K.Ujejski - Maraton.docx

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                  Maraton                                                                                                                                                                          (Wstęp)                                                                                                                                                                                                     Wy chcecie pieśni! wy chcecie  pieśni,                                                                                                 Zapewne dźwięcznej i słodkiej dla ucha,                                                                                                                        A ja mam dla was, o! moi rówieśni,                                                                                              Pieśń, co przypomni wam brzęki łańcucha.                                                                                                     Wy chcecie pieśni ni kwiatu do wieńca,                                                                                                                                           Co by śród uczty mogła was pochwalić,,                                                                                                        A ja bym pragnął wam w ogniu rumieńca                                                                                                                        Rozmiękłe dusze jak zbroję ostalić.                                                                                                         O! żal się Boże – tak młode pacholę,                                                                                                                      Zamiast miłować, muszę nienawidzić,                                                                                                      I jasne czoło omarszczać w mozole,                                                                                                                              I czyste usta wykrzywiać – i szydzić.                                                                                                                                                  Wciąż się szamoczę szukając sposobów,                                                                                                                Jak by was zmężnić – wszystkie drogi mylne!                                                                                         A więc z pochodnią wstąpić chcę do grobów,                                                                                              Na jaw wygrzebię czyny podmogilne.                                                                                                                               Dawnych olbrzymów przed wami postawię                                                                                                                      I z nimi wskrzeszę cały świat zamarły,                                                                                                                Może choć wtenczas przy waszej niesławie                                                                                                               Z wstydem przyznacie, że jesteście – karły.                                                                                                         Może choć wtenczas, stojąc na pręgierzu                                                                                                                                        Przed sądem świata, przed własnym sumieniem ,                                                                                                                    Przyznacie sami, że rdzę na puklerzu                                                                                                                                                                                                               Można zmyć tylko własnej krwi strumieniem.                                                                                                Cierpka to mowa, jak krew spiekła – czarna,                                                                                                                                     Ale w niej skryta myśl zbawienia leży;                                                                                                                                                                                           Wszak wiecie bracia! że z cierpkiego ziarna                                                                                                                                                                            Dąb rozłożysty pod niebo wybieży.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                         1                                                                                                                                                        Ha! Sardes gore! A spowity w dymie                                                                                                                   Gnuśny mieszkaniec snem rozkoszy drzymie                                                                                                                   I osmalone nim przetarł powieki,                                                                                                                Jak go obiegły złote ognia rzeki,                                                                                                                                                               Nuż nieprzyjaciel stopą pierś mu tłoczył                                                                                                                              I nóż ocierał, co się w niej obroczył…                                                        592                                                         Ha! Sardes gore! Lament się rozrasta.                                                                                                      Ha! Sardes gore!...              Z płonącego miasta                                                                                                                                                                               Wybiegł niewolnik, a za nim w pogoni                                                                                                                                   Jęk konających przy uchu mu dzwoni;                                                                                                                                                                           On leciał nocy osłonionyy mrokiem,                                                                                     Czasem za siebie rzucał trwożnym okiem,                                                                                                                                      A wiatr przez góry za nim żarem dmuchał                                                                                                             I wrzask niósł z sobą. – On stanął i słuchał;                                                                                                                                                 Może mu teraz wróg braci wyrzyna                                                                                                                                     I starą matkę napawa krwią syna,                                                                                                                              I chatę niszczy ogniem i żelazem?                                                                                                                                              - Hej, nie ma czasu! Z satrapy rozkazem                                                                                                                             Pędź dalej, gończe! Jeszcze drogi wiele!                                                                                                                              Gdy wrócisz, trupów policzysz w popiele -                                                                                                                                   Zerwał się goniec znękany boleścią,                                                                                                      Ruszył przez puszczę z nakazaną wieścią                                                                                                    I biegł tak skoro aż do wschodu słońca.                                                                                                                         A gdy na czatach zszedł innego gońca:                                                                                                                                                                    „Hej, Sardes gore! do Suzy! Do Suzy!”....