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MikoÅ‚aj Hussowski (c. 1480–1533)
A POEM ON BISON
(selections)
Miko³aj Hussowski, born in a poor family in Hussów, was the author of panegyrical works and of
A Poem on Bison
(1523). This poem is a detailed descriptions of the bison, its life and habits. Written in Latin for Pope Leo X, an avid hunter, it stems from Hussowski's experience in hunting and observing bison, and contains no literary comparisons with ancient legendary creatures.
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Might fall with them. For what the storm won't pull out,
The stout bison might topple with his horns.
It is a strange sight when turning around,
880 The enraged bison wants to smash the barrier.
Fury beclouds his eyes, dims his senses:
He thinks he impaled a man on his horn.
Your eyes will see neither hunter nor beast:
A cloud of dust covers the trampled spot.
885 The fury of beasts can take various forms -
They see many things though they are driven mad:
It happened on King Alexander's hunt,
A case known to all from not so long ago,
It could have drowned our land in a flood of tears,
890 If not for the Lord coming to the rescue.
They erected a stand on four big pillars
For spectators wishing to observe the hunt.
The queen21 was also among the notables
With her suite of court dames and noble ladies.
895 Waiting for the hunt, young men are delighted
That the high-born ladies turn their gaze on them
They want to show their skill, their courage, their strength:
>From the tree-top Amor is bending his bow.
Keep playing as is your wont, but don't spill blood!
900 You baleful boy, what do you need the woods for?
Many a young man to attract a girl
Will die a foolish, swift death because of you.
When the game began to run, chase the hunters,
When spectators' curiosity was aroused,
905 The gathered maidens spread around the glitter
>From the abundance of their splendid robes,
As a gleaming white hue mixed with threads of gold
And red silk was glowing with diverse patterns.
Unusual is this sight for the enraged game:
910 All the beasts were stunned! I could almost say
That the fair sex, used to play with man's senses,
Showed also the beasts the force of its rules.
The game, irritated by loud shouting,
Charged at the hunters with an immense force.
915 But one bison, that already was wounded,
Stopped still, as his inborn sense determined,
And, shaking his head, fixed his dumbstruck gaze
On the crowd, as if he knew their faces,
Angered that his killing would produce a show,
920 It seems he wished to be famous in his death.
He extended his nostrils, snorted, and puffed,
As if to run away, a sign for the crowd -
And hitting with his forehead a pillar
Which held the seats, he pulled it all the way down.
925 The weight brought the viewing stand half way down:
If it crashed, how profusely it would nourish
This soil with blood! In what slaughter the beast
Would stain his horns! Fear doesn't let me think of it.
That's why one should worry him for a long time,
930 So that anger would deprive him of sane mind;
So that his long tongue hanging out of his throat
Would spit waves of froth from his enormous mouth,
When his swishing tail cuts through the floating air
And nostrils expel a swirl of dense cloud.
935 Although cold hardened his invincible strength
And sweat is barely visible on his hide,
Let life force struggle in his sweat-bathed body
And streams of froth flow down all over his limbs.
Let him rush around in a senseless motion,
940 His twitching eyelids propelling him to run,
Let his teeth pluck at and pull out his mane,
So that his shaggy hair wouldn't shake while he pants:
Let him rack his own body, not others,
And, enraged, kick himself in his belly;
945 When withered foliage rustles in the wind,
Let dead leaves be the target of his leaps;
When birds in swift flight cast trembling shadows,
Let him trample them in a violent rush.
A thousand signs he'll give, you'll see for yourself,
950 That the right time to attack has arrived.
For if he's even barely conscious, indeed!
It's hard to defeat him, deal a final blow.
However, I am stretching too much my tale:
Reader, please be patient, the end is near.
955 The hunter presses himself against the tree,
Into which the bison has sunk his horns,
He dares not move off or leave himself open
For the furious beast charges on his trail.
Circling, both moving in a violent ring,
960 They leap around, here a beast, there a man.
One points the sword at the dreadful body,
The other wants to strike with the tongue, his sword,22
Had the beast's tongue touched the hunter's garment,
The man would fall forever, touched by this tongue.
965 For the man to escape the tongue's random threat,
He sets his heavy legs into motion.
No arrow pierces a body with the speed
With which the bison's hoofs crush human limbs.
Still, a skilled hunter will know what to do
970 Watching violent shocks, so that he wouldn't be burnt
By the bison's breath, though unlike a fire,
May be quite alike in its searing heat.
If he does not thrust his sword straightaway
Into the beast's heart, he will die, killed by heat.
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