“No other land than this expands
    For thee beneath the sky!
The fates may bring thee bane or bliss —
    Here thou must live and die!”

Michael Vörösmarty.



Michael Vörösmarty.

A statue I! but all my joints now ache,
And boiling blood of pain runs in my veins.
My torpid muscles e’en with anguish quake,
The suffering my nervous system strains.

Before my eyes of stone pass pictures old
Of ruinous wars, fought in the days gone by:
Brave patriots their ancient rights uphold,
And northern hirelings who fight and die.

The shadows of my own sons I descry,
Who fell, that mighty, final struggle’s prey.
Old Warsaw’s walls, towns which in ashes lie,
My savage foes’ blood-written names display.

I hear uproarious din of battles lost,
What traitors, base and foul, to whisper dared;
But can’t destroy them with one holocaust,
Nor hurl at them the curse of the ensnared.

I can not weep, though like a heavy rain
Would freely flow my tears, if they did not —
As from my eyes they pour without restrain, —
To pearly beads of ice freeze on the spot.

Within my brain, like storm-swept, pursues
One insane thought, another insane thought;
My mind now patriotic deeds review.,
Now deeds most foul by treason’s cabal wrought;

Now failure’s every direful phase that weighed
Upon my people sorely tried by fate;
Bright glory’s theirs when they unsheath the blade,
Defeat, shame, death’s theirs when wars terminate.

And then my heart! how great its constant woe!
How feverishly for revenge it pines:
A burning home, — the owner locked in, though, —
Must perish when the neighbor help declines.

And white without cessation throbs my pain,
My laden soul with sighs heartrending ’s filled.
Some magic spell, howe’er, holds them in chain
Beneath my sore heart’s stony shield, all chilled.

I cannot speak. Half mutely I but moan,
And speech and sigh upon my dumb lips die.
The hawks of thoughts and sense that gnaw my bone
Thrive on the sufferings that inward lie.

Unsheathed is the sword for ready use,
And yet my arms benumbed I can not raise;
My stiffened limbs their services refuse,
When I by flight attempt to leave this place.

Dissolve, assume quick life, ye limbs of stone!
Break forth, out of my heavy breast, ye sighs!
Be as the roaring tempest furious grown,
Thy awful wrath and ire signalize.

And thou, unspoken word, thy prison leave,
And climb into the generation’s heart,
That all the coward hearts and ears receive
The thunderous message which I shall impart.

It is not much, but great my heartfelt cry:
“Men, World, all Nature and the human race,
Be justice here on earth, and grace on High,
To me and to my woes then turn your face!”



Alexander Petőfi.

The sun had set, but stars did not
    Shine brightly in the sky above.
Nowhere a light, my midnight oil
    Burns and my patriotic love.

The love of home’s a beauteous star,
    In comely splendor does it shine.
Poor fatherland, poor fatherland,
    But few of such bright stars are thine!

My oil’lamp’s light is fluttering
    And flickers. Why quivers the flame?
The midnight struck. Might not the ghosts
    Of my ancestors fan the same?

Not to ancestors look, Magyar,
    They are like coursing suns on high.
You must not look into the sun,
    The bright light but blindens your eye.

Ye glorious forefathers ours!
    Whose rising once shook all the earth,
On crumbling Europe’s forehead, who
    Inscribed your own, your nation’s worth!

Yea, great were you, Magyar, one day,
    And lands and power you possessed;
In Magyar seas were lost the stars
    A-falling north and east and west!

It is so long, that laurel wreaths.
    Dear Magyarland, adornéd you,
That fancy, — though a swift-wingled eagle, —
    Grew weary ere so far back flew.

That laurel wreath upon your crown
    Hath dried so long ago, it seems
To be a legendary myth,
    Or has been seen but in our dreams.

Since long I have not wept, but now
    My eyes are filled with tears anew.
Tell me, my Magyarland, is this
    Your morning’s dawn, your sunset’s dew?

My nation’s glory, what were you?
    A shooting star, that shone on high,
Then fell with sudden sweep and lost
    Forever is to human eye?

Or, glory of the Magyar, are
    A comet you, which comes and goes,
And which in future centuries
    Returns, the world to hold in throes?



Michael Tompa.

The air has softer grown and sweet and clear,..
Our good old friend the stork again is here.
He is at work upon his ancient nest,
Where his expected brood shall soon find rest.

Back, back! be not deceived, for truth you took
Delusive sun’s rays and the babbling brook!
Back! back! This is not yet the spring that came,
Our life is frozen, held in winter’s frame.

Pace not the field, it is a graveyard great,
Near not the pond, blood made it inundate;
And seek your rest upon the church’s spire,
You might step into still a glowing fire.

If from my house you moved, it would be best;
But where’s the roof where you could build a nest,
Beneath which you’ll not hear despairing sighs,
And need not fear the lightning from the skies?

Back! back to where yours are, the southern isles.
Fate has for you, dear bird, much kinder smiles
Than has for us. Two homes you call your own,
We have but one, and that is overthrown!

Fly, fly away! when in the southern isles
You chance to meet some of our land’s exiles.
Tell them of our beloved country’s grief,
And that we’re scattered like an open sheaf.

Many are dead, others in prison lie;
Those who, alive, go ’round with moan and sigh,
And many, weepingly, their woe to cease,
Do seek a home somewhere beyond the seas.

The bride hopes that her life will void remain,
For children dead to weep, parents abstain.
Glad is the hoary head with furrowed brow,
He will not have to live much longer now.

And tell them, too, how you our shame beheld,
Not only that we like an oak were felled,
But in the fallen tree the wood-worm gnawed,
And brothers dare the traitors’ deed applaud.

Brothers brothers ensnare, sons dupe their sires, —
But no! Pray speak not of what here transpires,
Lest be, the exile, hate his fatherland,
That needs his honest heart and faithful hand.



Coloman Lisznyai.

Where is your cheerful state of mind, dear land,
Your far-famed, rose-hued joy? Has it been banned?
Did it to the forest go,
That there like a rose it grow?
Or is the field preferred
To seek the freedom of a bird?
The forests represent
Your hopes aspiring high;
The songster’s carol meant
That morning’s dawn is nigh.

But why this woeful mood, dear land of mine?
For clouds will soon pass by, and sun will shine,
And with his golden rays
Bring glad and glorious days.
A blissful, balmy breeze,
Wafts hope from tranquil seas.
Cheer up, dear home of mine,
For by His grace divine,
E’en weeping-willow tree
Wears flowers fair to see.



Alexander Petőfi.

A monument stood on a mountain high;
So lofty was the mount, seemed to the sky
To reach; the clouds its girding belt suggest,
The noon-sun on its shoulders took his rest.

Upon this mountain top, a monument
In bronze, majestic and magnificent
Stood. There he holds a sword to action drawn,
And waves aloft a banner to the dawn.

How came this statue to the mountain top?
Fell it from heaven? Did men carry it up?
If heaven-borne, ’tis sacred all the time;
If built by men, still more is it sublime.

It was the joint work of earth and heaven.
To mortal men’s toil God His help hath given:
Miriad hands, at work for centuries,
Achieved the shaping of this masterpiece.

But it was done! The statue stood erect.
All Europe looked at it with deep respect.
All knees bend low, some with esteem sincere,
While others crawl in dust, impelled by fear.

The mountain stands, though barren is its crown.
But where’s the monument? Did its renown
The heavens covet, and from here below
Transplanled it into its realm? But no!

An earthquake came, which shook it from its base.
And then the storm-wind swept it from its place,
Till thundering it fell. The statue’s now
Down in the valley, swallowed by the slough.

My fatherland! Thou saintly monument!
Dragged into the mire, all impotent,
Three hundred years unmercifully bled,
Then left in the foul swamp, — a living dead!

Around thy head, which once the stars on high
With gems to deck would with each other vie,
Came worms of earth to crawl. It was supposed
That bled to death thy life’s career hath closed.

My fatherland! Beloved fatherland!
A sentiment was it, that I, unmanned
By gruesome recollections of the past,
Felt my heart quiver like a wind-tossed mast?

To stand? But no! Our doleful days are o’er!
The saintly monument which we adore
We rescued from the slough into the air
Of light and freedom and the sun’s bright glare!

Come one! come all! Let us its body clean,
Untarnished shall it be, as it has been
Of yore! Come all! The women with their tears,
Men with their blood to wash the scars and sears.

When in the former splendor it shall shine,
We can retire to rest, dear friends of mine.
But no! Not even then! New tasks await
Our undivided efforts for the state.

We must replace the statue on the height
Where once it stood in glorious splendor bright!
From whence with sword and battle flag unfurled,
Looked dignified on the admiring world!

Up, all of you, my nation’s sires and sons!
Disgrace on him who now his duty shuns.
Esteem is his who truly pays his dues:
Disgrace, — esteem! — between the two now choose!



Alexander Petőfi.

Away, ye narrow minds, who even now
    Dare harbor doubts about the future’s days;
For who will not a mighty God avow,
    His loving care for our home who gainsays?

The great God of the Magyars lives! Our land
Is held by Him in His parental care:
For centuries He has upheld our Land,
To fight the robber foe from everywhere.

The times, the people’s tempests, dire and dread,
    Would have scattered us, as if we were
But dust; His saintly wings were o’er us spread —
    The gales past o’er our heads — and all was fair.

The volumes of our story read, you’ll trace
    His power divine on every page thereof;
Like golden thread runneth His kindly grace
    Throughout our life, which He hath blessed with love.

And thus we lived the thousand years that passed;
    And should these thousand years have lasted but
That now, when we have reached the port, the last
    Waves shall us all unsparingly englut?

Not for a moment think that this can be;
    It would be sacrilege to think this e’en.
No human being would, of course not He,
    Upon His children play a trick so mean.

The Magyar nation sinned, her sins were great;
    For all transgressions though she did atone.
She has had virtues, too: rewards await
    Her still — rewards the future can’t postpone.

Thou, my dear home, wilt live because them must!
    Sweet joys and glory be henceforth thy share!
Forever freed of woe and care, ’tis just
    To look expectant toward a dawn most fair.



Charles Kisfaludy.

Thee, Mohács field, burial ground of our national greatness,
Reddened by blood of the braves of our land, I tearfully greet now.
Baneful destruction its ominous wings spread over thy field, and
All its tremendous fury attempted but to consume thee;
Over the lifeless corpses of heroes, thunderous lightning
Marketh now the victory brutal it gained with inhuman power.
Why did’st, Tomori, proudest of leaders, abandon the priesthood?
Thou and the gem and the flower of our land would not be dead now.
Certain of victory, off to the fight with passionate ardor,
For thee many a ’glorious youth fell, perishing bravely!
Narrow the land had been, now narrower still the sepulchre!
Mute is forever thy trumpet, and rusty the battleaxe groweth.
Peacefully rest! With thee fickle fortune merciless hath been;
Light be the clod of the earth ’neath which thou blissfully sleepest.
Oh! how many a youthful heart, full of temporal gladness,
Was struck down by fate, when obeying war’s animate cry!
While in his life’s gentle spring, many fell who yesterday only
Had been swayed in the tenderest arms of rapturous pleasure!
All disfigured he lieth, his body imposing, all mangled
Under the iron hoof of the war-horse galloping forward.
No more smootheth the lovelorn lassie his beautiful forehead;
Mire and congealed blood his exquisite curls to hideous view changed.
Vainly doth wait on the highway, his sweetheart holding a garland,
Hoping against all hope her cherished warrior might come.
Every leaf that stirs her fancy arouseth: “he cometh”;
Eagerly watching with breath she represses and heart agitated.
Ah! it is all in vain to gaze in the hazy remoteness:
He, the beloved one, doth not come; her heart is aweary.
Finally learneth the sad news of the disaster at Mohács —
Delicate, flower-like, fadeth away the woe-begone virgin.
Over her grave, in the dawn, the mild breeze whispering bloweth,
And the guardian angel of true love watcheth her lone tomb.
Many a warrior brave, deserving glory immortal,
Lies in an unmarked grave, not even a stone to denote it.
Gallantly fought he with sinewy arms for ancient  freedom,
Fearlessly presseth he onward, deadliest harvest he reapeth;
Where is, however, the strongest not conquered by numberless thousands?
Hemmed in by death he fighteth, although his own life is ebbing.
His impetuous war-horse, losing the master it loved well,
Snortles and pranceth and rageth and shaketh his leonine long mane,
Breaketh away, rideth home, to make known the death of the master
Whom the lamenting wife with anguished soul was awaiting.
Tearfully grieving, death gnaweth her heart, she seeketh her husband,
And of the empty and desolate house the ruins survive. Thus
Buries the proud oak, which for centuries vigorous hath been,
Felled by the orkan’s furious ire, its powerful branches.
Many a true knight died like this, but only the fame of
Victors endureth, the stars of the conquered pale and extinguish.
Thus they turned to dust in the humblest mossy sepulchres;
Left to forgetfulness with mute oblivion’s dark night.
Now the shepherd, playing a flute, lies prone on the furrow,
Not imagining that on a heroe’s grave he reclineth.
Unconsciously, howe’er, he is sad, and sad is his carol,
As if the shade of the heroes filled him with solemn  emotion.
Over the battlefield, lost in profound thought, roameth the rover,
Pondering o’er human fate’s capricious and unstable labor.
Glances around, grows sad, with downcast eyes hurries onward,
As if the wounds of old had opened, newly to pain him.
Where the sunset nebulous shadows o’er the arena
Casts as did it intend to hide it, not to be noticed:
There had battled our King, ill-fated Louis. The war-horse
Heavily mailed sinks deep in the marsh, he, cumbrously armoured,
Vainly extends his arms for aid, his warriors fallen,
Nobody giveth succor, to release him nobody neareth.
Deeper he sinks in the bog, his gold shield’s covered with quagmire.
Thus to perish is grievous. King of memory sainted.
Thou died thus! With thee the sun of Hungary went down!
Young wert thou, feared no pitfall, the forfeit is awful,
May the angel of peace thy dust be lovingly guarding!
Woe! discord and cowardly envy caused the disasters.
Stout in unity, factious secessions deadened our vigor,
Slavery’s chains were forged this wise for Hungary orphaned!
No! not an enemy strong, her sons her deadliest   blows dealt;
Field of memories sad! Thou source of miseries untold,
Every blade o’ grass attests thy fate calamitious.
Buda’s mountain peaks groan ’neath despotic and cruel
Soliman’s iron heel, which crushed the life of the nation!
Virgins faded away in his lewd, sensual clutches.
Prisoners found deliverance in the waves of the Danube.
All seemed lost, the Magyar had grown an alien at home;
Over the towers of cities the crescent haughtily flaunted.
Pass on; pass, dark pictures; vanish ye, hideous spectres!
Gone the disastrous days, and over us newly the sun shines.
Magyars still live, Fort Buda still stands, the past is a lesson,
And inspired with love for our land, press gallantly onward!
Mournful field grow rich while peace is blissfully reigning
Over thy boundaries, burial ground of our national greatness.



God grant that o’er our land on high
May brightly shine the azure sky;
O’er Danube’s and o’er Tisza’s shore
Thy clouds shall blessings rich outpour.
Pour honey into Tokay’s wine,
To Alföld’s fields rich grain assign;
Grant that our home, which suffered long,
By Thy rich blessings be made strong;
Give strength to the heroic race
That bravely they their foes may face.
    E’er and o’er
    She was fair;
    Pure as gold,
    Manly, bold;
E’en her language full of grace.

For king and fatherland
Lead on, brave warrior band;
And sacrifice your life
In thy victorious strife.
In days of peace let all unite
To honor law and honor right!
And if the call “To arms!” should sound,
Send heroes to the battle ground.



Michael Vörösmarty.

Loyal and true for aye remain.
    Magyar, to this thy home!
Here, where thy cradle stood, once more
Thou’lt rest within thy tomb.

No other land than this expands
    For thee, beneath the sky;
The fates may bring thee bane or bliss,
    Here must thou live and die!

Thy fathers’ blood for this dear spot
    Hath often freely flowed;
Great names for full ten hundred years
    Have hallowed this abode.

Here fought, to found a native land.
    Árpád against his foes;
Here broke the yokes of slavery
    Hunyad, with mighty blows.

Thy glory flag, O Freedom, oft
    Unfurled hath been here!
And in the bloody wars we lost
    Our bravest and most dear!

In spite of danger, perils past,
    In spite of sanguine strife;
Though bent, we are not broken yet —
    Our nation still hath life!

And all men’s country, great wide world,
    To thee we now appeal!
The wounds that bled a thousand years
    Should kill us, or should heal.

It cannot be that all these hearts
    Should here have died in vain;
That countless faithful breasts for naught
    Have suffered deadly pain.

It cannot be that all our minds.
    Our sacred iron will,
That all our efforts, hopes and faith
    A ghastly curse shall kill.

Yet it shall come, if come it will,
    The blissful, brighter day.
For which a hundred thousand lips
    Most reverently pray!

Or, if it come not, then let come
    The day when we shall die,
When o’er our tombs our country dear
    Drenched in its gore shall lie.

The grave where we are sepulchred
    Nations shall then surround,
And men in millions will shed tears
    Of sorrow most profound.

Magyar, to this, thy native land,
    Ever devoted be!
It nourished thee, and soon, when dead,
    Its earth receiveth thee.

No other land than this expands
    For thee beneath the sky!
The fates may bring thee bane and bliss;
    Here must thou live and die!



Alexander Petőfi.

Rise, Magyar; ’tis the country’s call!
The time has come, say one and all:
Shall we be slaves, shall we be free?
This is the question, now agree!
For by the Magyar’s God above
    We truly swear,
We truly swear the tyrant’s yoke
    No more to bear!

Alas! till now we were but slaves;
Our fathers resting in their graves
Sleep not in freedom’s soil. In vain
They fought and died free homes to gain.
But by the Magyar’s God above
    We truly swear,
We truly swear the tyrant’s yoke
    No more to bear!

A miserable wretch is he
Who fears to die, my land, for thee!
His worthless life who thinks to be
Worth more than thou, sweet liberty!
Now by the Magyar’s God above
    We truly swear,
We truly swear the tyrant’s yoke
    No more to bear!

The sword is brighter than the chain,
Men cannot nobler gems attain;
And yet the chain we wore, oh, shame!
Unsheath the sword of ancient fame!
For by the Magyar’s God above
    We truly swear,
We truly swear the tyrant’s yoke
    No more to bear!

The Magyar’s name will soon once more
Be honored as it was before!
The shame and dust of ages past
Our valor shall wipe out at last.
For by the Magyar’s God above
    We truly swear,
We truly swear the tyrant’s yoke
    No more to bear!

And where our graves in verdure rise
Our children’s children to the skies
Shall speak the grateful joy they feel,
And bless our names the while they kneel.
For by the Magyar’s God above
    We truly swear,
We truly swear the tyrant’s yoke
    No more to bear!



Michael Vörösmarty.

I know a widowed mother fond, whose grief
Maketh her pine, and none can give relief;
Whose daughters all avoid her and forsake,
To whom she cries as though her heart would break: —
“Oh, to my arms now return,
Children, my fair ones, I pray!
Blessings to give you I yearn,
My hands await you each day.
Turn to your mother most dear,
Weeping so desolate here.
Come to me, children so sweet.
Ere the last hot tears are shed
Forth of these eyes now replete;
Come to me, ere I be dead!
Have I not borne you and bent
Over your soft cradle-nest?
Yes, for your lives I have spout
Even the strength of my breast.
Also your babyhood I
Cherished with tender control,
While yet within you did He
Slumbrous the infantile soul.
Unto your eye I gave sight,
So that you look on the sun,
Which to behold would delight
Many an envious one.
Unto each beautiful face
I its sweet charm did impart,
Waking an echo of grace
Deep in some answering heart.
Charming contour I bestowed,
Ravishing beauty of form;
Virtue, which in my soul glowed,
To you I gave, virginal, warm!
Honey-dew, heavenly sweet,
Your lips did gather from me,
That which for man’s mouth is meet,
E’en with the sting of the bee;
Yea, and those radiant eyes,
I am the giver thereof;
They are the stars in earth skies,
Shining and liquid with love:
One single ray of the spring
Gladdens the bountiful earth,
While yet another may bring
Desolate burning and dearth.
Wholly my beauty I gave,
So that, in life’s waning day,
You the dear words that I crave.
’Mother, dear mother,’ should say.
Turn to your mother most dear,
Lonely and desolate here;
Come to me, children, so sweet,
Ere my last tears may be shed —
Forth of these eyes now replete,
Come to me, ere I be dead!”

Thus pleads the mother all in vain.
None answers her appealing call,
None comes to her maternal arms,
Or on her loving bosom fall.
Fate her sons follows, fearing she doth yearn;
Her daughters beautiful to strangers turn.
There sits she in her loneliness and woe.
The tears no longer from her eyes do flow;
But, as her soul doth heavenward gaze, one sees
How dreadful are the mother’s agonies.
Her beating heart alone attests life’s breath,
At every throb she dies another death.

This mother’s picture, fatherland, is yours:
Your womankind the hard heart’s curse endures.



Alexander Petőfi.

One thought torments me sore, lest I
Upon a pillowed couch should die —
Should slowly fade like fair, frail flower
Whose heart the gnawing worms devour;
Or, like the light in some void room,
Should faintly flicker into gloom.
Let no such ending come to me,
O God! but rather let me be
A tree, through which the lightning shoots,
Or which the strenuous storm uproots;
Or like the rock from hill out-torn
And thundering, to the valley borne!
When every nation wearing chains
Shall rise and seek the battle plains.
With flushing face shall wave in fight
Their banners blazoned in the light!
“For liberty!”
Their cry shall be —
Their cry from east to west,
Till tyrants be suppressed.
There shall I gladly yield
My life upon the field.
There shall my heart’s last blood flow out,
And I my latest cry shall shout.
May it be drowned in clash of steel,
In trumpets’ and in cannons’ peal;
And o’er my corpse
Let tread the horse,
Which gallops home from victory’s gain
And leaves me trodden ’mid the slain.
My scattered bones shall be interred
Where all the dead are sepulchred —
When, amid slow funereal strains,
Banners shall wave o’er the remains
Of heroes who have died for thee,
O, world-delivering Liberty!



Joseph Eötvös.

Land of the brave, my country dear, farewell!
    Good-bye to valleys deep, to mountains high!
Land of my hopes and where my sorrows dwell,
    I leave thee now — Farewell! For e’er good-bye!
And if, my dear land, I return to thee,
May thy sons through thy bounds contented be.

Not like to Switzerland’s high snow-clad hills,
    No, not like these the mountain-peaks thou hast;
Though fairer be Provencal plains and rills
    Than are thy vales and cornfields rich and vast;
Summit or plain, what are they all to me?
My fatherland, I long, I live for thee!

One treasure Heaven doth give to every land,
And nations guard the same with jealous care.
France proudly names her Emperor the Grand;
    Rome boasts antiquities renowned and rare.
Of ruins is famed Hellas vain; but, lo!
My country, thou hast but thy hallowed woe.

Quiet now reigns upon the Rákos plain,
    Too long the Magyar silent is, alas!
The fathers’ traces fade away and wane,
    The winds spread over them fresh sand and grass;
Death reigns over the field! Our trembling heart
And silent tear proclaim how great thou art.

And Buda must in sorrow now complain,
    No more does she of fame and glory boast;
A graveyard of the land she must remain,
    Reminding us of all my country lost.
Time long before destroyed her ancient fort,
Her crumbling stones heroic deeds report.

And ancient Mohács stands, and higher grows
    The wheat upon her fields, the grass more green;
Their roots spring from the dust of dead heroes
    Whose blood the irrigating dew has been.
No stone shows where the patriots were slain,
The silent field doth fill our heart with pain.

So long as on the Danube’s silver face
    A Magyar’s eye will gaze, upon her brink
Will live one of the sturdy Magyar race,
    So long our hearts with sorrow’s pang shall sink.
Pray, tell me, Danube old, that floweth here,
Art thou a stream, or but my country’s tear?

I love thee in thy hallowed, silent grief.
    Unbounded is my love, dear land, for thee!
Thou art my heart’s most cherished fond belief,
    Though stricken down with woe and misery.
Cheer up! The future holds thy hope supreme,
Soon to dawn o’er thee in a golden gleam.

And now, good-bye! Farewell, thou blessed spot;
    Farewell, forever fare thee well! I go!
Whether again ’twill be my blissful lot
    To see thee happy — this Heaven alone can know.
And if, my dear land, I return to thee,
Throughout thy bounds may thy sons blessed be!



Joseph Bajza.

They are at rest, the heroes brave,
    Who were in battle slain;
They are at rest, and o’er their tombs
Grow verdant bush and plain.

Verdant grows bush, verdant grows plain
    Because the ’heroes’ blood
Was, as hot tears of gratiude
    Their irrigating flood.

Their war was not a natty strife,
    No dream which vision wrought,
Which, over forts it had destroyed,
    To build new ramparts sought.

Which from the depths of hell call up
    The spirit of discord,
That he may paint the sky of peace
    With stern and gory sword.

That on his heels may follow crime,
    Dark, dastardly and fell;
That he the century’s brightest hopes
    May ruthlessly dispel.

Their war was holy freedom’s fight;
    For law and order’s sake,
The nation’s liberties to save,
    The tyrant’s yoke to break.

Within their breast gleamed bright the flame
    Of love for public weal,
And in their iron hands the swords
    With which they fought with zeal.

The tyrant’s arrogant commands
    And chains they would not bear;
While freely flowed their blood for thee,
    O, freedom, bright and fair!

Ah! freely flowed their blood. They fell,
    But victory crowned their fall;
Their glorious deeds will brightly shine
    Throughout the ages all.

The fairest flowers of glory grow
    There where they buried lie;
And from their tombs, on zephyr’s wings,
    Their memory’s tidings fly.

The muse of history engraves
    The record of their deed
On marble, that their bravery
    The future world may read:

How they for freedom nobly fought,
    How they for freedom fell,
And those we leave behind shall yet
    A tale of valor tell.

A graveyard is their fatherland,
    Of people even bare;
Where palaces and hamlets stood
    Now grass and weed grow there.

In streets of once great busy towns
    Death’s quietude doth reign;
The women’s haggard faces show
    Great suffering and pain.

Amid the ruins wander men,
    Bent down with age and care,
Who o’er their country’s future fate
    Think almost with despair.

Ye dames and children, weeping now
    Ye hoary men, good cheer!
O’er your down-trodden fatherland
    Bright days will soon appear.

This fairest land, now bowed in dust,
    In might again will rise;
There is a Judge above the clouds,
    Above the thunderous skies.

Reason’s almighty power doth rise
    In her behalf, and Time
Gaineth o’er mercenary swords
    A victory great, sublime!

The agonizing shrieks and groans
    Change into shouts of glee,
From east and west, throughout the land
    It now believed shall be:

That on the plains where patriots’ blood
    For freedom freely flow,
There will the fairest blossomings
    Of general freedom grow.



Francis Kölcsey.

O, my God, the Magyar bless
    With Thy plenty and good cheer!
With Thine aid his just cause press,
    Where his foes to fight appear.
Fate, who for so long did’st frown,
    Bring him happy times and ways;
Atoning sorrow hath weighed down
    Sins of past and future days.

By Thy help our fathers gained
    Kárpáth’s proud and sacred height;
Here by Thee a home obtained,
    The heirs of Bendegúz, the knight.
Where’er Danube’s waters flow
    And the streams of Tisza swell,
Árpád’s children, Thou dost know,
    Flourished there and prospered well.

For us let the golden grain
    Grow upon the fields of Kún,
And let Nectar’s silver rain
    Ripen grapes of Tokay soon.
Thou our flags hast planted o’er
    Forts where once wild Turks held sway;
Proud Vienna suffered sore
    From King Matyas’ dark array.

But, alas! for our misdeed,
    Anger rose within Thy breast,
And Thy lightnings Thou did’st speed
    From Thy thundering sky with zest.
Now the Mongol arrow flew
    Over our devoted heads;
Or the Turkish yoke we knew,
    Which a free-born nation dreads.

O, how often has the voice
    Sounded of wild Osman’s hordes,
When in songs they did rejoice
    O’er our heroes’ captured swords!
Yea, how often rose Thy sons,
    My fair land, upon Thy sod,
And Thou gavest to these sons
    Tombs within the breast they trod!

Though in caves pursued he lie,
    Yet he ever fears attacks.
Casting on the land his eye,
    He finds that e’en a home he lacks.
Mountain, vale — go where he would,
    Grief and sorrow all the same —
Underneath a sea of blood,
    While above a sea of flame.

’Neath the fort, a ruin now,
    Joy and pleasure erst were found,
Only groans and sighs, I trow,
    In its limits now abound.
But no freedom’s flowers return
    From’ the spilt blood of the dead,
And the tears of slavery burn,
    Which the eyes of orphans shed.

Pity, God, the Magyar, then,
    Long by waves of danger tossed;
Help him by Thy strong hand when
    He on grief’s sea may be lost.
Fate, who for so long did’st frown.
    Bring him happy times and ways:
Atoning sorrow has weighed down
    All the sins of all his days.



John Arany.

From door to door I beg; I come and go:
O, do not say to me the heartless “no;”
Do not incite the dogs to bark and bite
I have not hands enough with them to fight.
A soldier maimed I am, helpless and gray —
Give me of what God gave to you, I pray.

I fought on many fields, and bore our flag
At Versecz, Szolnok, Vácz and Isaszeg; I
My right arm I have lost, and though a crutch
I bear, it helps — one foot is gone — not much.
These rags are all I saved that awful day —
Give me of what God gave to you, I pray.

Nor cast slurs on a beggar; hard the name;
This beggar’s staff should bring to others shame;
If all their duty did, no tears would flow
With each mouthful into my cup, I know.
Though maimed and crippled still I would be gay;
Give me of what God gave to you, I pray.

How much of strength and blood was lost, I wot
Another scene like this the world knew not;
’Twas discord caused our might and pride to fall;
Our leaders moved by faction and cabal,
Our hearts’-blood flow with them was merely play:
Give me of what God gave to you, I pray.

A slice of bread and then a cent or two —
What for? That shall he frankly-told to you:
When weary I — how hot the midday sun! —
I take a drink, a strong, refreshing one;
Upon that inn’s hard bench my head I lay;
Give me of what God gave to you, I pray.

The world me as a drunkard doth decry,
Though, if I drink, I have a reason why.
Sad is my fate, yet this with ease I bear,
One gets accustomed to a daily fare,
No balm my other tortures can allay;
Give me of what God pave to you, I pray.

When in this breast this wound begins to ache,
My soul’s each chord doth tremble nigh to break.
“Come, Gypsy, play thy saddest air for love.”
The Gypsy plays; bless him, our God above!
His brown face bathes in tears, so sad his lay;
Give me of what God gave to you, I pray.

This life is full of woe; it would be best
If, by to-morrow, I had found my rest;
But you patch up this book — my life — so torn;
In years, our children’s children to be born,
Should in it read true narratives some day;
Give me of what God gave to you. I pray.

When I went forth to fight, my land, for thee,
Ten acres land as pay, were promised me;
Ten spans, I thought, were just enough for you,
Suspecting not that this was but too true!
If once you find me dead, here on may way,
Bury me in my fatherland, I pray.

I. Battlefields of the Hungarian revolution, 1848-1849.



Paul Gyulai.

“Dear captain mine, dear captain, see!”
“What is it, boy, what aileth thee?”
“See, blood upon your doublet flows.”
“Heed not, ’tis from my bleeding nose.”

“Dear captain, take a rest, I pray,
You almost fell here on the way.”
“I stumbled o’er a stony row;
Fix bayonets straight and forward go!”

The Honvéds onward press; not so
The captain, wounded by the foe;
“Onward, my boys!” he cries again,
And joins the dead upon the plain.



Joseph Eötvös.

Where on the battlefield our fathers bled
At Mohács, greener grows the grass, ’tis said;
The flowers sweeter perfume gain,
The farmer’s lands yield richer grain.

This ground was soaked with heroes’ precious gore,
Wherefore our gracious God blesses it the more.
Thus sacred cannot sterile lie
The spot where patriots dared to die.

Weep not for him who nobly met his death,
Who for his country yielded up his breath.
Calmly upon his mother’s breast,
While blessings guard him, he doth rest.

The brave, true heart, which for his dear land burned
Now fructifies the earth, to dust returned;
His spirit hovers o’er the grave,
An inspiration, to be brave.



John Garay.

A Magyar gentlewomen thou
    Be proud of this, thy fate;
Exalted is in all men’s thought
    A Magyar lady’s state.
O women! who your beauty’s charm
    And power supreme do know,
That heaven a mission you has sent
    Blessed are you here below.

God made thee beautiful because
    A woman he designed;
The fragrant flower of life thou art
    Most perfect of its kind.
A gem, a precious pearl thou art,
    Found in the heart’s deep sea;
A star which shines within love’s sky
    Forever brilliantly.

Two missions most divine are thine
    Thou can’st not fail to know —
To be a lady and thy love
    On thy dear land bestow.
To live, to love, and to be loved,
    Is not alone thy goal;
As Magyar wife fate gives thee now
    A nobler sphere of soul.

Thou art the daughter of this land,
    Too long in gloom o’ercast’,
The mother of a rising race
    Which now wakes up at last.
For thee it cannot be enough
    O’er stagnant pools to shine,
Or even a beauteous flower to be
    Placed on a graveyard shrine.

To duty ’tis thy lot to call
    Thy father, and to lead
Thy husband to the patriot ranks
    Who give their lives’ poor meed
Willingly for their native land;
    And thine the mother’s call,
Which with the patriot’s zeal inspires
And moves thy children all.

That unity may have a home
    Where it had none before,
Let all thy sons’ and daughters’ hearts
    With love of home brim o’er;
Let Árpád’s race in one be linked,
    One circling diadem,
And of this shining coronal
    Be thou the central gem.

A Magyar gentlewoman thou,
    Be proud of this, thy fate:
The genius of one’s land to be —
    That is a lot most great.
O women! who your beauty’s charm
And power supreme do know,
That heaven a mission you has sent,
Blessed are you here below.



Michael Vörösmarty.

Here, doth the wandering wayward exile go,
And ever his music is laden with woe;
So sadly it flows from his heart and his lip
That the rocks to hear it from the mountains would slip.
He sings of the fatherland’s prosperous days,

Of olden wars, golden deeds, warriors’ ways,
He singeth of rosy love, maiden’s bright hair,
Fair faces and glances, and youths in despair;
And while the sad melody breaks on the ear,
His face fills with sorrow, his eye with a tear.

“My friend, of the fatherland’s prosperous days —
Alas, fled forever — ’tis fruitless to sing.
The fair maiden feels not; the youth doth not praise;
For love-songs no mistress will crown thee with bays.
No more let thy song’s plaintive cadences ring,
Or, sing to thyself those lugubrious strains
Where the eagle by night on the mountain-peak reigns;
And of the sad lay the appropriate crown
Is a wreath of the willow that meekly bows down.”

Thus, crownless and lone, doth the youth wander on,
Unheeding of dust and unmindful of dawn;
His country neglects him, until in his breast
His song, like his heart, loses passion and zest.

“O, tree of the forest, the youth’s name now hide;
O, rock, for his heart in thy bosom make room,
That haply, in silence his dreams shall betide;
O, nightingale, sing to him dreams full of gloom.”

He spoke thus, and since he hath dwelt in the shade
Where the wolf makes his lair and the deer seeks the glade;
’Mid dangers and perils he wakes to the light;
’Neath far-flashing lightnings he lies down at night.

The winter-moon sails o’er the hills up the sky.
With countless attendant stars smiling on high.
O, youth what fair dreams do thy slumbers invade
Beauteous dreams that the nightingale sings from the shade?
And the timid deer halts, and the wolf sulks away.
And the tempest is lulled — by his dreams’ gentle sway.



Michael Vörösmarty.

“O’er untrod pathways who dost fare
With breast to storm and tempest bare,
    A stranger unto joy?
Who art thou, man with sorrow bent?
Why is fate’s sword to smite intent?
    Thou treadest rude rocks — why?”

“Let me o’er the rude rocks roam,
Let tempest on my bared breast come:
    A fugitive am I
This heart of mine more wild is far;
The storms which heave it fiercer are;
    Great is my agony.”

“Perchance thou once wert rich and great,
And now, bereft by cruel fate.
    To indigence art brought?”
“Yes, I was rich, and that is well;
My poverty is dire and fell;
    But this doth matter naught.”

“Two names are sacred, then to you —
The faithful friend and maiden true —
    And they thy trust belied?"
“On earth I know no bitterer curse
Than faithless love and friendship worse!
    But true to me they died!”

“They died? Thy wife and child, maybe,
And all of joy earth held for thee
    Down to the grave did go?”
“Yes, all I loved lie buried there,
But much the human heart can bear,
    And mine hath found it so.”

“Thou liv’st though great thy suffering be;
Does honor lost then trouble thee?
    On thee dost rest a stain?”
“Disgraced indeed are name and fame,
For Fatherland I bore this shame,
    This is my awful bane!”

“Ah, thou art exiled then, indeed
The country for which thou did’st bleed
    Doth punish thus with woes?”
“A fatherland the exile hath,
And while he suffers want and wrath.
    It lives and ever grows."

“The land of which I was a son,
A gory, dismal death has won.
    No more shall rise its crest.
For millions’ loss my woe is dread;
I bear with me a people dead —
    A scourge within my breast!”



Joseph Bajza.

Thy past is bare of joy;
    Hopeless thy days indeed!
Decaying, beauteous home,
    For thee my heart doth bleed.

For thee doth still complain
    In accents sad my lay;
Beneath thy stormy clouds
    My life is all dismay.

After such great attempts
    From out a turbid stream
To gain at length the shore,
    No guiding star doth gleam.

Thou who didst hearts create,
    And taught’st them how to feel
For hearth and fatherland
    With love-enduring zeal:

Whose might prescribes all laws,
    All futures doth forecast;
O, God of Nations, send
    A ray of hope at last!



Alexander Petőfi.

The trumpets blare, drums beat the call;
Our boys are off to fight or fall;
The bullets whistle, sabres clash
And rouse the Magyar spirit rash.

May freedom’s flag wave on the height,
That all the world behold the sight!
Unfurl the flag! the world shall see
The proud inscription, “Liberty!”

The world the Magyar valor knows,
He bravely faces all his foes:
A virtue God the Magyar gave;
He made his nature truly brave:

Upon a gory ground I tread,
A comrade’s blood has made it red:
A hero he! Can I be less?
Boldly onward let me press:

If, our blood this earth must blot,
If even to die here be our lot:
For thee our lives we freely give,
Dear Fatherland, that thou shalt live!



John Garay.

He went into the holy land,
    A friar, to atone;
Clad in a cowl, with ashes crowned,
    He wandered far alone.

He cast away his shoes that, while
    He wanders in the heat,
The stones and thorns upon the road
    May freely pierce his feet.

He mortified himself with fasts
    And thirst’s devouring pain;
To wrongs he bowed, and yet to wrong
    Others he did disdain.

Throughout his weary pilgrimage
    Devoutly still he prayed,
Yet from his soul he could not lift
    The weighty sin there laid.

From Palestine to Rome he went,
    His anguish naught could ease.
Before His Holiness, the Pope,
    He fell upon his knees.

“O, Holy Father, tell me, pray” —
    His tears did freely flow —
“Will Heaven on me for my dark crime
    Forgiveness yet bestow?”

Then, tremblingly, he did confess
    His crime. The Pope arose.
Stricken with awe; his kindly face
    Did anger stern disclose.

His eyes, which ever gleamed with grace,
    Then burned with wrath and fire.
And like the thunder of the sky
    He spake in deepest ire:

“Almighty God alone forgives,
    Mercy is in His hand!
But not e’en He will overlook
    Treason to fatherland!”



Michael Vörösmarty.

“My curse upon thee light, O Magyar land!
    Curse thee, Magyar, rebellious, haughty, proud!
May the crown shake that on thy head doth stand!
    Thy homes may darkness evermore enshroud!
Hard be thy fate, as is thy sword and heart!
And in thy ranks may discord still have part!

And Thou, O God, Who hath anointed me,
    That here on earth I Thee should represent,
Not having looked on me protectingly,
    To all Thy grace I am indifferent.
To Solomon no resting place is given.
No peace on earth and no desire for heaven.”

Thus, like the outcast angel, curseth low
    The King, to exile banished by his land.
His shield and helmet he away doth throw
    And broken is the sword he hath in hand.
The patriots’ blood has left thereon its trace;
Red as their blood glows his heroic face.

His body crushed, his spirit more so still,
    A gruesome, deep cut wound doth give him pain;
And yet this wound hath not for him such ill
    As this that he could not his crown maintain.
He flies, but be his flight ever so swift,
The anguish from his soul he cannot lift.

The royal fugitive in haste retreats;
    Hilts, vales and streams he hath already passed.
Arriving at the borderland he greets
    An old umbrageous forest’s depth at last.
Here endeth now the path of our sad knight,
An over him is cast the gloom of night.

The years roll by; the trees, now richly crowned,
    Their verdure lose and soon stripped bare are seen;
Time passeth by and then one hears the sound
    Of sweet bird-songs within the forest green.
The antlers of the wild stag yearly grow;
How old his freedom is they proudly show.

A broken sword is there the exile’s cross,
    And God’s free earth his sacred altar there;
Piously doth he kneel on the green moss,
    Throughout the year he spends his days in prayer,
A long gray beard flows o’er his pain-filled breast;
Each hair is seemingly divinely blest.

What once have filled his soul — the passion strong
    Are now subdued; time brought his healing balm;
Long since he hath forgotten all his wrong,
    His face now even is benign and calm.
One fervent prayer his longing heart doth fill,
That blessing on the Magyar be God’s will.

Long since hath died away the awful curse:
    Forgot is what the haughty King hath dreamed;
His better self more noble thoughts doth nurse,
    The man his purer nature hath redeemed.
“Be happy, my dear Magyar fatherland,
And may thy virtues make thee strong and grand.”

Thus prayeth he, and o’er his shattered frame
    Death gains at last his victory with ease.
He yields tu death’s must unrelenting claim,
    And neath the yellow leaves he sleeps in peace.
Where in the woods the kingly exile died,
The howling beasts of prey now prowl and hide.



Alexander Petőfi.

If God Almighty thus did speak to me:
“My son, I grant permission unto thee
To have thy Death as thou thyself shalt say;”
Thus unto my Creator I would pray:

Let it be autumn, when the zephyrs sway
The sere leaves wherewith mellow sunbeams play;
And let me hear once more the sad, sweet song
Of errant birds, that will be missed ere long.

And unperceived, as winter’s chilling breath
Wafting o’er autumn bearing subtle Death
Thus let Death come; must welcome will He be
If I observe Him when he’s close to me.

Like to the birds, again I will outpour
A mellower time than e’er I sang before,
A song which moves the heart, makes dim the eyes
And mounts up swelling to the very skies.

And, as my swan song draweth to its end,
My sweetheart fair and true may o’er me bend;
Thus would I die, caressing her fair face,
Kissing the one on earth who holds most grace.

But if the Lord this boon should disallow,
With spring of war let Him the land endow;
When the rose-blooms that color earth again
Are blood-red roses in the breasts of men.

May nightingales of war — the trumpets — thrill
Men’s souls, and with heroic passion fill;
May I be there, and where the bullets shower
O, let my heart put forth a deadly flower.

“Falling beneath the horse’s iron heel,
Here also may a kiss my pale lips seal;
Thus would I die while I Thy kiss obtain.
Liberty, who ’mid heavenly hosts dost reign!”



Michael Vörösmarty.

Upward rise within the cup,
    Pearly beads,
Naught can stop it, as each globe
    Upward speeds;
Skyward let all things ascend
    Pure and white.
Leaving on the earth beneath
    Dross and blight.

Strength and force our body gains
    When we dine,
But the soul gains nourishment
    From the wine.
Wine and spirit still were friends
    Good and true.
What fish e’er in water spawned
    Famous grew?

Brimming cups make love more sweet
    And more dear;
All the gall therein I drink
    Without fear.
Fairest rosebud, sweetest dove,
    Laugh not, pray:
If thou lov’st me, tri-une God
    Bless thee may.

For thee joyous gleams this glass
    Of bright wine,
Ardently for thee beats this
    Heart of mine.
Pretty maids and red wine are
    My delight,
And o’er my dark life can shed
    Pleasant light.

Friend and countryman, I ask,
    Art thou glad?
Art thou filled with doleful thoughts.
    Sombre, sad?
Take to wine; both health and youth
    ’Twill restore;
Heaven for us no cure beside
    Holdeth more.

Care and grief sleep like a child
    After wine;
For eyeles was the Magyar’s fate
    Sad, malign.
Now his time has come to rise
    Up again,
And his former glorious state
    To maintain.

Wine the Magyar always quaffs —
    Which is fair;
Wine will injure none who drink
    With due care.
Then his fatherland he toasts
O, that he would something do,
    Land, for thee!

Never mind, for all things yet
    Will come right;
Helping thee with word and deed,
    All will fight.
It ’tis God’s wish, as our own,
    We no more
Will disgrace thee; Hungary we
    Must restore!

Up, my friends, and let us take
    One more drink!
Care and trouble perish, when
    Glasses clink.
For our sacred country now
    Raise a cheer!
But, when called, our lives we’ll yield
    Without fear.

Our beloved King is first
    In the land;
All true patriots now by him
    Firmly stand.
May his land’s success to him
    Pleasures bring!
Famed and happy be the rule
    Of our King!

Let each man be ever true,
    A Magyar,
Whom the earth bears, o’er whom shines
    Sun, moon, star!
Strong in love and calm in peace,
    Such a race
Need not fear and bravely can
    Perils face!

He is a traitor, who, my land,
    Loves thee not!
Shame or death of scoundrels all
    Be the lot.
Rear not, fairest land, such boors
    On thy breast,
Let them not within thy bounds
    Ever rest.

As the seven leaders brave
    Shed their blood,
When before the nation they
    Swearing, stood;
So this wine flows and, by God
    High above,
Let us swear that we our land
    Still will love!

Let each hope of ours a prayer
    Be for thee,
Country dear; and for thy great
To thy health we drink this glass
    Of glad wine;
To drink this toast no Magyar man
    Can decline.

Peace, dear land, shall have a home
    In thy bounds;
And be healed for aye thy sore
    Bleeding wounds:
And thy face, from ancient grief
    Haggard now,
Soon may, after tempest’s rage,
    Brightness show!

May thy children dwell in love
    And calm peace;
Here may wars and strifes, we pray,
    Ever cease!
May our land be mighty, rich,
    Ever free!
Truth and justice, laws divine
    Here decree!

When are sought our lives, and fortunes,
    By our land,
With our heart’s blood let us meet
    The demand;
Proudly claiming, peace or war,
    What e’er come,
“We repaid but what we owed,
Sacred home!”

* Fót, a village near Budapest, the poet’s country place.



Alexander Petőfi.

The sun had hardly dawned, when lo! it set.
    I had but come, and now I must depart.
Scarce had I time to greet and kiss thee, dear,
    When duty calls and we again must part.
God’s blessing on you, pretty little wife,
Good-bye, my heart, my love, my soul, my life!

I carry now the sword and not the lute,
    The minstrel as a soldier now must fight.
A golden star hath led me heretofore,
The blood-red sky is now my guiding light
God’s blessing on you, pretty little wife,
Good-bye, my heart, my love, my soul, my life!

’Tis not ambition which prompts me to leave;
    No laurels rest where thou the roses red
Of happiness hast placed upon my brow,
    Which I shall never take from off my head.
God’s blessing on you, pretty little wife,
Good-bye, my heart, my love, my soul, my life!

’Tis not ambition which prompts me to leave;
    Thou know’st ambition died within my soul.
’Tis for my fatherland I sacrifice
    My life upon the field where cannons roll.
God’s blessing on you, pretty little wife,
Good-bye, my heart, my love, my soul, my life!

If none my dearest country should defend,
    Alone I would defend her with all might;
Now, when all rise to seek the battle plains,
    Shall I remain at home, afraid to fight?
God’s blessing on you, pretty little wife,
Good-bye, my heart, my love, my soul, my life!

I ask thee not to think of me when gone,
    The while I fight for fatherland and thee;
My love to thee is pure and well I know
    One thought alone thou hast, and that for me.
God’s blessing on you, pretty little wife,
Good-bye, my heart, my love, my soul, my life!

Perchance a crippled wreck I shall come home,
    But thou, my darling wife, wilt love me still;
For, by our God, when I return, the same
    Pure love, as now, my heart shall ever thrill.
God’s blessing on you, pretty little wife,
Good-bye, my heart, my love, my soul, my life!



Michael Vörösmarty.

Help us, O God of kings that be!
    Turn unto Thee our monarch’s heart,
That, like the sun, his mind may see
    And apprehend his mighty part;
That he, o’er millions set in place,
May shine in valor and in grace!

God of the people, help us yet!
    Make ours industrious, true and leal;
Each task whereto its hand is set
    Accomplish for the public weal;
Grant that what hand and mind can gain,
Not by free gift, shall obtain!

Help us, O, God of Nations, Thou!
    Clothe with Thy blessings this fair land;
As Eden, blessed of old, endow
    With fruitful bloom on every hand;
So may its true sons live in joy,
And for its weal their minds employ!

God help us, God of Liberty;
    Thy burden let us comprehend;
Grant a brave watchful heart, that we
    The people’s sacred rights defend,
Honor in iron words of law,
And with our blood, if need we saw!

Almighty God of Unity,
    Holding together worlds most wide!
Grant that through all life’s fates that be
    One grand and noble thought shall guide:
Our nation’s every step and deed
Be crowned by honor’s brilliant meed!



Alexander Petőfi.

A Magyar I! The splendor of my land
    Naught can surpass. She is the loveliest
Upon the globe, and countless as the sand
    The beauties are she bears upon her breast.
In mountains she is rich and from their height
    One casts his glance beyond the distant sea:
Her fertile plains are wide, you think they might
    Extend to where the world’s end seems to be.

A Magyar I! By nature am I sad
    As are the first tunes of my nation’s lay.
And though I often smile when I am glad,
    I never laugh, however I be gay.
But when the utmost joy doth fill my breast,
    In freely flowing tears breaks out my glee;
Yet joyous seems my face when must depressed,
    For none shall ever dare to pity me.

A Magyar I! With pride I cast my eye
    Over the sea of history past and see
Vast, mighty rocks that almost reach the sky;
    They are my nation’s deeds of bravery.
We, too, were acting once on Europe’s stage,
    And ours was not an empty, useless role!
When, at the play, our sword we drew in rage
    All feared us, as the child the thunder’s roll.

A Magyar I! But what is that to-day?
    Ghost of a glorious past that restless stirs
At dark, but which the midnight spells must lay
    In dreamless sleep down in his sepulchres.
How mute we are! Our neighbors nearest by
    Scarce gain a sign that we are yet alive;
One brother will the other villify
    And in our land, but wrong and falsehood thrive.

A Magyar I! But O! how I deplore
    To be a Magyar now! It is a shame
That while the sun in brightness shines all o’er,
    No gleam or dawn to us as yet there came;
Still all the wealth on earth could not suffice
    My love of thee dear spot, e’er to efface;
Dear native land, I still must idolize.
    And love thee still in spite of thy disgrace!



Alexander Petőfi.

Far, very far away,
Whence in the gentle spring,
    To us the swallows come;
Far, very far away,
Where in our wintry days,
    The swallow has her home.

A holy grave doth rise,
Close to the green sea-waves
    That wash the yellow shore;
A weeping willow’s branch,
A wild shrub’s crape-like veil
    This lone grave shadeth o’er.

Besides this single shrub,
There comes no thing to mourn
    The glorious dead’s decease,
Who for a century,
After a busy life,
    Sleeps here in endless peace.

He was a hero bold,
The last-left valorous knight,
    Who for fair freedom fought;
But how could fate protect
One on whom his own land
    Ingratitude had wrought.

He into exile went,
Lest his degenerate land
    He should be forced to see,
And, seeing, he should curse;
While from an alien shore
    He looks with charity.

And here, day after day.
He watched the clouds that came
    From his own dearest home.
Was it the sunset glow,
Or yet his country’s shame
That burned in heaven’s dome?

He often sat to catch
The murmur of the waves
    That move the rolling sea.
He almost dreamed he heard
His country, once again,
    Was happy, proud and free!

That he should hear once more
His native land was free
    Was still his fond belief.
And for this freedom’s news
He waited, until death
    Brought him most sweet relief.

At home, even now, his name
Is hardly known. But one
    Remembers him, the bard.
Forgotten he would be —
Sang not the bard of him,
    Freedom’s eternal guard!



Charles Szász.

No news from you I hear to-day
    My beauteous land of vale and grove;
Yet, now that I am far away,
    You above all things else I love.
Your mountain-peaks, your valleys deep
    I never, never can forget;
That on your breast I still may weep
    Is the desire that burns me yet.

Naught in thy niche can e’er repose,
    Nothing thy image e’er efface;
I ask the stream that swiftly flows
    Why it has left his native place;
I ask the passing bird that flies
    If drought-killed are thy forests great,
That from thy boundaries he hies
    Like faithless man that emigrate.

Methinks the heavy lowering cloud
    Is as a widow’s veil to thee;
Methinks the wind that weeps aloud
    Is as a well-known flute to me.
Methinks the scent of flowers that blow
    Are just thy mournful sighings now;
The stars above, bonfires that glow
    Upon thy mountain’s lofty brow.

In every vista now descried
    Some image I behold of thee,
And, walking o’er the fields, each stride
    The shadows of thy hills I see.
The mother to her errant son
    A holy relic gives to prize;
And that, though years and years roll on,
    Forever on his bosom lies.



Coloman Tóth.

The motto of the Guard is known
    O’er all the world and on each field
Of battle: “The French Guard will die,
    But never, never will they yield. ”
        And we as well a watchword had
That roused the Honvéd when they heard:
    No hint of death it spoke,
    Nor of surrender’s yoke:
“Forward! ” it was. One single word!

Our patriot girls with needle wrought
    This motto in the flag they made;
This word inspired each conscript boy
    For whom a mourning mother prayed.
        But if another yet were left
For whom his country had to call
    She ceased lo weep for one,
    But sent her other son;
And “Forward” went he, though to fall.

And wonderful this youthful host,
    For whence it came from no one knew;
Born in a day, yet firm and strong
    As though for centuries long it grew;
        Like fiery tempests they advance —
Already half have bit the ground —
    Wrapped in a smoky cloud
    They’re lost; no! for aloud
The magic “forward! ” doth resound.

As each sea-breaker in a storm
    Upheaves the mighty ocean’s breast,
Thus did they mingle in the fight.
    Father and son with eager zest.
        The father falleth and the son
Bends low above the stricken head;
    “One word, my father dear! ”
    The dying eyes grow clear;
“Forward! “ he utters, and is dead.

O, precious treasure, which no earth
    With countless graves can cover o’er;
Word which, although unuttered calls,
    Nor can be taken from us more.
        ’Tis graven on the forest bark.
On deathly brows ’tis written plain,
    On bones which rot away,
    But which will rise one day,
When the loud “Forward” sounds again.



Paul Gyulai.

When like a veil withdrawn,
From life’s great secret gone,
Over me, pale, doth creep
The everlasting sleep,
Lay me not in a bier;
Bear me to fresh fields near,
Where the light clouds of spring
The rising dawn doth bring.
Then fragrant blossoms spread
Over my silent head;
The sun’s last kiss shall die;
O’er me the starlit sky,
And moon ray which on crests
Of thirsty poplars rests,
’Mid nightingales’ soft stream
Of song, shall watch me dream.

And yet, ah, no! not so!
In the earth lay me low;
There in yon valley deep
Dig me a grave for sleep.
I, of the world forgot,
Its sounds shall hearken not;
Shall heed no joyous strain
Nor harmonies of pain.
My yearning love, my own,
Shall visit me alone;
Only her gentle tear
Shall fall upon me here;
Then will my heart’s dust wake.
Thereat its thirst to slake.
And from it o’er my tomb
The violet will bloom,
To her my dreams to tell,
My love and griefs that well,
As though my lips did sigh;
The tears bedim her eye,
More quickly beats her heart;
A sob her lips dispart,
Then dies and wings its flight
Through summer’s quiet night.

What is it? What say I?
Groves shady, mountains high,
My native land so sweet!
Here let me find retreat,
In forest or on hill,
Where eagles soar at will,
Sun, lightning, clouds, all pass.
Where thick woods and tall grass
Round nature’s altar-pale
Weave a dense Isis veil;
Here secrets great abide;
Where morning like a bride,
With blissful dew descends
And evening gently ends;
The noise of earth and air
Are drowned in thunder there.
There on the hills’ crest
Lay me at last to rest.
Under the fir-trees green
The storm shall vent my spleen
And evermore prolong
My painful, sacred song.



Alexander Petőfi.

I dream of dread and gory days,
    Which come this world to chaos casting,
While o’er its ruined works and ways
    The new world rises everlasting.

Could I but hear, could I but hear
    The trumpet’s blare to carnage calling!
I scarce can wait till on my ear
    The summons sounds, to some appalling.

Then to the saddle quick I’d spring,
    My mettled steed with joy bestriding,
And haste to join the noble ring
    Of heroes, who to fight are riding.

And should a spear-thrust pierce my breast,
    There will be One — a fair thought this is —
By whom my wound will then be dressed,
    My pain assuaged by balmy kisses.

If taken captive I should be,
    This One, my dungeon’s gloom adorning,
Will surely come to visit me,
    In radiance like the star of morning.

And should I die, and should I die
    On scaffold or ’mid cannons’ rattle,
This One with tears will then be nigh
    To wash away the blood of battle.



Michael Vörösmarty.

Renowned musician of the world,
    To us, where’er thou art, still kin!
Hast thou for this sad land a song
    To thrill the core and brain within?
Hast thou a song to move the heart,
A song to make all grief depart?

The load which for a hundred years
    Weighed on us was our sins and fate;
Thus bound, this wavering race hath lived
    Content to be inanimate;
And if it rose it was in vain,
As thinks the fever-stricken brain!

A better epoch comes; the dawn
    Of morn, for which so long we prayed,
Has, amid throes of sweet relief,
    Unto our hearts new hope conveyed;
The love for our old home revives:
We gladly for it give our lives.

We feel each beating of its pulse;
    Our hearts rejoice to hear its name;
Our country’s wrong we all endure;
    We blush to know its slightest shame!
O, may the throne forever stand
Joyous and steadfast o’er the land!

Great scholar, from this home of storms,
    Wherein a world’s heart beats, and where
The sun, grown bold at last to dawn,
    A blood-red semblance seems to wear;
Where fiends of hate are forced to hide
By generations’ swelling tide!

Now, in their place, in snow-white robes,
    Walk industry and peace divine;
In the new era’s temple halls
    Art comes to set its heavenly sign,
While countless brains think for the land;
Ne’er rests the nation’s giant hand.

O, Song’s great master, sing for us!
    And when thou sing’st of days gone by
Let thy lay be a storm, wherein
    We hear the thunders roll on high;
And in this ode, wild, grave, profound,
May victory’s paean-song resound.

Sing such a lay that from their tombs
    Our forbears even shall awake;
So as, with their immortal souls,
    The present race from sloth to shake —
A lay which brings to Hungary bliss
And treachery damns to shame’s abyss.

On recollection’s manly arm
    The pale-faced lady, Grief, doth come.
And Mohács storm we see again;    
A civil war lays waste our home;
Although the tear our vision blurs,
The balm of hope our heart yet stirs.

And thus thou wak’st that love for home,
    Which ever patriot souls has thrilled,
Which to the memory of past truth
    Clings, and a future bright doth build.
Then may thy song be full of fire,
Our hearts and spirits to inspire.

And thus, to holy passions roused,
    Our son’s love may to deeds nature;
Let us unite in sacred bond
    For thee to labor and endure.
Like one man should the nation stand
To conquer with an iron hand.

And even the rocks, as if our bones
    They were, with hallowed joy should shake;
The Danube’s waves flow free, as when
    Our blood we shed for home’s dear sake;
And, where we knew days glad and dire,
Thy song should joyous hope inspire.

And dost thou hear how, at this song
    Our nation rises with one will?
A million lips repeat the lay,
    Which fills all hearts, all souls doth thrill;
Come back to us! With thee we say
Thank God, our race doth not decay!



Alexander Petőfi

God bless you, boys! Come, drink again,
    Let us the jovial glass fill high!
        Pray let me not my country see
        Forsaken and in misery,
    Far rather drunk in dreams I’d lie.

For then I dream that once again
    At home the voice of cheer I hear,
        It seems to me that with each round
        Of joyous drink I heal a wound
Thou sufferest from, my country dear.

If it could be while I lie here
    My country truly happy were —
        You never should, good friends, I say,
        Even if I might live for aye,
    Behold me sober more, I swear!



Alexander Petőfi.

Who would believe that on this plain
    A few weeks since two armies stood,
Engaged in fierce, destructive fight,
    Drenching the country with their blood?

A direful day it was throughout,
    Foe facing here, foe charging there,
Death in the van, death in the rear;
    Sabres were flashing in the air.

Then, like a troubled brow,
    The sky was cloudy, dark and wild.
Now it looks pleasant, like the smile
    Upon the bright face of a child.

The earth was like a hoary head;
    Covered with snow was all the scene;
Now like the hopes of ardent youth
    The earth is dressed in brightest green.

Then bullets whistled through the air,
    We heard the mighty cannon’s roll;
Above us now the nightingale
    Pours out in song her lovebound soul.

Wherever then we cast our eyes
    We only saw death’s ghastly show;
But now the sweetest-scented flowers
    In bounteous efflorescence grow.

Who would believe that on this plain
    A few weeks since two armies stood,
Engaged in fierce, destructive fight,
    Drenching the country with their blood?



(Dedicated to Eduard Reményi.)

Charles Szász.

Hear the violin’s voice, O hearken
    How she weeps and speaks distress!
That within four chords such sorrow
    Could be found, one scarce would guess.

Do you hear her plantive sighing,
    Like the nightingale love-lorn?
Like an orphan, hear her crying,
    Who a mother’s loss doth mourn!

Hear the violin’s voice, O hearken!
    List the chant her strings indite,
Low at first, then loudly bursting
    Into Rákóczy’s wild fight.

Overwhelming and inspiring
    Is her plaint; all grief and pain
Die before hope’s noble future,
    Buried with the past remain.

Curses breathes she; swords are clashing;
    Like the curse resoundeth far
War’s wild din, yet all these voices
    By one weak bow summoned are.

Hear the chords once more, O hearken!
    To the people they speak plain,
And the nation’s joy and sorrow
    Find their echo in the strain.

Now a whoop and now a whistle
    Sends a Csikós from his chest,
When, in Csárdás dance, he presses
    His brown sweetheart to his breast.

Then, afield, the maiden reaper
    Sings a sweet and merry lay.
That doth swell, then, fuller sounding.
    In the distance dies away.

Now the sad song of the lover
    To his maiden false doth sigh
Forth its plaint from out his casement
    Nightly to the starlit sky.

Now the moan of our great sorrow
    Which these hundred years hath pained,
And, it this most anguished grieving,
    Almost broke the chords are strained.

Hear the violin’s voice. O hearken!
    Now in glee, now in distress;
That within four chords such sorrow
    Could be found one scarce would guess.



Charles Kisfaludy.

My native country’s charming bounds,
Will I again behold thy grounds?
Where’er I stand, where’er I fare,
Mine eyes will still turn towards thee there.

I ask it of the birds which come,
If still doth bloom my native home?
I ask it of the clouds on high,
Of zephyrs which around me sigh.

But none of these at all console,
But pass and leave me in my dole;
With sore heart am I left alone —
A grass-blade growing by a stone.

Delightful spot where I was born,
Far from thee I by fate am torn,
Far as a leaf caught from a tree
And borne by tempests to the sea.



Alexander Petőfi.

This landscape fills my heart with thrilling joy;
Here years ago I dwelt, a happy boy;
Here was I born, in this fair village-place;
I yet recall my dear old nurse’s face;
Her simple cradle song sounds ever near,
And “Mayfly, yellow Mayfly”* still I hear.

When still a child I went abroad to roam;
Now, a grown man, again I seek my home;
Ah! twenty years since then have passed away.
’Mid joy and sorrow, yea, ’mid toil and play.
For twenty years it echoed in my ear,
And “Mayfly, yellow Mayfly” still I hear.

My early playmates all, where now are ye?
If one of you ’twere mine again to see,
Most lovingly I’d clasp him to my breast,
The thought that I grow old would be suppressed.
Yet this is now my five-and twentieth year,
And “Mayfly, yellow Mayfly” still I hear.

As fleet-winged birds flit round from bough to bough
So do my restless thoughts flit backward now;
As sweets are gathered by the honey-bees,
So do my musings call glad memories —
Each pleasant spot of old to me is dear —
And “Mayfly, yellow Mayfly” still I hear.

I am a child, I am a child again;
I romp about, whistling an old refrain —
Upon a hobby-horse I ride, my horse
Is thirsty, to the trough I ride of course.
It drank enough, now "go" I say with cheer.
And “Mayfly, yellow Mayfly” still I hear.

The sun has almost run his daily course,
Tired are rider and his hobby-horse.
Yes, I go home. Upon my nurse’s breast
Her lullaby half lulls to drowsy rest,
As from her lips I catch the cadence dear,
And “Mayfly, yellow Mayfly” still I hear.

* Mayfly, yellow Mayfly” the opening lines of famous
popular song, a translation of which is found elsewhere.



Alexander Petőfi.

The dream
Is nature’s gift to man most dear,
His fondest hopes fulfilled appear;
The poor man dreaming, feeleth not
That he enhungered is or cold;
In purple dressed he thinks his hut
A mansion, filled with wealth untold.

The king in dreams
Can neither judge nor grace bestow,
In sleep, alike are high and low.
The youth, while dreaming, rolls in bliss,
His sweetheart gives and takes sweet kiss;
But when I dream it seems to me
I fight for the world’s liberty!



Michael Vörösmarty.

Come, gypsy, play; thou had’st thy pay in drinks,
    Let not the grass grow under thee, strike up!
On bread and water who will bear life’s ills?
    With flowing wine fill high the parting cup.
This mundane life remains for aye the same,
If freezeth now, then burneth as a flame;
Strike up! How long thou yet wilt play who knows?
Thy bow-strings soon will wear out, I suppose.
With wine and gloom are filled the cup and heart,
Come, gypsy, play, let all thy cares depart!

Thy blood should, like a whirlpool’s waters boil,
    Thought after thought thy active brain should throng,
Akin to brightest stars thine eyes should gleam,
    More thunderous than the fierce storm be thy song
And wilder than the winds which bring the hail,
Which ruins harvests, so that men bewail.
Strike up! How long thou yet wilt play who knows?
Thy bow-strings soon will wear out, I suppose.
With wine and gloom are filled the cup and heart,
Come, gypsy, play, let all thy cares depart!

Aye, learn thou from the raging storm to sing,
    Hark how it sighs and groans, and shrieks and swells:
It sends to death not only beasts, but men;
    Destroys the sailing ships and high oaks fells.
All o’er the world wars rage; in blood we trod,
And on our dear home rests the bane of God.
Strike up! How long thou yet wilt play who knows?
Thy bow-strings soon will wear out, I suppose.
With wine and gloom are filled the cup and heart,
Come, gypsy, play, let all thy cares depart!

Whose howls and shrieks are heard above the storm?
    Whose was this half-suppressed, heart-rending sigh?
What, like a mill grinds audibly in hell?
    Who doth with thunder smite the heavens on high?
A broken heart, minds which in darkness grope,
A routed army, or a forlorn hope?
Strike up! How long thou yet wilt play who knows?
Thy bow-strings soon will wear out, I suppose.
With wine and gloom are filled the cup and heart,
Come, gypsy, play, let all thy cares depart!

As if again we should throughout the land,
    The cries of men in fevered frenzy hear;
Of murderous brothers see the daggers gleam;
    On orphans’ cheeks behold the flowing tear;
Should hear the falcon’s pinions soar on high;
Endless Promethean agonies decry.
Strike up! How long thou yet wilt play who knows?
Thy bow-strings soon will wear out, I suppose.
With wine and gloom are filled the cup and heart,
Come, gypsy, play, let all thy cares depart!

The stars above this earth — all sorrows’ home —
    Leave them in peace, their woes let them endure!
From sin and stain by rushing of wild streams
    And tempests’ fury they may yet grow pure.
And Noah’s ark of old may come again
And in its compass a new world contain.
Strike up! How long thou yet wilt play who knows?
Thy bow-strings soon will wear out, I suppose.
With wine and gloom are filled the cup and heart,
Come, gypsy, play, let all thy cares depart!

Strike up! But no — now leave the chords alone;
    When once again the world may have a feast,
And silent have become the storm’s deep groans,
    And wars and strifes o’er all the earth have ceased,
Then play inspiringly; and, at the voice
Of thy sweet strings, the gods may even rejoice!
Then take again in hand the songful bow,
Then may thy brow again with gladness glow,
And with the wine of joy fill up thy heart,
Then, gypsy, play, and all thy cares depart!



Alexander Petőfi.

I also could with rhythm and rhyme
    My poems clothe and deck them out,
Just as a dandy it behooves
    To dress for some gay ball or rout.

But then these cherished thoughts of mine
    Are not like fashion’s idle toys,
Who find, beperfumed and begloved,
    In fancy garb their chiefest joys.

The clash of swords, the cannon’s roll
    Have died in rust; a war begun
Is now without a musket waged —
    But with ideas shall be won.

I, too, the gallant ranks have joined,
    And with my age am sworn to fight,
Have in command a stalwart troop,
    Each song of mine a valiant knight.

My men, ’tis true, are clad in rags,
    But each of them is brave and bold;
We gauge the soldier not by dress
    But by his deeds of valor bold.

I never question if my songs
    Will live beyond me; ’tis but naught
To me; if they are doomed to die
They fall at least where they have fought.

Even then the book shall hallowed be
    Wherein my thoughts lie buried deep;
For ’tis the heroes’ burial place
    Who for the sake of freedom sleep.



Géza Zichy.

They are carrying the soldier
Into the graveyard’s square.
Where’s his father, where’s his mother,
Where his sweetheart fair?
All of them are away
In far-off Magyar-land,
And at his grave no friends
In tearful mourning stand.
One of the officers, although
Not bound, follow’d the bier;
The poor lad and himself had been
Comrades many a year.
And he and I his earthly clay
Then to the grave we bore.
Poor Magyar lad, thy burial
Had touched me to the core.
Into thy grave cold clods of earth
Are by the diggers thrown;
Cold earth, strange earth, o’er Magyar boy
To throw I can’t, I own.
If ever I return I’ll tell
Thy mother that one word
Which from thy dying lips, poor lad,
Ere thy soul flew I heard.
Thy hoary father I will tell —
He may be proud of thee:
That thou wert brave, thy soul was pure,
And must not weep for thee.
And to thy sweetheart I will say
“A tear was in his eye;
The tear which shall to thee, poor girl,
His true love testify.”
Standing beside the grave of this
Poor Magyar lad, I wrote
These Magyar rhymes upon a leaf
And with a kiss, devote,
I put them in the grave; his sleep
From it will all the more
Peaceful and blessed be. He was
A Magyar to the core.



Joseph Bajza.

The wanderer turns from the hill;
Below lies stretched his lovely home,
Before him smiles the charming plain;
But in the ear of him that goes
The sad fond words of parting swell;
His heart still bleeds in deepest pain,
“O, exile, wanderer, farewell!”

The hill is passed, in valley’s deep
He sees but clouds from o’er his home,
And vanished is the charming plain.
But, ah! his sadness leaves him not.
His heart still bleeds in deepest pain,
He ever hears the echoes swell:
“O, exile, wanderer, farewell!”

Even hill and vale are also lost,
No clouds from home he now can see;
A vision is the charming plain,
His pains pursue him like the sky.
His heart still bleeds in deepest pain,
In deepest grief his wail does swell:
“O, beauteous fatherland, farewell!”

The years roll by, his hair is gray;
He is forgotten long at home.
But ever will the charming plain
Before his soul in splendor stand.
His heart still bleeds in deepest pain,
I hear his dying accents swell:
“O, beauteous fatherland, farewell!”



(The Kossuth Song.)


My trembling arms I stretch to hold
My land in fond embrace,
My fatherland! The tears like rain
Course down thy true son’s face.
Untrue, unfaithful was thy race,
But, dearest home, naught can efface
Thy faithful love, thy gentle grace.

Accept the filial vow I make
Now that I go away,
Thy picture sweet with me I take
To keep it green for aye!
I swear beneath this azure sky,
That e’en when in my grave I lie,
E’en then, a true Hungarian I!

That sweeter be the dreams in death,
Before I leave, I take
A handful earth from Magyar heath,
A pillow soft to make.
On Magyar earth, beloved and blest,
Where’er I die I shall find rest
In death e’en thus my love attest.



(Nos partiam fugimus.)

Emil Ábrányi.

Migrating birds go to a richer clime
    When valley, grove and field begin to fade,
However, with the first smile of springtime
    They come back to the orphaned nest they made.
They all return, the distance though be great,
    Naught keeps from its beloved next the bird,
Here is, my friends, a course to imitate,
    Who have your home to other lands transfered.

Well! emigrate if your own Magyar land,
    Because she is so poor, supports you not;
Seek fortunes, while to work with brain and hand
    In factory, or mine’s depths be your lot.
But when good fortune smiles upon you there;
    Abundance comes to you who rich have grown;
Come back into your native land and share
    With our dear fatherland the wealth you own.

Live thus in your new home, though far away,
    During your exile’s dreary, dismal years,
That on the Magyar name you, day by day,
    But honor cast, the world our race reveres.
We had enough of party strife and fight,
    Of envy, hatred, vengeance and things mean:
Though midst of strangers be, Magyars unite!
    Be truer patriots than we have been.

Work, work with zeal! All honest efforts steel
    Your strength, endow the heart, improve the mind!
For not an hour though forget to feel
    How small the number is you’ve left behind.
Count us, few Magyars left, with zealous care
    As a poor widow counts her last few pence.
Oh! dont’s exile yourselves! This is our prayer,
    Don’t make our beggar-state still more intense.

’Tis true, the Niagara has no peer,
    It is of all the waters’ thundrous head.
Yet thousand times more pleased I am to hear
    The brooklet Tar’s sweet murmuring instead.
No Red River can be so dear to me
    As tiny Bodrog and its reed-grown shore,
For this I’d long, forever long to see
    My beauteous Magyar land which I adore.

Migrating eagles, who have built your nest
    Out there on proud, rich cities’ mighty walls,
If rude foe would our nation’s life molest
    Would you remain away when duty calls?
No, No! I know, with eager zeal you’d heed
    The nation’s call and you will cross the seas
To join your brethren here, to fight, to bleed,
    To die for Magyar land’s sweet liberties!