoever puts a leaf upon his tongue,
And eats of it, imbibing all its juice—
His heart will fill with raptures still unsung.

"It will new courage through his soul diffuse;
His eyes will shine with joy unknown before;
'Twill all his woes to nothingness reduce.

"One instant, and thy burdened heart no more
Shall be weighed down. Thou shalt be radiant.
'Twill all thy child's simplicity restore.

"Then men will seek thee as a confidant,
And in their friendship thou shalt find joy, too.
Kaaf is the name by which we call this plant."

She went away and then came other two:
"Art thou not gladdened by these leaves of ours?
Then to thy workshop take the residue.

"Why should resentment spoil thy working hours,
Contempt of mankind, envy, and defeat?"

I plucked some leaves from those strange singing flowers.
Here is a handful of them. Take and eat!

            THE POET'S TASK

O poet, know: that on the path of life,
No pearls, no riches, shall thou ever find,
Nor shelter from earth's elemental strife.

O poet, know: thy mission is designed
For thee to feel man's pains in their extremes,
Ere thou shalt reach thy goal by heaven assigned.

O poet, know: that in the sphere of dreams,
Illusions, fancies, shall thy Eden bloom;
Thy task: to seek therein for vital themes.

The poet-prophet's gift will thee foredoom
To lead thy fellows to a Promised Land;
But yet, to enter it, do not presume.

A feeling heart is thine to understand
And help thy brother in his hour of grief,
Or if cast down, enable him to stand.

But none to thine own woes will lend belief,
No one will stretch a helping hand to thee,
Or to thy bloody weeping bring relief.

Yet deem not that thou'rt born to misery;
Thy joys thou hast in treasures of the mind,
Creative powers make thy felicity.

All that the world denies thee thou shalt find
Within thy soul, far brighter and more pure:
The loftiest truths, and mastery unconfined.

Therefore avoid all that is dark, obscure,
Deceiving splendors, temporary fame,
With all that's selfish, specious, or impure.

And on thy brow, be it thy constant aim
To wear the crown of modesty and grace,
Fit symbol of a spirit without blame.

Go through life's masquerade with naked face,
And, like the sage of old, a lantern bear,
Whene'er thou walkest in the market place.

The soul of things will in its light appear,
Its rays will penetrate the darkest mass.

Be not a judge to men, but friend sincere,
Both mirror and restorer. Look and pass^

            BEHUMAN

Be human, brother. Let thy humanism
Gush from the fount of love without a dog,
Not roiled by pride nor tinged with favoritism.

Be human. Quite unlike the theologue,
Who makes man's duty to his ruling cleave,
Who fears a lion, beats a helpless dog,

Who counts as brothers none but who believe
His doctrines as to how to reach life's goal,
Who points to heaven, yet want doth not relieve,

Who strains at gnats, but gulps a camel whole.
Thou canst not love alike all men, 'tis true,
Yet wish no evil to a single soul.

No credit give to what thou hast no due,
To falsehood never lend a listening ear,
See to it that all get their rightful due.

Wring not thy hands in anger, ne'er despair;
Keep thou a catlike placidness in store.
Be on thy guard against the flatterer,

. And always say to parasites: "No more!"

            DIDST THOU BUT KNOW

Didst thou but know how words with power may glow!
One tiny word that gushes from the heart
Can heal another's long deep-hidden smart
And new life give. Didst thou but know!
Then surely by despair, with eyes abased
And lips in silence pursed, thou wouldst not haste,
But rather, comfort wouldst thou spread around
Thy path, like showers on parched and thirsty ground,
Didst thou but know!

Didst thou but know what sharp and rankling woe
One word with pride or anger edged may do!
How it some soul with hatred may imbue
And lifelong poison leave. Didst thou but know!
Thou wouldst thy passions, like a savage beast,
Chain in the darkest corner of thy breast.
Though thou no word of sympathy canst speak,
Yet with harsh words thou never harm wouldst wreak,
Didst thou but know!

Didst thou but know how much of secret pain
Is masked by features in forced calmness set;
How many a face that smiles by day is wet
With tears that on the nightly pillow rain—
With love thou wouldst make keen both eyes and ears,
And, plunging in the sea of human tears,
Wouldst spend thy strength to heal and bring relief,
And come to know how much there is of grief,
Didst thou but know!

Didst thou but know! This knowledge can but come
Through sympathy, 'tis taught us by the heart.
The heart will to the dark mind light impart.
And thus for thee the world will new become.
Thy heart will larger grow. In times of fear
Thou'lt steadfast stand, thy path will clear appear.
Like Him who walked in tempest on the wave,
Thou too, shalt say to those who weep: "Be brave!
Be not afraid, 'Tis I!"

1906.