GEMS
FROM
PETŐFI
AND OTHER HUNGARIAN POETS,
[TRANSLATED]
WITH A
MEMOIR OF THE FORMER,
AND A
Review of
Hungary's Poetical Literature.
BY
WM.
N. LOEW.
"Liberty
and sweet Love,
These two I ever need;
Willingly I
would yield
For Love my life's poor meed;
But
even my love would yield
To Freedom's claim
thereof."
PETŐFI.
PUBLISHED BY
PAUL O.
D'ESTERHAZY,
29 BROAD ST., N. Y.
1881.
CONTENTS
PREFACE.
SONNET.
A MEMOIR OF ALEXANDER PETŐFI
AND A REVIEW HUNGARY'S POETICAL LITERATURE
ALEXANDER PETŐFI.
MY SONGS.
THE THOUGHT TORMENTS ME.
IN MY NATIVE LAND.
NATIONAL SONG.
WAR-SONG.
FAREWELL.
AT THE END OF THE YEAR.
I AM A MAGYAR.
IF BORN A MAN, THEN BE A MAN.
RAGGED HEROES.
ON A RAILROAD.
AT HOME.
FROM AFAR.
I DREAM OF GORY DAYS.
I DREAMED OF WARS.
IF GOD.
MY WIFE AND MY SWORD.
AT THE END OF SEPTEMBER.
WHO WOULD BELIEVE.
VOICES FROM EGER.
STREAMLET AND STREAM.
THE IMPRISONED LION.
A HOLY GRAVE.
AUNT SARAH.
THE RUINS OF THE INN.
THE CROWN OF THE DESERT.
THE GOOD OLD LANDLORD.
TWO BROTHERS.
WOLF ADVENTURE.
THE MANIAC.
THE LAST CHARITY.
O, JUDGE ME NOT.
ON THE DANUBE.
IN THE FOREST.
WHAT IS THE USE.
AT THE HAMLET'S OUTSKIRTS.
THE LOWERING CLOUDS.
THROUGH THE VILLAGE.
DRUNK FOR THE COUNTRY'S SAKE.
THE ROSEBUSH SHAKES.
YOU CANNOT BID THE FLOWER.
SHEPHERD BOY, POOR SHEPHERD BOY.
INTO THE KITCHEN DOOR I STROLLED.
HOW VAST THIS WORLD.
MY FATHER'S TRADE AND MY OWN.
THE MAGYAR NOBLE.
MICHAEL VÖRÖSMARTY
A SUMMONS.
THE HOARY GIPSY.
TO FRANCIS LISZT.
SOLOMON'S CURSE.
THE BITTER CUP.
BEAUTIFUL HELEN.
THE SONG FROM FOT.
JOHN ARANY.
LADISLAUS V.
CLARA ZACH.
CALL TO THE ORDEAL.
MIDNIGHT DUEL.
THE HERO BOR.
THE MINSTREL'S SORROW.
MISTRESS AGNES.
THE CHILD AND THE RAINBOW.
JOSEPH EÖTVÖS.
FAREWELL.
MY LAST WILL.
THE FROZEN CHILD.
JOHN GARAY.
KONT.
THE MAGYAR LADY.
THE PILGRIM.
FRANCIS KÖLCSEY.
HYMN.
IN WILHELMINE'S ALBUM.
JOSEPH BAJZA.
FAREWELL.
A SIGH.
CHARLES SZÁSZ.
HUNGARIAN MUSIC.
NIGHTINGALE'S SONG.
KISFALUDY KÁROLY.
MY NATIVE COUNTRY'S CHARMING BOUNDS.
MICHAEL TOMPA.
THE BIRD TO ITS BROOD.
COLOMAN TÓTH.
DEATH.
LADISLAUS NÉVY.
THE RUBY PEAK.
GREGORIUS CZUCZOR.
PRETTY GIRL.
JOHN ERDÉLYI.
SPRING SONG.
JOSEPH KISS.
MISS AGATHA.
MAURUS JÓKAI.
APOTHEOSIS.
ANTHONY VÁRADY.
CHRIST IN ROME.
TRANSLATOR'S NOTES.
In offering this volume to the notice of American readers the publisher and the translator have a twofold object in view, viz. - a desire for the honor and more general understanding and appreciation of their native land, and a heartfelt sense of affection and respect for the land of their adoption.
There are certain achievements in art which belong at once to the world, and need no medium of language to convey their special value and meaning. Such are those of Music, Painting, Sculpture and Architecture.
In these arts, especially in the two first-mentioned, Hungary has proved herself no sluggard, as Americans will be among the first to recognize. It is the aim of the present work to show, in an earnest, loving and reverent spirit, that the historic and storied land of the Magyar has had, and still has, poets - God-born sons of song - who have written in immortal verse of her sufferings and her hates, her triumphs and her loves.
In the literature of a country alone are its desires, sentiments and sympathies definitely and intelligibly expressed, and its esoteric kinship with the rest of the world made manifest.
If the issue of these translations contribute to this end the labor expended upon then will not be considered as in vain.
PAUL O.
D'ESTERHAZY,
Publisher.
WM. N.
LOEW,
Translator.
NEW YORK, November 1881.
What worthier tribute could
thy children pay,
Land of the Magyar, set on suffering's
height,
Than bring thy hidden charms to all men's sight,
And
to the world thy wealth of song display?
We know thy glorious
record's long array,
Thy plains from heroes' graves
with verdure bright
Thy clear, sweet streams, ensanguined oft by
fight,
Thy peaks o'er which dawned freedom's militant
day
But those who sang with
mutable voices clear
Of war, of love, of freedom, of desire,
And
tuned in turn the slack strings of thy lyre
We fain would know,
and hold their music dear,
Echoing it back from this far
hemisphere,
Where love and freedom fetterless respire!
JOHN MORAN.
NEW YORK, November 1881.
A MEMOIR OF THE GREAT
HUNGARIAN POET AND A
REVIEW OF HUNGARY'S POETICAL
LITERATURE.
"Liberty
and sweet Love,
These two I ever need;
Willingly I
would yield
For Love my life's poor meed;
But
even my love would yield
To Freedom's claim
thereof."
PETŐFI.
I.
The Hungarian revolution of the year 1848-9, has, during this century, in a more eminent degree than any other historical event directed the attention of the world to the home of Petőfi. Of the many distinguished men with whom in these momentous years the world became acquainted, there are few, perhaps, much more admired by Hungary herself, or that come recommended to the notice of an observing student with much more interest than Alexander Petőfi.
Whether considered as the brilliant genius, who, grasping the lute of the Hungarian people, imparted to it a more harmonious string and a sweeter tone than it probably ever had, or, considered as the young warrior - a chieftain of liberty throughout the world - who, with sword in hand struggling for freedom, fell a victim to his valor and heroism; or considered as a nation's great poet, who was equally great as a dutiful citizen; - his story is calculated to strike forcibly the attention and to touch the springs of admiration and of sympathy in no common sense. The character of the times in which he lived, the cause he served, his own adventures, his deep devotion to the muses during all his lifetime, his participation in a most glorious war, the amiable qualities and fine taste developed in his writings, above all the influence of his songs over the nation - all offer to the essayist a theme more fertile than usually falls to his lot in recording the lives of poets, and one upon which he would love to bestow the illustration it deserves.
Both language and versification present themselves more fully formed and more vigorous in the poetry written by Hungarians since the beginning of the last quarter of the last century; and this progress is a matter of no surprise if we attend to the multitude of circumstances which at that time concurred to favor poetical thought. Francis Toldy, beyond doubt the very foremost Hungarian literary historian, calls the period then beginning "the age of second prime" and defines the same to extend from the year 1772 to 1849, dividing it into three periods, to wit: a) the epoch of rejuvenation (1772-1807), commencing with the appearance of Bessenyei and extending to, and including Alexander Kisfaludy; b) the epoch of the purifying and beautifying of the national idiom (1807-1830) - a memorable period in the history of Hungarian literature, covering the labors of Francis Kazinczy, of Charles Kisfaludy and partly of Michael Vörösmarty; and finally c) the Széchenyi period (1830-1849), in which Hungarian language, poetry and science, as well as Hungarian national life and politics, developed themselves to a high degree, surpassed only in the eminence attained by the country during the last few years (1865-1881).
This division is not merely the dictum of one man. The nation adopted it and the Hungarian Academy of Sciences, the foremost scientific-literary body of the land, celebrated in 1872 the centennial birthday of rejuvenated Hungarian literature.
Hungarian patriots - says Toldy while speaking of those days - noticed with sadness that the traditional tongue was beginning to lose the hold it had upon the masses. The more educated classes ignored it almost entirely and the Magyar language was in danger of dying out and utterly perishing. The chosen few knew but too well, that, when once the language of a nation is sacrificed, the nation's fate is sealed; and with a hearty will they undertook to rescue the ancient race and tongue. George Bessenyei became the leader of the school which undertook to imbue with fresh life the degenerated race. He stood at the head of a noble army of literary warriors, who did their work well, so that when, but few years after Bessenyei's first appearance, Joseph II, the Austrian emperor (Hungarian king de facto only, but not de jure, inasmuch as he never took the oath of allegiance and was not crowned as such) ordained the adoption and use of the German language not only in the administrative, but partly also in the educational departments of Hungary, the nation was found wide awake. A healthy reaction had set in, producing the most beneficial results, and the first systematized attempt to Germanize the Magyar nation became an ignominious failure. Another attempt to wipe out and to crush Hungarian nationality, and one more dangerous than the first, perpetrated by Austrian emperors sixty odd years later, culminated in that heroic, bloody struggle in one of the encounters of which the hero of this literary essay and biographical sketch fell with an inspiring battle-hymn on his lips and a powerfully wielded sword in his hand.
During these more then seventy years of struggles (1772-1849) to place the Hungarian nation on a healthy, sound basis of national life, to restore the Magyar language, and to establish with its aid a Hungarian literature of merit and value, Hungary presents the striking and peculiar appearance of seeing its national life almost exclusively resting on the shoulders of its authors and its poets. Count Emil Dessewffy, a prominent Magyar national economist said the truth when he called the litterateurs of those days the "soldiers of the national cause." It is truly remarkable that, almost without any exception, every statesman and politician of that period to whose share it fell to battle against the despotic encroachments on the national constitution by Austria, or to battle for reform and advancement within, is a poet or an author. Exceptions are the stalwart sons of the vármegyék (comitatus=county) (vice-ishpans and notaries, etc. etc.) who did the actual fighting. Nowadays politicians, statesmen are entrusted with this sacred task, but, from the early days of this century up to the breaking out of the great revolution in 1848, Hungarian literary writers were the guardian angels of the nation's cause, protecting this by watching over the nation's language "and tending it with the same piety, with which the Vestal virgins kept up the sacred fire to which the destinies of their country were bound forever" (Francis Pulszky).
George Bessenyei (1742-1811) is the acknowledged founder of the present school of Hungarian literature, and his greatest merit, his foremost claim to the gratitude of his country, lies in the fact of having brought the conviction to the mind of his contemporaries that a nation can only be civilized with the aid of its own vernacular idiom. The period between Bessenyei and Petőfi covers the most interesting epoch in the history of Hungarian poetical literature. It is with a certain degree of self-denial that we abstain from giving its specific history here, but this would outrun the limits of the present task. We content ourselves therefore with a mere cursory review and leave the thirst for knowledge awakened by these lines to be satisfied by the perusal of works more broad and more comprehensive in their scope than are these brief explanatory remarks. What a glorious task one would have in fully describing the labors of Bessenyei and his disciples. Baron Lawrence Orczi, Abraham Barcsay, Alexander Baróczi, Paul Ányos, Count Joseph Teleki and Joseph Péczeli, the members of the so-called French school of Hungarian literature, which, although it did not lead the poetry of the nation into its higher spheres: the national establishment of a standard of the pure and of the beautiful, inasmuch as it contented itself with securing the recognition of reflection and harmony, has nevertheless, by enlarging the poetical horizon and wealth of thought, by correcting the technique of versification, and finally by establishing the refined prose fiction, done a great deal to lead the same into the pathways of advancement.
What a grateful task it would be to write of the "classical school" in the ranks of which Benedict Virágh (1752-1830) occupies a high place. Here we would meet with the names of Gabriel Dayka, Francis Verseghi, Francis Kazinczy, the poems of all of whom conclusively show that among all modern languages Hungarian can most successfully compete with the classic beauty and the majesty of expression and form of that of Rome. They introduced the hexameter of the epos and the various forms of the ode, etc. into Hungary's poetry, where since then they are nursed with loving care.
Continuing our labor we soon would meet with the name of Michael Vitéz Csokonai (1773-1805), whose charming songs must ever remain a highly valued treasure of the Hungarian people. After a brief introduction to John Kiss, to David Baróti Szabó and Andrew Dugonics, we would meet with that mighty genius and brilliant mind Alexander Kisfaludy, whom the Hungarians love to call their own Petrarch. It is Alexander Kisfaludy (1772-1844), who can be considered to have established an entirely new national poetry. The power of his language, the beauty of his lyrical genius, his refined taste, his rich creative fancy and his national, patriotic spirit marked an epoch in Hungarian Poetry.
"Himfy's Love", his foremost poetical work, is a lyrical novel, or rather a long series of pictures of a heart overflowing with the purest and holiest of loves. His "Tales from Hungary's past ages" are equally noble creations, which have the additional merit of being the most faithful pictures of the character, the virtue and the thoughts of the Magyar people.
Still engaged in our labor of love we would soon once more recur to Francis Kazinczy (1759-1831), whom we have mentioned already, one of the founders of the classic poetry of the Magyar, which he and his colleagues, Daniel Berzsenyi and Francis Kölcsey elevated to its highest perfection. We would commit a sin of omission did we neglect to record the fact that this inspired poet Kazinczy, was one of the great leaders of social and political reforms in Hungary, and that the purifying of the Magyar tongue and the beautifying of the language found in him the ablest and the most influential sponsor it ever had. The poetry of his day is almost entirely bare of all poetical significance; and love, friendship, the joys and the cares of life are its themes. Only here and there resounded an ode reminding the patriot of the glory and the greatness of the nation's former days, and especially Berzsenyi's odes have historical importance for the earnestness of zeal and devotion with which he calls on his country to learn the past, to understand the present and thus to be enabled intelligently to meet what fate the future may have in store for it. To this school of poetry belong Paul Szemere, Alois Szentmiklóssy, Michael Helmeczy, Gabriel Döbrentei, Andrew Fáy and a long list of others, such poets as every civilized nation possesses in large numbers, till at last we arrive at the triumvirate of lyrical poetry, Charles Kisfaludy (the brother of Alexander above named), Joseph Bajza and Michael Vörösmarty, three great lights in Hungary's literary firmament.
Charles Kisfaludy (1788-1830), one of the most prominent founders of Hungarian dramatic poetry, is a lyrical poet of great power. No Magyar poet has known how to draw from rural objects so many tender and melancholy sentiments. A turtle-dove, a hind, an oak thrown down, a fallen ivy-plant strike him, agitate him and excite his tenderness and enthusiasm.
He has another excellent quality, that of painting to the ear by means of imitative harmony, making the sounds bear analogy to the image. He breaks them, he suspends them, he drags them wearily along, he precipitates them into mildness - in short they some times roll fluently along, at others they pierce the ear with an abrupt and striking melody. After Kisfaludy's death (1830) Francis Toldy with ten friends, the foremost poets of the period, founded the Kisfaludy Society, originally with the intention of publishing his works, and from the proceeds erecting a statue to his memory. The works were published, the statue was erected, but the most noble statue to his honor is the Society itself, which, remaining in existence, became, and is to-day, a most influential and beneficial literary organisation of the land, the yearly publications of which are a rich literary treasure.
Joseph Bajza (1804-1858) is the grandmaster of Hungary's lyrical poetry. Melancholy and the most delicious sadness, a distillation of pains, griefs and martyrdoms, subdue all his thoughts, but knowing that by continuous repetition they must become burdensome, he adopted the method of personifying his various conceptions of sorrow and sadness and letting these creations of his fancy give expression to their feelings. Thus he gives us the heart-rending complaints of a bride whose bridegroom died, of a mother who lost her child, of an exile, of a widow, of a fallen soldier - etc., etc., poems which bring all our faculties of soul and mind into harmonious action. In his political and patriotic songs he rises to the commanding heights of the ode and displays a burning soul, strong and sublime in its love for the fatherland, strong and sublime in its hatred of the nation's enemies.
Michael Vörösmarty (1800-1855) is "the noblest Roman of them all"; the king among Hungarian poets. He not only gave new aims to the nation's poetry, he created an epoch! His poetry possesses many high qualities, noble thoughts, pure feelings, beauty of form and perfection in rhythm and rhyme, simplicity of expression, liveliness and tenderness of emotions, luxury and smiling amenity of fancy. He loves Nature, Spring, Mountain and Rill etc., but he loves most his Hungarian fatherland, the greatness, the glory, the welfare of which is dearest to his heart. His "Szózat" (Appeal), "Fóti dal" (The song from Fót); "Liszt Ferenczhez" (To Francis Liszt); "A vén czigány" (The hoary gipsy) - are masterpieces of poetical literature, bearing comparison with the most excellent productions of Longfellow and Tennyson. He is at home in every poetical form and his patriotic epos, "Zalán futása" (The flight of Zalán), gives a poetical history of the foundation of the country by Árpád, in a manner that thrills the reader. Equally great is he as a writer of romances and ballads, as a dramatic author and as a Shakespearian translator.
Having done justice to the immortal genius of Vörösmarty, we would then, continuing our review, restricting our attention only to the very best names, - to the labors of Gregory Czuczor, John Garay, Baron Joseph Eötvös, Alexander Vachott, Joseph Székács, Béla Tárkányi and Michael Tompa, - have arrived in the very midst of the period in which our hero, Alexander Petőfi, lived.
II.
Poets of merit and of genius usually rise to the level of the events passing around them. The compositions of Virgil and Horace in Rome correspond with the dignity, majesty and greatness of the empire. Dante in his extraordinary poem shows himself inspired by all sentiments which the rancor of fiction, civil dissensions and the effervescence of men's minds stirred up. Schiller in his poems, especially in his dramatic poems rises, to a level with the elevation to which the human mind was rising at his period in Germany; Shelley and Byron were both exponents of the movements of their day, and Petőfi could be no exception to this rule.
We have already seen that, during the years heretofore covered by our review, a struggle of supreme importance was carried on in Hungary. No nation on the European continent carried on similar struggles with more fierceness and determination, with a more earnest devotion to the cause of freedom, nor were the same anywhere else surpassed in the importance of the issues involved. It was a desperate struggle for constitutional life and advanced culture, nay, a nation fought bravely for its historical existence, to be secured not only by victories attained through clashing and crossing of swords and the thunders of cannon, but by the gentle influences of the nation's culture and civilization, art and science, industry and commerce and in fine by a pure, beautiful and rich language spoken and appreciated by all inhabitants of the land. This awakening of the national spirit was the reply that the nation gave to Austria's bold attempt to bring Hungary, nowithstanding her ancient constitution - this mighty pillar of civil liberty - under her absolute control.
Francis Kazinczy, Baron Nicolas Wesselényi, Count Aurelius Dessewffy, Francis Kölcsey, Count Stephen Széchenyi, Count George Apponyi, Francis Deák, Louis Kossuth, Baron Joseph Eötvös, Gabriel Klauzál, Bartholomew Szemere, Edmond Beöthy, Ladislaus Szalay, Anton Csengery and others, too numerous to mention, had done noble work. A state, intellectually and politically a relic of past centuries, they changed into a modern state with culture civilization, and advanced political thought; into a state which developed rich economical resources, all of which caused the world to look with sympathizing amazement to the handful of Magyars on the banks of the Danube and the Tisza. It was the result of their labor that the spendthrift Hungarian magnates became industrious, dutiful citizens, freely relinquishing ancient priveleges and freely assuming burdens, having the welfare of the country at heart; that the serfs were made free; that universal suffrage, no, not universal but a liberal, general right of suffrage, was introduced; that the language of the country was by strong enactments secured; that the Hungarian Academy of Sciences and the Kisfaludy Society and other institutions of learning were incorporated; that a long series of internal improvements were begun and carried out; that newspapers were started, schools opened, home industry developed; that the very healthiest life was made to pulse in the veins of the nation.
In these momentous years of national agitation grew up Alexander Petőfi, being born at Little-Kőrös, in the county of Pest, during the small hours of the new-year's day of the year 1823. He was the older of the two sons of a respectable couple, named Petrovich. His parents, at the commencement of their conjugal union tolerably well off regarding worldly circumstances, found themselves after a while - owing partly to elemental inflictions, partly to the advantage taken of their good nature by some designing "friends" - so much reduced in their affluence that they had to quit their comfortable home in search for an improvement of their condition in various parts of the lowland (alföld) without ever finding any. Old Petrovich (Petőfi is the Hungarian translation of this name of Slavic origin, which our hero adopted in his later years), carried on the honest trade of a butcher and seems to have been a simple, goodhearted and goodnatured man of the people. The mother of Petőfi was evidently one of nature's noble ladies. Several of her son's poetical effusions, wherein he gives free vent to the most tender feelings of love and gratitude toward her, stamp her as such a one. Petőfi received his first elementary instruction at various primary schools, almost all of them evangelical parochial schools, they being by far superior to the other schools of the period. His education included lessons in music and drawing, and though he did not bring it to any perfection in either, they must have had a beneficial influence over his aesthetic feeling and taste.
In his fifteenth year we find him at the evangelical "Lyceum" at Selmecz (Schemnitz). He made here great proficiency in grammar and language which was of great use in unfolding his genius and character. He soon became remarkable for the fluency and correctness of his expression, and he read with much pleasure and improvement Hungarian historical works and Vörösmarty's poems. In these days he wrote his first poems, which were well received by his colleagues. The praises of his schoolmates and friends inspired him with a strong desire to excel in writing poetry and he fondly hoped to see one of his verses in print. He knew not however how to ingratiate himself with his teachers, and when once caught being a regular visitor to the theatrical performances of a German strolling-players' company then performing in Selmecz, and this in spite of a strong prohibitory rule of the school, he fell into sad disgrace in the eyes of his worthy teachers, and the report was sent home to his father, that Alexander is an irretrievable dunce and good-for-nothing fellow. His poor old father, believing himself to be disappointed in his most fondly cherished hopes, was almost stricken down with grief over his son's "fall" and sent him a sharp remonstrance, which made the latter so deeply hurt and so sick and sore at heart, that he decided upon abandoning his studies and leaving Selmecz. Years after this, remembering his days in this school, the poor grading he received at the examination, and prompted by some wanton, reckless humor, he wrote these lines:
Diligently I
attended
Years ago my classes, yet
My
professors then expelled me,
Being a most
stupid set.
He soon carried out his intentions and one night he left Selmecz, wandering aimlessly about the country, till at last he reached Pest. Here he forthwith went to the theatre, believing he would find there all his ambitions soul longed for. But only a very subordinate position as "super" could he secure, and for some time he led the life of a vagrant, without however corrupting his morals and the noble purity of his soul. His father soon found out his whereabouts and came to Pest to take him home, but the proud, haughty son evaded him and went rather with an uncle to Asszonyfa, a little village in Vas county. Here he spent a few months, reading the ancient classics and writing poetry. The peaceful, quiet life, which had dawned upon him here, was of short duration. For some trifling cause he fell out with his uncle and, going to Soprony (Oedenburgh), he enlisted as a volunteer in one of the infantry regiments stationed at that town, expecting that his regiment would be sent to Italy and he be thus enabled to get acquainted with the classic soil upon which his favorite poet, Horace, trod. In this, however, he was sadly disappointed, for, instead of being sent to sunny Italy, his regiment was garrisoned in some out-of-the-way town of Tyrol and only after some years of hard service as a private, doing all the menial duties of such a one, suffering from exposure and want, and bearing all sorts of abuse from illiterate, vulgar, petty superiors, was he in 1841, through the aid of a humane regimental physician, who took great interest in his poetical effusions, which never ceased during this time, discharged from the onerous service, to which a rash step had subjugated him.
In May 1841, he once more trod upon his native soil, visited - constantly tramping - some friends at Pozsony (Pressburgh), Soprony and Pápa, and ventured to knock again at the parental door. He stayed home for a while, and there was only one thing which interfered with his pure enjoyment of domestic life, to wit, his father's earnest desire that he, the son, settle down to the honorable calling of a butcher, which insinuation poor Alexander, to the great distress of the old man, repudiated with intense horror.
We soon meet him in Pápa (county of Veszprim), industriously studying and still more industriously rhyming and versifying, even winning a prize for a lyrical poem, "Lehel", which was offered by a literary society, composed of the students of the college. Then follow years of struggle for histrionic fame, of appearing here and there as member of this or the other strolling company, and of enduring everywhere failures and disappointements.
In 1843 he again came to Pest, but with a name somewhat known, for the poems the newspapers had heretofore published under his name Petrovich, or the nom de plume "Pönögei Kis Pál", and finally under the adopted name "Petőfi", opened for him the doors to literary circles, which at his former visit to the capital had been securely closed against him. The first employment he found on coming to Pest was an engagement to translate foreign novels into the Magyar. Of these, he completed two, i. e."The aged Lady", a French novel by Charles Bernard, and the well known "Robin Hood" of George James. His insatiable desire to become an actor of fame led him again on the stage, but he again encountered failures, and after remaining, during the winter of 1843-1844, in Debreczen, suffering there almost for the want of daily necessities, he at last received a call to return to Pest, to fill the position of Ass't Editor of "Életképek", a literary journal, edited by Adolphus Frankenburg. Arriving in Pest, he soon succeeded, with the aid of Vörösmarty, in finding a publisher for his poems, the "National Club" (Nemzeti Kör), consenting to buy his Mss. Emerich Vahot engaged him then as Ass't-Editor of his "Divatlap"; but not before Petőfi had once more made an effort to secure recognition in the service of Thalia and Melpomene. He again appeared on the stage, and on no less a one at that than the "National Theater" at Pest; but his appearance was again abortive. This last failure cured him of his stage-fever and he finally abandoned all thought of becoming an actor. His poetical works followed now in rapid succession. Volume after volume of the most delicious poetical fiction was published by him. About this time he wrote his "János Vitéz" (John the hero), and his "A helység kalapácsa" (The village bell-ringer), and his only, but remarkable, novel "A hóhér kötele" (The hangman's rope). (Professor Rasmus Anderson of the University of Wisconsin translated this work of Petőfi into English.) It was also about this time that Petőfi wrote two dramatic poems, "Zöld Marczi" (Greenhorn Marc), and "Tigris és Hyaena" (Tiger and Hyaena), none of which however left anyvisible traces in the literature of the nation. It was at this period also that he devoted, much of his time to foreign literature, and translations from Beranger, Shelley and Byron followed in succession. His industrious and fertile genius planned the publication of a Magyar translation of the dramatic works of Shakespeare, and he associated himself for this purpose with Vörösmarty. Petőfi's first translation was "Coriolanus", while Vörösmarty's first effort was "King Lear". The coming revolution prevented these two great minds from completing the task begun, but, many years later, the "Kisfaludy Society" fathered the idea of Petőfi and Vörösmarty and, completing the translations, gave to Hungary a most excellent rendering of the greatest dramatic genius of the world.
In the month of September 1846, Petőfi married Julia Szendrey, a young lady of remarkable beauty, of noble mind and of the purest soul, which happy union had the most beneficial influence over his muse. He was then in the zenith of his fame; all the country read and admired his poems, while his popular songs (Népdalok) were being heard from "Kárpáth's mountains to Adria's shores". They were sung in the salons of the proudest aristocratic magnates and in the huts of the humblest peasant; they were the favorite songs in the concert saloons, and were the songs which the artisans accompanied with their labor; the farmer, the sturdy son of toil sang them while he industriously handled his scythe and sickle; the merry reveller in the public house, or the one sick at heart, who in wine wanted to drown his grief; the student full of joy and vigor; the maiden of hope and happiness; the mother sitting at the cradle of her beloved one - all, all sang his beautiful songs, which had become, and which yet remain, the treasures of the people, as no other popular songs of any poet or of any nation have, or probably ever will, become. As long as the human heart in Hungary pulsates for love and freedom, the two divine subjects of Petőfi's songs, they will be cherished with reverential affection by a grateful country, in whose heart he and his songs will live for ever. The distinctions crowded on him were numerous. One comitatus elected him as a "Táblabiró" (Honorary county judge); ancient cities granted him their freedom, and at almost every place he visited, the people honored him with torchlight processions and fetes.
And yet he had then fulfilled only a part of the mission, to fulfil which fate seems to have selected him, i. e. to inspire the nation with his songs to that great and glorious struggle on which it was about to enter.
The great struggle going on in Hungary during these years has been repeatedly mentioned heretofore. We have also stated that Petőfi could be no exception to the rule which makes poets of genius rise to the level of the events which pass around them. Petőfi's poems are pure mirrors, wherein one can plainly see the struggle of the times going on. They awakened a national spirit, which turned with feverish devotion to home affairs; the conviction that it is the duty of every "Magyar to be a Magyar", to love the fatherland and to watch with scrupulous care over the fatherland's language, industry and commerce, etc., and above all over its freedom - all this is plainly visible in all his poems. That boundless spirit of liberty which enlivened them all, stamped its mark even on the forms of his poetry, and they are truly "free, as the eagles of the air". Petőfi describes in a superbly beautiful poem "Dalaim", "My songs", the character of the various kinds of his songs. Let it be permitted to us to state here that the only great poet with whom Petőfi can be most successfully compared - "a Scottish Bard, proud of his name, and whose highest ambition is to sing in his country's service", Robert Burns, gives also in a poem of his own "The Bard's Epitaph", the best picture of his own mind. "Petőfi is the Burns of the European continent", writes to us valued friend, Professor Rasmus Anderson, a great admirer of the Magyar poet, and this is a strikingly true comparison, and yet though we are the most ardent and devoted admirer of the "Ayrshire Ploughman", we honestly believe Petőfi to be superior to the author of "Tam O'Shanter". All they had in common was their humor, their melancholy, their piety, their anger, their passion, their homely sagacity and sensitiveness; but Petőfi's splendid and perilous richness did not overflow, and never, never did he write a sentence which the most sensitive or prudish or childish nature could not safely read. Petőfi is always pure!
Had Petőfi lived longer his poems would not have been more deserving of contemporary praise or the perusal of posterity. His earliest flowers show us what the fruits of his genius would have been, and yet he is grand and sublime, although he never reached even the autumn of life. His style is unaffected, his thoughts ingenious, the language he uses, though often employed upon lowly subjects, never sinks into poverty or meanness; he is full of the lights, the shades, the colors, the ornaments, which the place and the subject require. His feelings and sentiments are not new, but are set forth in a manner of his own, which make them seem so. The flowers with which he strews his poetry seem to spring up there spontaneously, the lights he introduces to fall like unconscious sunshine to adorn the spot, where he has placed them. His versification, simple, clear and flowing, has purity and music. The pause of his verses is always full of beauty, the closing melody of the sentence gratifying the reader as he rests. If love is the subject of his songs, then they are full of fire and yet full of soft, mellow tenderness; if he makes family feelings the subjects of his songs, then they are full of dignified vivacity and inmost devotion. His delicious landscapes show harmony of hues and brilliant imagery, and are of the greatest value for the thoughts and the feelings they are apt to awaken. Some time he rebukes with scathing irony the faults and shortcomings of his fellowmen and, in his popular songs, he gives full vent to his less serious and more easy moods. His poetry is a picture of his own life. He makes the reader the confidential friend of his thoughts, hopes, desires, and tells him all about himself with an open, manly frankness which makes him soon the object of our love and esteem.
Then came the memorable year 1848. Many of Petőfi's poems heretofore written contain revolutionary sentiments, - they all breathe the air of freedom - but on the 15th day of March 1848, he opened on behalf of the poetical literature of Hungary the great struggle known as the "Revolution in Hungary". The song with which he did this, is the "Talpra Magyar" (Magyar, Arise), which became the very foremost war-song of Hungary. As a national hymn it is surpassed only by Vörösmarty's "Szózat" (Call), both of which songs are as dear to the Magyar's heart as the "Star-spangled banner" is to the true American. Then followed in quick succession a long array of inspiring war songs which steeled the arms of the nation. He became a member of the National Diet (Országgyűlés), the electors of the town of Félegyháza honoring him with an election. His parliamentary career, however, was cut short by the events following, and in September, 1848, he entered the Hungarian army and was assigned to Bern's army corps in Transylvania. The old Polish General became infatuated with the spirited brave young man and appointed him as his Secretary and aid-de-camp. His duty consisted chiefly in writing war songs, which were then read to the soldiers, and in composing the various "calls" and "manifestoes" the events necessitated. But in the actual fight he was also bravely at his post, and in many a battle did he distinguish himself by his valor and bravery. Excepting a few weeks' interval, during which time he enjoyed for the last time the blessings of his happy home, he was present during the entire of Bem's Transylvanian campaign. At the battle of Segesvár, on July 31st, 1849, he was last seen, and it is now settled beyond doubt that he fell there, and was buried in the great common grave, where, after the battle, all the heroic dead found their eternal rest.
Petőfi died as he hoped and prayed to die. In his "The thought torments me," he eloquently sang: -
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 depressed.
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 trumpet's and in cannon's
peal;
And o'er my corse
Let tread the horse,
Which
gallops home from victory's gain,
And leaves me trodden
'mid the slain.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
For the better, for the best, characterization of Petőfi, we will now give two extracts from his prose writings, published many years after his death. The first is taken from the "Diary" he faithfully kept during the last year of his life at home; the second is taken from a letter written by him to John Arany, then his greatest rival, to-day the poet laureate of the nation:
"......I am a republican with body and soul" - he writes under the date of April 19th, 1848 - "I was so ever since I have learned to think and I shall remain one until I breathe my last. These strong convictions, wherein I never wavered, pressed the beggar's staff, I carried for so many years, into my hands: and these strong convictions place now in my hands the palm of selfrespect. During the time when souls were bought and paid for in good cash, when a devoutly bent body secured the future of a man, I shunned the market, bowed to no one, but stood erect and froze and suffered hunger. There may exist lyres and pens more magnificent and more grand than those I wield, but surely none exist which are more stainless than mine, for never, never did I hire out even a string of my lute or but a stroke of my pen, - I sang and I wrote that to which the God of my soul prompted me, but the God of my soul is liberty!
Posterity may say of me I was but a bad poet, - but at the same time it must also say of me that I was strongly moral i. e. - for it is one and the same thing - that I was a republican; for the motto of a true republican is not: 'Down with the Kings,' but 'Pure morality'. Not the crushed crown, no, the irreproachable character, the upright honesty, are the foundations of the republic...... without these you may storm the thrones as the Titans the Heavens and you will be repelled with lightnings; with these however, you shall fell the Monarchies to earth as David felled Goliath.
But I am a republican out of religious conviction. The men of Monarchies believe not in the development, the advancement of the world, or else they want to check them - and this is infidelity. On the other hand, it is my belief that the world developes itself; I see the way which it follows. It moves but slowly, it makes a step every hundred, ay, sometimes even only every thousand years. Why should it hurry? Is not Eternity its own?"......
To Arany he writes thus: "Thy letter came but to-day into my hands. God knows how many hands it had to go through before reaching me. But this is my own fault; for in my exultation I forgot to let you know my address. Yet, I am accused of having a prejudice against poets, that is, to be plain, that I recognize no one, outside of myself, as a poet. By God! this is a dastardly slander. It is true, men without talent, or with but limited talent who imprudently push themselves forward, I cannot bear; I crush them, if I can, beneath my heels, - but before the genuine talent I bow and I idolize it. Thy letter caused me great, very great joy and I read thy poem so often that I know it by heart. I copy it and send it to Tompa. What a good fellow he is! But then see Arany, Petőfi, Tompa..... upon my soul! a splendid Triumvirate and if our glory may not be as great as that of the Roman Triumvirate, yet our merit, I doubt not, is just as great, if not still greater, than theirs. And our pay? A village parish, a village notaryship and a Metropolitan 'what you may call it' - nothing... But it matters not. I am a man without any pretensions and I content myself with it, and even if I die of hunger, I shall live to the day of my death, and beyond that I care not for my fate. For the funeral expenses let somebody else care....... Truly, a sorry profession, this Magyar authorship! I could get some kind of office but I fret at the thought of it, and thus nothing else remains but 'eat, my boy, when you have it!'.... Ah, it really pains me if I think of it, what a Bedouin was lost in me, but from my inmost soul I believe, that in our country too, the time will come yet, when the pagans who worship liberty, and not merely the Christians devoutly bowed before the only true Lord, can succeed in making a living."......
No man ever loved his country more devoutly than Petőfi. His popular poetry was with him not a mere form of versification, but it was an indivisible part of his whole being. He loved all that is pure, noble, elevating, but his purest, noblest and highest aims he found in the grandeur of his nation. Be this grandeur visible in the healthy and pure morals of his people, or in the singleness of their aims, the honesty of their desires, the nobility of their labor, or in the Nation's purpose of freedom, - his tuneful lyre was always doing service for these divine, heavenly causes. "Herein - says Baron Joseph Eötvös of him - lies the great influence his works exercised and herein are to be found the greatest merits of his literary authority."
Many of the compositions of this preeminently Magyar national poet are, on account of their strong local coloring, scarcely translatable without losing their inherent value. Who would presume to transfer the poems of Robert Burns promiscuously to a foreign language? How, e. g., would his 'Ode to a haggis' sound in French? We do not say this for the purpose of offering a lame excuse for the poverty of our own translations. Before us lies an exceedingly severe, but a just and manly comment by a critic upon some German Petőfi translations:
"The translator has a double duty to perform: one ties him towards the original he translates from, which he shall in its fullest and noblest sense truly revive. The views of the poet, his style, the color of his poetry, the character of his being - all this the foreign reader must find again in the same. The second duty of the translator ties him to his own people: what he creates is a literary product and must, in language, style and form, stand on a level with the literary culture of his people and his times. Not only the masters, but also the tyros in the art of translation are aware of these their twofold duties and strive to do justice in this respect.
No one is compelled to translate Hungarian poetry. 'Who cannot sing' - says Platen correctly and appropriately - 'let him not touch the strings of the lute.' "
...........Petőfi's young widow - although quite disconsolate and apparently heartbroken after her husband's disappearance - soon got married again and died about ten years ago. His only son grew up to be a young man of twenty years, or thereabouts, and died a few years ago in one of the public hospitals in Budapest. The poet's younger brother - and only one - Stephen, died in the Spring of the year 1880.
As long as the Magyar Puszta shall be inhabited by one of the noble Magyar race, so long will Alexander Petőfi remain the nation's great genius who will, through his divine songs, for all time exercise a most wholesome influence over the Magyar nation's life and over the Magyar people's love for all that is pure and noble, for freedom and independence.
GEMS
FROM
PETŐFI
AND OTHER HUNGARIAN POETS.
TRANSLATED BY
WM.
N. LOEW.
ALEXANDER PETŐFI.
Oft am I sunk in deepest
thought,
Although my musings bring me naught;
My thoughts then
o'er my country fly,
Fly o'er the earth, rise to the
sky.
The songs which from my lips then roll
Are moon-rays of my
dreamy soul.
Instead of dreaming, better
t'were
If for my future I should care.
If I should seek
to care - but why?
Over me watches God most High.
The songs
which from my lips then roll
Are mayflies of my wanton soul.
But if a lovely maid I
meet,
My thoughts to inner depths retreat;
I gaze into the
maiden's eye
As views a lake a star on high.
The songs
which from my lips then roll
Are roses of my lovebound soul.
If she loves me, wine joy
must crown,
If not, my grief in wine I drown.
And where the
cups with wine abound,
There joy and roseate light are found.
The
songs which from my lips then roll
Are rainbows of my misty soul.
Yet, while I hold the glass
in hand,
The yoke oppresses many a land.
As joyous as the
glasses rang,
So sadly do slaves' fetters clang.
The
songs which from my lips then roll
Are clouds that overcast my
soul.
Why do men dwell in slavery's
night?
Why burst they not their chains in fight?
Or do they
wait, till God some day
Shall let rust gnaw their chains away?
The
songs which from my lips then roll,
Are lightnings of my stormy
soul.
THE
THOUGHT TORMENTS ME.
EGY GONDOLAT BÁNT ENGEMET.
The thought torments me sore,
lest I
Upon a pillowed couch should die, -
Should slowly fade
like the fair 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,
Oh 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 depressed.
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 corse
Let tread the horse,
Which gallops home
from victory's gain
And leaves me trodden mid the slain.
My
scattered bones shall be interred
When 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!
IN
MY NATIVE LAND.
SZÜLŐFÖLDEMEN.
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.[1]
As a mere 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.
These 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 't were 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.
My blithesome spirit roameth far
and near,
And "Mayfly, yellow Mayfly" still I hear.
Again I am a child, a happy
child,
Roaming through pastures green and forests wild.
I mount
my hobby-horse, and in delight
I ride about the room, with heart
so light.
Forgotten is all grief, all care, all fear,
And
"Mayfly, yellow Mayfly" still I hear.
The sun has almost run his
daily course,
Tired are the rider and his hobby-horse.
Gently
the dear old nurse lulls me to sleep,
Kissing me lovingly; why
does she weep?
Why are my eyes filled with the burning tear?
And
"Mayfly, yellow Mayfly" still I hear.
Rise, Magyar! is 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
More worth 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, O shame!
Unsheathe 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!
The trumpets blare, drums
beat a call;
Our boys go forth to fight or fall:
Forward!
The
bullets whistle, sabres clash,
This fills the Magyar with firm
dash:
Forward!
May freedom's flag wave
on the height,
That all the world behold the
sight:
Forward!
Unfurl the flag! the world should see
The
proud inscription, "Liberty!"
Forward!
The world the Magyar's
valor knows,
He bravely faces all his foes:
Forward!
A
virtue God the Magyar gave;
He made his nature truly
brave:
Forward!
Upon a gory ground I tread,
A
comrade's blood has made it red:
Forward!
A hero he! can
I be less?
Boldly I onward wish to press:
Forward!
If, even as cripples we be
shot,
If even to die here be our lot:
Forward!
For thee our
lives we freely give,
Dear Fatherland, then thou must
live!
Forward!
Toward the end of the year 1848.
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,
Goodbye, 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,
Goodbye,
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
Goodbye, 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
Goodbye, 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
Goodbye, 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,
Goodbye, 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,
Goodbye, my heart, my love, my soul, my life!
AT
THE END OF THE YEAR.
AZ ÉV VÉGÉN.
Thou goest, thy course is
run, old year!
Well go! But stay, pass not alone,
Dark is the
next world, that one might
Be led astray; my song shall light
The
road and thus thy way make known.
Again I grasp my good old
lute,
Once more I touch its tuneful strings;
It has been mute,
but I will try
If still it yields sweet melody,
If still it
passionately sings?
If e'er thou sangest
sweet, let now
The mellowest lay thy strings outpour;
A song as
fair as ever came
From thee, and worthy of thy fame
Shall
solemnize this parting hour.
Who knows, who knows? this
may the last,
The last song be that I shall hear.
Laying aside
the lute today,
Wake it again I never may,
To die may be my
fate this year.
The army of the God of wars
I
joined, and now go forth to fight.
A next year I may never
see,
But if I sing, my poetry
With blood and sword-blade I
shall write.
Sing, I beseech of thee, oh,
sing
In accents silver-clear my lyre!
Let mild or thunderous be
thy voice,
Let it be sad or else rejoice;
But sing with passion
and with fire.
A tempest thou shalt be,
which will
O'er hill and vale with fury sweep;
A zephyr
be, which smilingly
Lulls with its mellow lullaby
The verdant
meadows into sleep.
Or yet a mirror be,
wherein
My youth, my love, shall meet my eye.
My youth which
dies, but never wanes,
My love which ever green remains,
Eternal
as the vault on High!
O! sing, sweet lute, thy
sweetest tunes,
Give all the song that in thee is!
The setting
sun sheds with delight
His rays from yonder flaming height
And
spends the remnant that is his.
And if thy swan-song it may
be,
Peal it forth mighty and sublime;
Not to be lost of men
with ease,
But let it over centuries
Come echoing back from
rocks of time.
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 I am
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
most depressed,
For none I ever want 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, easy 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 neighbor nearest by
Scarce
gains a sign that we are yet alive;
One brother will the other
vilify,
Now 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 of 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!
IF
BORN A MAN, THEN BE A MAN.
HA FÉRFI VAGY, LÉGY FÉRFI.
If born a man, then be a
man,
And not a wretched grub
That pusillanimously bears
Fate's
every knock and rub!
Fate is a cur that only barks
But fears a
manly blow;
A man must ever ready be,
Bravely to meet his foe!
If born a man, then be a
man,
And boast not of the fact;
More clear-tongued then
Demosthenes
Are valiant deed and act.
Build up, destroy, but
silent be
When done; make no display;
Just as the storm that
does its work
Lulls and subsides away.
If born a man, then be a
man,
Hold honor, faith, thine own;
Express them even if thy
blood
Should for thy creed atone.
Forfeit thy life a hundred
times
Ere thou thy word dost break;
Let all be lost, 'tis
not too much
To pay for honor's sake.
If born a man, then be a
man,
And bargain not away
Thy independence even for all
The
great world's rich array.
Despise the knave, who sells
himself,
The man who has his price!
"A beggar's
staff and liberty"
Be ever thy device!
If born a man, then be a
man,
Strong, brave and true as steel!
Then trust that neither
man nor fate
Can crush thee'neath their heel.
Be an oak,
which the hurricane
May shake and break and rend;
But ne'er
possess the power its frame,
Or giant force to bend!
RAGGED
HEROES.
RONGYOS VITÉZEK.
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
cannons' 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 told.
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.
I am in raptures, happy,
gay;
Glorious scenes now greet this eye.
Only
the birds ere now could fly,
But men can also fly to day.
Fleet-winged thought or
venturous mind,
We'll in the race with you
compete!
Spur on your horse! A splendid heat!
We
shall, withal, leave you behind.
Hills and vales, seas, men
and trees,
What else I pass God only
knows;
My wonder, my amazement grows,
Viewing
these misty sceneries.
The sun runs with us, as in
dread
Of quick pursuit - a madman's
thought -
By devils, who, if him they
caught
Into small fragments then would shred.
He ran and ran and onward
fled:
But all in vain! he had to stop,
Tired
on a western mountain-top,
Blushing with shame, his face is red.
But in our ride we still
proceed,
We weary not, feel no fatigue,
And
rolling up league after league
May yet to reach new worlds
succeed.
A thousand railroads men
shall build
Throughout the earth, till endless
chains
Of iron lines, like human veins,
The
world with healthy life have filled.
The railroads are the veins
of earth;
Culture and progress prosper
where
They cause pulsations in the air;
To
nations' greatness they give birth.
Build railroads, more than
heretofore;
You ask whence you shall iron
take?
The chains and yokes of bondage break;
Let
human slavery be no more!
Beautiful home, upon thy
wide-spread plain
Expands a waving field of golden grain,
Whereon
the mirage plays, O country dear,
Knowest thou still, thy son, now
pining here?
'Tis long ago since
welcome rest I found
Beneath the poplar trees I yet see
round,
While, through the autumn-sky high overhead,
Migrating
cranes in V shape southward sped.
When on the threshold of our
house, with tears,
Heartsore I bade goodbye to all my dears,
And
when, dear mother's last and parting sigh
On gentle
zephyrs'wings away did fly;
Ah, many a line of years,
since then begun,
Their course completed, to their death have
run,
While, on revolving wheels of fate, I passed
Through
various scenes in which my lot was cast.
The great world is the school
of life, I trow,
Wherethrough I plodded with perspiring
brow;
Because my road was passing hard and rough:
And, from the
start, I traversed wastes enough.
I know - and none knows
better I well think -
To whom experience held her hemlock
drink,
That rather I would drain the cup of death
Than the
black chalice which she proffereth.
But now despair and grief and
bitter pain,
Which swelled my heart rending it nigh in twain
Are
gone; their memory e'en is washed away
By holy tears of joy
I shed to-day.
For here, where once I lay on
mother's breast,
Drank in her honeyed love, - to me
the best -
The sun shines smilingly from heaven's dome
Again
on thy true son, O fair, loved home!
A house stands by the Danube
far away,
To me so dear, I think of it all day;
The fond
remembrance of that spot so dear,
Will ever make my heart well
with the tear.
Had I but from that home not
gone, yet man
Is always moved by some ambitious plan,
And
falcon-wings grew to my heart's desire;
I left my home, my
mother dear and sire.
How great my mother's
grief I cannot tell;
When bidding me 'mid sobs and sighs
farewell
The pearly dew that showered from her eyes
To quench
her burning pains did not suffice.
Still do I feel her trembling
arms' embrace,
Still do I see her haggard, careworn
face.
Oh, had I then this world at all foreseen,
Her dear
entreaties vain had never been.
Seen in the rays of hope's
bright morning-star
Our future days enchanted gardens are:
Only
to our delusion do we wake
When in the devious labyrinth of
mistake.
But why relate how hope's
enticing ray,
Though cheering me, misled me on my way;
How,
wandering o'er the bleak world's barren sod,
My
faltering feet on myriad thorn-spikes trod.
Some friends have started
toward my home to go;
What, by their mouth, shall I let mother
know?
Call on her, countrymen, if you come near
The house
wherein reside my parents dear.
Pray, tell my darling mother
not to fret,
Say that her son is now fair fortune's pet.
Ah!
should the loving soul the plain truth hear,
Her tender heart,
alas, would break I fear!
I
DREAM OF GORY DAYS.
VÉRES NAPOKRÓL ÁLMODÁM.
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
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.
I
DREAMED OF WARS.
HÁBORURÓL ÁLMODÁM.
I dreamed of wars last night,
the Magyar
Called to battle, as in times of old;
The heralds
made loud proclamation
And the bloody sabre did uphold.
A sacred fire forthwith was
kindled
At the gory emblem in true hearts;
The wreath of
freedom is the guerdon,
And the hireling's pay no zest
imparts.
We twain that day were wed
together -
Thou, my dear little one, and I:
My nuptial joys I
did surrender,
For the fatherland I went to die.
Say, is not this a fate most
direful,
On the marriage-night, love, to leave you?
Still, if
my country called to struggle,
As in dreams I did, so would I do.
If God Almighty thus would
speak to me:
"My son, I grant permisson 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,
Then let death come to me; he 'll welcome be
If I
but notice him when close to me.
Like to the birds, again I
will outpour
A mellower tune 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
breast of men.
May nightingales of wars -
the trumpets - thrill
Men's souls and with heroic passion
fill;
I may 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!
MY
WIFE AND MY SWORD.
FELESÉGEM ÉS KARDOM.
Upon the roof a dove,
A
star within the sky,
Upon my knees my love,
For
whom I live and die;
In raptures I embrace
And
swing her on my knees,
Just as the dewdrop sways
Upon
the leaf of trees.
But why, you'll surely
ask,
Kiss not her pretty face?
It is an easy
task
To kiss while we embrace!
Many a burning
kiss
I press upon her lip,
For such a
heavenly bliss
I cannot now let slip.
And thus we pass our
day,
I and my pretty wife,
Beyond all rare
gem's ray
Is our gay wedded life.
A
friend, my sword, it seems,
Does not like this
at all,
He looks with angry gleams
Upon me
from the wall.
Don't look on me,
good sword,
With eyes so cross and cold,
There
should be no discord
Between us, friends of
old.
To women leave such things,
As
green-eyed jealousy:
To men but shame it brings,
And
you a man must be!
But then, if you would
pause
To think who is my love,
You'd
see you have no cause
At all me to reprove.
She
is the sweetest maid,
She is so good and
true;
Like her God only made,
I know, but
very few.
If thee, good sword,
again
Shall need our native land,
To seek the
battle-plain
Will be my wife's
command.
She will insist that I
Go forth, my
sword, with thee,
To fight, if need to die,
For
precious liberty!
AT
THE END OF SEPTEMBER.
SZEPTEMBER VÉGÉN.
The garden flowers still
blossom in the vale,
Before our house the poplars still are
green;
But soon the mighty winter will prevail;
Snow is already
in the mountains seen.
The summer sun's benign and warming
ray
Still moves my youthful heart, now in its spring;
But lo!
my hair shows signs of turning gray,
The wintry days thereto their
color bring.
This life is short; too early
fades the rose;
To sit here on my knee, my darling, come!
Wilt
thou, who now dost on my breast repose,
Not kneel, perhaps, to
morrow o'er my tomb?
O, tell me, if before thee I should
die,
Wilt thou with broken heart weep o'er my bier?
Or
will some youth efface my memory
And with his love dry up thy
mournful tear?
If thou dost lay aside the
widow's vail,
Pray hang it o'er my tomb. At midnight
I
Shall rise, and, coming forth from death's dark vale,
Take
it with me to where forgot I lie.
And wipe with it my ceaseless
flowing tears,
Flowing for thee, who hast forgotten me;
And
bind my bleeding heart which ever bears
Even then and there, the
truest love for thee.
WHO
WOULD BELIEVE.
KI GONDOLNÁ.
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,
Fighting foe here, charging foe there,
Death in the
van, death in the rear:
Sabres were flashing in the air.
Then, like a troubled,
careworn 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 fiery 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?
VOICES
FROM EGER.[2]
EGRI
HANGOK.
Snow on the earth, clouds in
the sky!
Who cares? Let it be so.
None need
to marvel, for this is
The winter's daily
show.
To tell the truth, I could not tell
When
winter came,
Did not a look into the street
The
fact proclaim.
I sit here in this cheerful
room,
With faithful friends around,
Who fill
my bowl with "egri" wine
Such as but
here is found.
The friends are true, the wines are good
Who
would have more?
I now enjoy such happy days
As
ne'er before.
If my contentment had but
seeds
I'd sow them o'er the snow;
A
rosy bower then in bloom
Would in the winter
grow.
And if to heaven, I then might cast
My
joyous heart,
To all the world it, like the sun,
Warmth
would impart.
From here the mountain I can
see,
Where Dobo once his name
Inscribed with
sword and Turkish blood
Upon the page of
fame.
Ah! until such a man as he
Again we
see,
Much water will the Danube bear
Into the
sea.
Ah! withered is long, long
ago
The Magyar's blooming spring,
And
apathy inglorious
Doth to the nation cling.
Will
ever spring again return
Into our land?
And
will once more our plains and fields
In growth
expand?
Let us drop this, but seldom
I
Enjoy a feast thus rare,
So let us not our
pleasure mar
By memories fraught with care:
And,
after all, do sighs abate
Sorrow and grief?
The
minstrel 'tis alone who finds
In song
relief.
Let us our country's
cares not heed
For this one day alone,
And
each sad thought of her let us
Now, while we
drink, postpone.
Fill up once more! Another glass
Of
glowing wine;
And still one more to follow that
None
should decline.
Well, well! What do I notice
now?
A cycle means each glass;
My mind now in
the future roams,
While I the present pass.
And
in this future I once more
Again rejoice,
And
hear throughout my fatherland
Joy's happy
voice!
STREAMLET
AND STREAM.
FORRÁS ÉS FOLYAM.
The streamlet's waves
roll on in gleeful ways,
Their merry splash is
as her silvery voice,
In such a tuneful current
did rejoice,
The mellow accents of my youthful days.
My soul was then a streamlet
pure and clear,
A mirror of the laughing sky
above,
Sun, moon and star in this sky was my
love,
The lively fish, my joyous heart, leaped here.
The streamlet has become a
swollen stream,
Its whispers silver-clear are
heard no more.
And o'er the storm is heard
its mighty roar;
Unseen in it is now the heaven's bright
gleam.
Fair sun, look not into the
stream just now,
Thou wilt not see in it thy
shining face;
The struggles of the storm the
same displace,
Upheave its waters from the depths below.
What do the stains upon the
waters mean,
The bloody stain, shown by the
angry sea?
The wild world cast its anchor into
thee,
Thy blood, poor fish - my heart, here now is seen.
THE
IMPRISONED LION.
A RAB OROSZLÁN.
The boundless desert is his
home no more,
Within an iron cage he now must roar.
He, so debased, the desert's
royal king,
To stand thus fettered with an iron ring!
To trifle with his sorrow let
us cease,
'Tis desecration to disturb his peace.
If of his liberty he is
bereft,
Let the dear memory of it still be left.
If to the tree his near
approach be stayed,
Let him at least enjoy a little shade.
See in his mien what majesty
is found;
With how much grandeur do his looks abound!
Although from him his liberty
they took,
They could not take his proud, heroic look.
Even as the pyramid he
seemeth grand,
Which towered above him in his own loved land.
His memory fondly leads him
back again;
Once more he is upon his native plain,
That vast expanse of
wilderness whereo'er
The wild simoom hath raced with him of
yore.
O, glorious land, O happy
days and sweet!
But hush! he hears his prison-keeper's feet.
And, lo! the world of fantasy
hath fled,
Because the keeper smote him on the head.
A stick - and such a boy
commands him now!
Oh, heavenly powers! thus he hath to bow.
Hath he become so pitiful and
poor
This deepest degradation to endure?
Behold the stupid herd, the
gaping crowd
At his humiliation laugh aloud.
How dare they breathe, for
should he break his chain,
No soul of them for hell-fire would
remain.
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 vail
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 list
The
murmurs of the waves
That move the rolling sea.
He almost
dreamed he heard
His country, risen again,
Was happy, proud and
free!
That he should hear once
mo
His native land was free;
Was still his fond belief.
And
for this freedom's news
He waited, until death
Brought
kindliest relief.
At home, even now, his
name
Is hardly known. But one
Remembers him, the
bard.
Forgotten he would be
Sang not of him the bard,
Freedom's
Eternal guard!
Upon the threshold sits, by
age bent down,
Aunt Sarah, bowing low her silver crown;
An
eye-glass rides upon her bony nose,
I fancy her own funeral shroud
she sews.
Aunt Sarah, do you still the days recall,
When
"Darling Sally" you were named by all?
What heretofore she did in
dresses wear -,
The folds and creases - now her face doth
bear;
Clad now in faded rags, her dress, I trow,
Must have been
new some twenty years ago.
Aunt Sarah, do you still the days
recall,
When "Darling Sally" you were named by all?
I almost freeze when I behold
her head,
The winter hath thereon its white snow shed.
And like
a stork's nest in the chimney there,
Looks on her hoary head
her straggling hair.
Aunt Sarah, do you still the days
recall,
When "Darling Sally" you were named by all?
Her eyes, once bright, have
left their native place,
Sunk in and beautify no more her
face.
They faintly flicker in a ghastly gloom
As tapers left to
burn in some death-room.
Aunt Sarah, do you still the days
recall,
When "Darling Sally" you were named by all?
A barren plain, it seems, is
now her breast,
As if beneath not even a heart did rest.
Her
heart, not wholly dead, still pulsates there,
And sometimes does
its old emotions share.
Aunt Sarah, do you still the days
recall,
When "Darling Sally" you were named by all?
Youth is a spendthrift, who
will freely spend
His wealth and charms, and does not
apprehend
The miser father - Age - who will some day
Gather the
treasures spent, take them away.
Aunt Sarah, do you still the days
recall,
When "Darling Sally" you were named by all?
THE
RUINS OF THE INN.
A CSÁRDA ROMJAI.
Oh beauteous, boundless
stretch of lowland plain,
My glad heart's pleasure ground
dost still remain?
With hills and vales the broken highland
seems
A volume that with countless pages teems;
But thou, where
hill succeeds not hill, my plain,
Art like an open page, whereof I
gain
The knowledge at a glance, and over thee
The loftiest
thoughts are written legibly.
'Tis sad, I cannot pass by
happy chance
My life upon the puszta's wide expanse.
Here
would I dwell amid these valleylands,
As the free Bedouin on
Arabian sands.
Puszta, thou art the type of liberty,
And,
liberty, thou art as God to me!
For thee, my Deity, alone I
live,
That once for thee my life-blood I may give;
And, by my
grave, when I for thee have died,
My cursed life shall then be
sanctified.
But what is this - grave, death, what do I write?
But
marvel not, for ruins meet my sight:
Not ruins of a fort, but of
an inn;
Time asks not to what end the house hath been;
A
fortress or a tavern, 'tis the same;
He treads o'er
both alike, and, where he came,
Walls totter, crumbling, iron ev'n
as stone,
And nothing, high or low, he leaves alone.
Of stone
how came they this old inn to rear,
When all the lowland shows no
quarry near?
A town or hamlet nestled here at first,
Long ere
the Turkish rule our land had cursed.
(Poor Hungary, my wretched
land, ah, me,
How many yokes have been endured by thee!)
This
ancient town was sacked by Osman's hordes,
Who razed each
house therein except the Lord's.
The church remained, a
ruin, it is true,
Still of our loss a mourner left to view.
For
centuries it stood thus, stood to mourn,
Till at the last, by
sorrow overborne,
It fell, and, lest its stones should scattered
be,
They built the wayside inn which here you see.
From God's
house build an inn! and wherefore nay?
One serves the body, one
the soul, I say.
Each in our being has an equal share,
On each
we must attend with duteous care.
From God's house build an
inn! and wherefore nay?
Our life can please our God in either
way,
And purer hearts within an inn I've known,
Than some
who daily kneel before God's throne.
Inn, fallen inn! when
yet within thy door
The travelers rested and enjoyed thy store,
My
fantasy builds up thy wall anew,
And one by one thy transient
guests I view.
The wandering journeyman with staff is here,
The
puszta's son in greasy cloak stands near,
There, with his
long beard, is a peddling jew,
A tinker from Wallachia, with a
few
Who drink; The smiling hostess, young and fair,
Flirts with
a merry student who is there.
The wine has made his head a little
light,
His heart far more the hostess sweet and bright.
The
aged host! in rage why starts he not?
He calmly sleeps beside the
stack, I wot!
Then 'neath the haystack's shade, now in
the tomb,
Where too, his fair young wife, hath long found
room:
All have returned, long years since, dust to dust;
The
inn hath fallen a prey to age's rust.
The wind the covering
from its head did tear -
The roof, whereof dismantled it stands
bare,
As though its master, time, it stood before,
And prayed
for better usage than of yore.
In vain the suppliant prays; day
after day,
Crumbling, it falls, until one cannot say
Where was
the doorway, or the window where.
The chimney yet stands pointing
heavenward there,
It was the dead's last hope before it
fell;
The cellar is a ruin; and the well,
Whose hoist one day
some passing vagrant stole,
Leaving behind the crossbeam and the
pole,
On which a royal eagle came to light,
Because the puszta
yields no loftier height;
Behold his look and mien so full of
pride;
His memories seem with ages gone to bide.
The sun, that
heavenly lover, flames above,
He burns because his heart is filled
with love
For "Délibáb"[3],
the puszta's fairy child,
Whose fond eyes gaze at him in
yearmings wild.
THE
CROWN OF THE DESERT.
A SIVATAG KORONÁJA.
Like an old king's
hoary head
The desert seems to be;
One grows hair, the other
grass,
But sparingly I see.
On this old royal head
An
oak-tree is the crown.
It doubtless could the tale
Of many an
age hand down.
Once it began to speak.
A
cloud in search of rest,
Weary of roaming far,
Became the old
King's guest.
"The story of your
life, proud oak,
From you I wish to hear."
Thus spoke the
cloud; the tree replied
In whispers silver clear.
* * *
"In foreign parts, far,
far away from here
Did my ancestors live. My mother dear
Was
the primeval woods' most stately queen.
For miles around no
oak like her was seen.
In love with her once fell the
tempest-gale,
But all his wooings were of no avail.
My mother
loved him not, and he, O, shame!
Swore black revenge, and carried
out the same.
On mother's breast I and my sisters fair
Had
lived in bliss - how happy we were there!
But soon the gale, with
hatred filled and spite,
Tore us with brutish force from her one
night;
And onward drove me, till at last I found
A rest in this
bleak desert's sterile ground.
I grew up here, and centuries
have I
Seen slowly come and slowly pass me by.
My life is sad,
and through these many years
I found my sole relief in burning
tears.
In vain I look around, I cannot see
Even one that is of
my dear family.
Once in a while I'm visited by men.
I
serve them cheerfully, as well I can.
All those who come in
summer's burning heat
Find my delightful shade a joyous
treat.
And fire is kindled from my branches dry
For those who,
in the winter days, pass by.
As gallows even, I end the misery
Of
those who, in despair have come to me.
And this is all; with this
I now have told
The story of my life; now being old,
I wish to
die - to end my life and woe!
Once in a while the gale, my ancient
foe,
Comes here, but harms me not. He does in vain
Shake me
with all his might; I firm remain.
But what will bring about my
fall at length,
I, who for ages stood in giant strength?
Alas,
I know! grown rotten to the core,
The thankless worms which in my
heart I bore
Will kill me soon. O, God! I thee implore
To have
for me a nobler end in store."
* * *
It was a tale of woe the
cloud
Thus heard the oak recite;
It was a tale which did his
heart
To sympathy invite.
Full of compassion, then, he
hurled
His lightning on the tree,
The flames devoured it,
ending thus
A life of misery.
THE
GOOD OLD LANDLORD.
A JÓ ÖREG KOCSMÁROS.
Here, in the lowland, where
you travel far away
Before you reach the hills, here, on the
alföld's plain,
Contented now I dwell, my heart is glad and
gay,
Because, while roaming 'round, I joy and pleasures
gain.
My home is in the quiet village public-house;
But seldom
sounds therein the noise of a carouse.
A hearty, good old man is
landlord of the place,
Grant unto him, my God, blissful and happy
days.
My room is neat, none ask me
for my board to pay;
Ne'er have I been, as here, cared for
so tenderly!
The meals are served in time though others be
away,
But, if I should be late, they all will wait for me.
One
thing I do not like, the master of the house
Quarrels once in a
while with his good-hearted spouse.
But what of that? Soon
kindness re-illumes his face,
Grant unto him, my God, blissful and
happy days.
Sometimes, to pass the time,
we former days recall,
Which were for him, by far, the happiest
and best.
He owned his house and farm, had plentiful of all,
He
knew not e'en how many cattle he possessed.
Knaves borrowed
all his gold and fraudulently kept;
The Danube's stormy
floods once o'er his homestead swept,
And thus they grew so
poor, the landlord and his race,
Grant unto him my God, blissful
and happy days.
For him the sun of life is
now about to set
And aged men may wish to have at last some
rest.
Alas! misfortune has, I notice with regret,
Left him
oppressed with care, with sorrow filled his breast;
All day he
works, the Sunday e'en is not his own,
Late he retires to
bed, and rises with the dawn.
Filled with compassion, I him
tenderly embrace,
Grant unto him, my God, blissful and happy days.
I often beg of him to be of
better cheer,
Say better times will come, ending his misery;
"Ay,
ay, it will be so", - he says - "my end is near,
And,
when the grave receives me, I shall happy be".
This answer
fills my heart with sorrow and with grief,
Falling upon his
breast, I find in tears relief.
My dear old father is the landlord
of this place,
Grant unto him, my God, blissful and happy days.
A comrade I possess of
sterling worth,
Honest and true he is from head
to heel.
When sorrow's chill and windy
blasts I feel,
He will around me fold the cloak of mirth.
If I, my country's fate
considering,
Sad may become and almost moved to
tears,
My dear companion forthwith then
appears,
Saying "cheer up, this is no manly thing".
"Be patient now",
he whispers, rouse, dear friend,
A better fate
will come and, once again,
To heaven's
good graces and goodwill attain:
If yet will help our poor
forsaken land.
If hopeless love has made me
sore at heart
And resignation holds me grieved
and dumb,
Then my friend tarries not, but soon
doth come,
Saying: "Be of good cheer! a child thou art!
Lose not thy faith";
such is his soothing way -
"Although it
seems that, she on whom was spent
Love's
capital, is quite indifferent,
She will all this with interest
repay".
This line of thought makes me
to think, alas!
That I so poor, so impecunious
am;
Again I hear the cheering epigram;
"This
hopeless state of things thou wilt see pass".
"Be patient, friend,
the time will soon arrive,
When thou cold rooms
shalt no more occupy,
And when frost's
crystal flowers shall beautify
Thy window-panes, and upon them
shall thrive".
Thus flows my dear
companion's cheering speech,
Till I forget
my sorrow and my care,
And all around me groweth
bright and fair;
My soul hath landed on a happy beach!
This friend, whom I am ever
glad to meet,
A haughty brother has, with laugh
and sneer
For my companion's way of giving
cheer,
And him he shamefully with blows doth treat.
This brother is a stern and
churlish man,
He drives my friend from me and
smites his face.
Yet can no usage ill his love
efface,
He will return again, whene'er he can.
And must I tell you, who this
friend may be,
Whom to possess is now my happy
lot?
"Hope" is his name. Who knows
and loves him not?
His sterner brother is "Reality".
"Thou'st eaten,
comrade; bloody are thy fangs,
While we around here suffer
hunger's pangs.
The howling tempest blows,
while, far and near,
The land lies waste, the winter is severe.
No trace can we espy of man
or beast,
Come, tell us quickly now, where was the feast?"
A pack of hungry wolves thus
seek to learn,
Where one, - their fellow, - did his prey discern.
Without delay, the wolf that
hath fared well,
Proceeds the following history to tell:
A shepherd and his wife a hut
maintain,
Which I sought out, down there in yonder plain.
Behind their hut, I knew
there was a fold,
Hearing the sheep bleat, and to sup made bold.
To this abode last night did
softly hie
Two stealthy wanderers - a young man and I.
He had a sweet tooth for the
shepherd's wife,
I for a sheep was bound to risk my life.
The dandy sneaked around; I
could not sup
On mutton, so, instead, ate him up.
Why bother me? Away!
Be
quickly off, I say!
Great work I have on hand just now
I twist
a whip with sweating brow,
From rays of sun, with which I
will
Scourge the world till its cries do fill
The air, and I
will laugh as she
Laughed, mocking at my misery.
Ha,
ha, ha!
For such is life! We laugh and weep,
Till death brings
its eternal sleep.
I, too, was dead; some years ago
To poison
me were mean and low
Those of my friends who drank my wine,
What
did they do? who can divine?
While I was lying in the
shroud,
Embracing me, they cried aloud!
I felt that I could
rise and bite
Their noses off, but just for spite
I though let
them their nostrils keep:
When
I become a rotten heap,
And, decomposed, lie in their way,
From
smelling me explode they may!
Ha,
ha, ha!
Where did they bury me?
In Afric's sandy
sea,
This was most fortunate, for, lo!
Hyena dug me from
below;
My only benefactor he,
I cheated him most skillfully;
My
limbs he tried to chew and gnaw;
I flung my heart into his jaw,
So
bitter was my heart, that he
Soon died of it in agony,
Ha,
ha, ha!
Alas! this always is the end
Of those who other folk
befriend!
But what is man? Tell me who can.
Some say the root
of flowers fair,
Which bloom above in heaven there!
Man is a
flower, 'tis true, whose root
Down into deepest hell doth
shoot;
I heard a sage these things discuss one day
Who, being a
fool, of hunger died, they say;
Instead of cramming learning in
his head,
Why did he not steal, rob and kill for bread?
Ha,
ha, ha!
Why laugh I like a fool here, why?
I should lament and
loudly cry,
The world's so bad that even the sky
Will
often weep that it gave birth
To such foul creatures as the
earth.
But what becomes of heaven's tear?
Falling upon
this earth down here,
Men tread upon it with their feet!
God's
tear becomes - mud in the street.
Ha,
ha, ha!
A hoary veteran is the sky,
The sun and moon his medals
signify,
The clouds, the threadbare cloak he wears,
And thus
the brave old soldier fares,
A cross and rag pay for his
cares,
Ha, ha, ha!
What
means the quail's call in man's tongue,
When
chattering in the morning young?
He says of women to
beware,
She'll draw you sure into a snare.
Woman is a
splendid creature,
Beautiful though dangerous;
The lovelier in
form and feature,
More of peril she brings us.
A deadly drink
she serves in cups of gold,
Love's drink to quaff I often
did make bold.
One drop of thee, O! what a heavenly treat!
A
sea with honey filled is not so sweet!
Yet from one drop such gall
can be distilled
As though the sea with poisonous drugs were
filled!
Have you seen ocean depths the tempests plough?
They
furrow it; deaths seeds are sown, I trow.
Have you seen tempest,
this brown ugly churl,
His lighthing-flashes o'er the wide
sea hurl?
Ha, ha,
ha!
The fruit when ripe falls from the tree;
Ripe earth, you
must be plucked, I see.
Until to-morrow I shall wait
Then,
hoary earth, you'll expiate
Your crimes! a great deep
hole
I'll dig in thee, and, on parole,
I'll fill it
up with powder dry,
And blow the earth up to the sky!
Ha,
ha, ha!
THE
LAST CHARITY.
AZ UTOLSÓ ALAMIZSNA.
A single mother bore these
two -
The poet and the angry fate, -
And thus this life they
journeyed through,
Being friends and ever intimate.
Trees then, as now, grew all
around
And many rested in their shade;
It served the minstrel
too, he found
A branch, of which a staff he made.
These were the only friends
he knew -
The beggar's staff, the angry fate.
All else
were faithless and untrue,
But each of these was his true mate.
But what had of his lute
become?
Do minstrels not possess a lyre?
Ay - ay - he had one
too, not dumb
That gave forth strains to charm and fire.
Once of his lute he grasped
the string,
Once in a stormy, thundering night.
And mute became
the thunder's ring
To hear his song far up the height.
And when the angry, murky
sky
Had listened to his song divine,
It looked with smiling,
star-lit eye
Down on the bard in calm benign.
But lo! when hungry he
became
He went the sons of men to greet,
Thinking the hardest
hearts to tame
With strains so marvellously sweet.
That which had lulled the
tempest's roar
And made the dark sky smile again,
In
mighty chords he did outpour
With mellow and melodious strain.
But what the storm and sky
obeyed
Utterly fails men to impress;
When tuneful songs he
vainly played,
The shamed lute breaks in pained distress.
Such is the lyre's
unhappy tale.
But of the bard's career who knows?
None
can tell when misfortune's gale
Brought his long-suffering
to a close.
Before a younger race he
stood,
After the lapse of many years,
The locks ungrizzled
'neath his hood
Had been made scant by cares and fears.
"A few small pence for
charity!"
His piteous, faint voice then demands,
While,
like a dry twig, quiveringly
He stretches forth his trembling
hands.
Then sympathic voices
ask:
"Who art thou thus with grief bowed down,
Whom fate
hath set so hard a task,
And on whom God doth seem to frown?"
He pleads again and tells his
name;
"A few pence", when, O, strange to hear
The
answer comes: "Stop, child of fame,
Thou dost not need to
beg good cheer!"
"Thy name shines
brightly as, at night,
The starry heaven glows in fire,
The
songs men once despised delight,
The world which now applauds thy
lyre"
"Hail to thee, great
one, haste to change
Thy rags and be in velvets dressed,
A
bounteous board we now arrange,
A laurel wreath on thee shall
rest!"
"I thank you for this
speech so fair,
"But hunger's pangs I feel no
more,
"For velvet garb I have no care,
"But wear
these rags which long I wore."
"A goodly thing it is
to see
"The laurel wreath a proud youth crown;
"But
sprouts and leaves can no more be,
"When sapless trunks are
crumbling down.
"But a few pence I
still require,
"And for them grateful I shall be;
"The
coffin-maker waits his hire
"Who fits my final home for me!"
O, judge me not, fair maid, I
pray;
Not from our first and sole salute;
Not always is my
tongue, as then,
So ill-behaved, so dumb and mute.
Oft floweth from my lips a
stream
Of cheerful speech, and often floats
Humor or jesting
o'er its waves,
Like merry folks in pleasure-boats.
But when I first saw thee, I
tried
Some word to say, and tried in vain;
Before a storm
breaks out all round
A graveyard quietude will reign.
A storm came up here in my
breast;
Speechless I stood, charmed by a spell:
The storm broke
and 'mid thunderings
The lightnings of my wild love fell.
How the tornado rends,
destroys!
But I shall suffer patiently.
For, when I once thy
love shall gain,
The rainbow of my soul I'll see.
Tell me, old stream, how oft
thy bosom strong
Is cleft by storms and ships that glide along?
How deep and wide these cuts!
On heart of man
Inflict such wounds no grief or passion can.
Yet when the ship is gone,
the storm is o'er,
The stream rolls smoothly, showing rifts
no more.
But, when the human heart is
cleft, no calm
Can, heal the wound or bring it aught of balm.
Night's darkness o'er
the forest creeps,
Of a safe guide I am bereft.
Which path
leads from these lonely deeps,
Is it the one to right or left?
Over me, on the arch of
sky,
Many a star doth brightly shine.
Taking their course, who
knows if I
Might reach the goal for which I pine?
For, brighter than all stars
above,
In lustre shone my darling's eye;
I trusted her,
false was her love;
Deceived, still o'er my loss I sigh.
What is the use of ploughing
earth,
Without the seed that springs to birth?
Neglecting this,
but weeds will grow
And all your work for naught will go.
Believe me, fairest, sweetest
rose,
Beneath thy glance my poor heart glows:
And, as the
plough the ground upheaves,
Thy glance my heart in furrows leaves.
Thy glance in vain cuts deep
my heart,
But sorrow from its depths will start;
Except thou
sow with love, and fair,
Sweet scented roses will bloom there.
AT
THE HAMLET'S OUTSKIRTS.
FALU VÉGÉN KURTA KOCSMA.
Outside the hamlet, on the
sands
Of Szamosh' banks, an inn there stands,
Which in
the stream were mirrored clear,
Did eventide not draw so near.
The night draws nigh, the
daylight wanes
And quiet o'er the landscape reigns;
The
swinging bridge is safely bound
And darkness girds it all around.
But, in the tavern, hark the
noise,
The laugh and shout of village boys.
The sound of
cymbals cleaves the air;
The gypsy-player tarries there.
Come, pretty hostess, darling
mine,
Pray give us some of your best wine;
Let it possess my
grandsire's years,
And fervor such as is my dear's.
Strike, gipsy boy, strike up!
I swear
I want to dance a livelier air -
My money all to you I
roll;
Tonight I'll dance away my soul.
But some one knocks: "My
master says
Too great the noise is that you raise;
Unless in
bounds your mirth you keep,
He swears he cannot get to sleep!"
"Bad luck to you! -
your master tell
That both of you can go to hell!
Play, gipsy
boy, for spite now play,
Even if my shirt the piper pay.
Again a knock comes. "For
God's sake"
Pray do not such a turmoil make!
I beg
of you now to be still,
My mother lies near very ill."
None answer her. The noise
has ceased,
Their passion is subdued, appeased.
Mute has become
the gipsy's play,
The boys in silence homeward stray.
THE
LOWERING CLOUDS.
ERESZKEDIK LE A FELHŐ.
The lowering clouds are dense
on high,
Autumnal rain pours from the sky,
The sere leaves from
the branches fall,
The nightingale still sings through all.
Late is the hour: the night
has set,
Fair little brown maid, wak'st thou yet?
Say,
hearest thou the nightingale,
Who sings her plaintive, sweet
love-tale?
The rain in torrents poureth
still,
Dost hear the nightingale's sad trill?
The hearts
of all, who hear her song,
In yearning love do ever long.
If thou art not asleep, brown
may,
Hearken to what the bird doth say,
For this sad bird is my
fond love,
My soul, breathed forth, that floats above.
THROUGH
THE VILLAGE.
A FALUBAN UTCZAHOSSZAT.
Through the village, all the
way,
A gipsy band for me doth play,
A flask of wine I wave in
glee,
I dance in maddest revelry.
O gipsy, play thy saddest
airs,
That I may weep away my cares;
But when yon window we do
reach,
Play joyous tunes I thee beseech.
The maid who lives there is
my star,
The star, that shot from me afar;
She left me, strives
from me to hide,
And blooms at other lovers' side.
This is her window. Gipsy,
play
A tune which is beyond all gay!
Let not the false maid
even see,
That I can feel her falsity.
DRUNK
FOR THE COUNTRY'S SAKE.
RÉSZEGSÉG A HAZÁÉRT.
God bless you boys! come take
a drink,
Let us the merry glass fill high!
Pray let me not my
country see
Forsaken and in misery;
Far rather drunk in dreams
I'd lie.
When drunk, 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
drunk
My country truly happy were -
You never should, good
friends, I say,
Even if I should live for aye,
Behold me sober
more, I swear!
THE
ROSEBUSH SHAKES.
RESZKET A BOKOR.
The rosebush shakes because
A
bird on its twig flew,
My own soul shakes because
I think, my
dear, of you!
I think, my dear, of you,
My darling, charming
maid,
Thou art the richest gem
My God has ever made.
Swollen the Danube is
So
that it may o'erflow,
My heart, with love replete,
Is now
for thee even so.
Tell me, my fairest rose,
Art thou to me
still true?
Not even thy parents dear
Can love thee as I do.
I know thy love was mine
In
last year's summer weather;
But winter came since then
When
we sojourned together.
And should'st thou love no more,
I
pray God bless thee still, -
But, if thou lov'st me yet,
A
thousandfold he will!
YOU
CANNOT BID THE FLOWER.
A VIRÁGNAK MEGTILTANI.
You cannot bid the flower not
bloom; it thrives
When, on mild zephyrs' wings, the spring
arrives,
A girl is spring, her love a scented flower,
Which
buds and blooms 'neath balmy air and shower.
When first I saw thee, dear,
I fell in love
With thy fair soul and tender charm thereof.
With
that soul's beauty, which I ever see
Reflected in thine eyes
bewitchingly.
The question rises sometimes
in my heart -
Lovest thou me, or yet another's art?
These
thoughts pursue each other in my mind,
As sunrays clouds, when
blows the autumn wind.
Knew I another waited thy
embrace,
Could kiss the milk and roses of thy face,
My broken
heart I far away would bear,
Or end in death the depth of my
despair.
Shine upon me, O star, so
born to bless!
Lighten the dreary night of my distress!
O! my
heart's pearl, if thou can'st love me, love
And
blessing shall be thine from God above.
SHEPHERD
BOY, POOR SHEPHERD BOY.
JUHÁSZLEGÉNY, SZEGÉNY JUHÁSZLEGÉNY.
"Come shepherd boy,
poor shepherd boy, give ear,
Behold this heavy purse with gold
filled here;
Thy poverty I'll purchase now from thee,
If
thou, with it, thy sweetheart wilt give me".
"If but an earnest were
this glittering gold,
Thy proffer magnified an hundredfold,
Nay,
if the world on top thou shouldest lay,
My pretty one thou
could'st not take away!"
INTO
THE KITCHEN DOOR I STROLLED.
BEFORDULTAM A KONYHÁBA.
Into the kitchen door I
strolled
To light my pipe I then made bold,
That is to say, 't
would have been lit,
Had there not been full fire in it.
And, since my pipe was lit, I
went
For something very different.
Simply because a maiden
fair
By chance I had espied in there.
It was her task the fire to
light
And sooth, she did the task aright;
But, O, my head! her
lovely eyes
Were flaming in more brilliant wise.
As I stepped in, she looked
at me,
Bewitchingly, bewilderingly;
My burning pipe went out,
but, O!
My sleeping heart burned all aglow.
HOW
VAST THIS WORLD.
EZ A VILÁG A MILYEN NAGY.
How vast this world in which
we move,
And thou, how small thou art, my dove!
But if thou
didst belong to me,
The world I would not take for thee.
Thou art the sun, but I the
night,
Full of deep gloom, deprived of light.
But should our
hearts together meet,
A glorious dawn my life would greet.
Ah! look not on me, close
thine eyes,
My soul beneath thy glances dies;
Yet, since thou
can'st not love me, dear,
Let my bereft soul perish here.
MY
FATHER'S TRADE AND MY OWN.
APÁM MESTERSÉGE ÉS AZ ENYÉM.
You often told me, father
dear,
My trade and your's should be the same;
The
butcher's trade you wished me take,
But, see, an author I
became.
You hit the oxen with your
sledge,
I men with pen and ink hit hard.
'Tis all the
same, if but the names
Of those we hit we disregard.
THE
MAGYAR NOBLE.
A MAGYAR NEMES.
The sword which once my
fathers bore,
Hangs on the wall and gleams no more,
Rust covers
it instead of gore.
I
am a Magyar noble.
I never work and never
will,
The thought of labor makes me ill.
Peasant, 't is
thou the earth must till.
I
am a Magyar noble.
Peasant, make good the road,
I say,
Thy horse doth draw the load that way,
But go afoot I
never may.
I
am a Magyar noble.
Wherefore should I for
science care?
The sages always paupers were.
I never read or
write, I swear!
I
am a Magyar noble.
One talent I possess
complete,
Herein with me none can compete:
I excellently drink
and eat.
I
am a Magyar noble.
I never pay my tax when
due,
Wealth have I, but not much, 't is true.
How much
owe I? Ask but the jew.
I
am a Magyar noble.
The country's cares are
naught to me.
I heed not all its misery.
Soon they will pass by
fate's decree.
I
am a Magyar noble.
My ancient rights and home
decay,
And when I've smoked my life away,
Angels shall
bear me up one day.
I
am a Magyar noble.
MICHAEL VÖRÖSMARTY
The Magyar National Anthem.
Loyal and true for aye
remain,
Magyar, to this thy home!
Here, where thy cradle stood,
once more
Verdant shall rise thy tomb.
No other land than this
exists
For thee beneath the sky;
The fates may bring thee bane
or bliss,
Here thou must live and die!
Thy fathers' blood for
this dear spot
Has often freely flowed;
Great names for the
last thousand 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 gory flag, O, freedom,
oft
Has been unfurled here!
And in the bloody wars we lost
Our
bravest and most dear!
In spite of 'scapes and
dangers past,
In spite of sanguine strife;
Though bent, we are
not broken yet -
Our nation still has life!
And mankind's country,
the great 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 it will
come,
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
Covered with gore shall lie.
The grave where we are
sepulchred
Nations will then surround,
And men, in millions,
will shed tears
Of sorrow most profound.
To this, thy native land,
Magyar
Ever devoted be!
It nourisheth thee, and, when dead,
Its
earth receiveth thee.
No other land than this
exists
For thee beneath the sky!
The fates may bring thee bane
or bliss;
Here thou must live and die!
THE
HOARY GIPSY.
A VÉN CZIGÁNY.
Come, gipsy, play; thou
had'st thy pay in drinks,
Let not the grass grow under thee,
strike up!
On bread and water who would hear life's
ills?
With glowing wine fill high the parting cup.
This mundane
life remains for aye the same,
It 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 both cup and heart,
Come, gipsy, 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 thy 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 both cup and heart,
Come, gipsy, play, let
all thy cares depart!
Ay, from the fierce storm
lessons take in song;
Hark to its sighs and groans, its shrieks
and swells:
It killeth lives, ay, that of men and beasts,
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 both cup and heart,
Come, gipsy, 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 thunders smite the heaven 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 both cup
and heart,
Come, gipsy, 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 descry,
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 both cup and
heart,
Come, gipsy, play, let all thy cares depart!
The stars above, this earth -
all sorrows' home -
Leave them alone, 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 shall 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 both cup and heart,
Come, gipsy, 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,
Come, gipsy, play! let all thy cares depart!
TO
FRANCIS LISZT.
LISZT FERENCZHEZ.
Renowned musician of the
world,
Where'er thou art to us 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:
Even if it rose it was in vain,
As moves a
fever-stricken brain!
A better epoch comes; the
dawn
Of morn, for which so long we prayed,
Has, amid sweet
throes of relief,
Unto our hearts new hope conveyed;
The love
for our old home revives;
Gladly for it we 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
thunder's roll on high;
And, in this ode, wild, grave,
profound,
May victory's pæan-song resound.
Sing such a lay as from their
tombs
Even our forefathers 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's
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 sons' love may to deeds mature;
Let them
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!
SOLOMON'S
CURSE.[4]
SOLOMON
ÁTKA.
"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,
Having
not 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 cause 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 however
swift,
The anguish from his soul he cannot lift.
The royal fugitive in haste
retreats;
Hills, 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,
And 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 he doth kneel on the green moss,
Throughout the
year he spendeth 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 passions strong -
Are now subdued; time brought him
healing balm;
Long since he hath forgotten all his wrong,
His
face is even now benign and calm.
One fervent hope 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 now nobler 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 to death's most unrelenting claim,
'Neath
autumn's yellow leaves he sleeps in peace.
Where in the
woods the kingly exile died,
The howling beasts of prey now prowl
and hide.
Wine-Song from the drama Cilley and the Hunyadys.
If thou hast lost thy manly
heart
Unto a woman fair,
And she has by her wanton art,
Thy
happy life made bare;
If her false eyes now seem to smile,
Now
shed a feigned tear.
With yearning filling thee one while,
Then
causing wounds that sear:
Think over this and
drink;
The world doth pass and sink;
A
bubble bursts, but there
Abides the empty air.
If thou hast on thy friend
relied,
As thine own soul he was,
Thy secrets did'st to
him confide, -
Honor and country's cause;
And he, with
soft and murderous hand,
Hath stabbed thee to the heart,
Thy
ruin skilfully hath planned
By treason's baleful
art:
Think over this and drink;
The
world doth pass and sink;
A bubble bursts, but
there
Abides the empty air.
If, for thy country, thou
dost wield
With toil thy sacred thought,
Or, on the perilous
battle field,
Thy life-blood sparest not;
And if, deluded, it
should spurn
Thy efforts true and high,
Or, led by rulers base,
should turn
And sacrifice decry:
Think over
this and drink;
The world doth pass and
sink;
A bubble bursts, but there
Abides
the empty air.
If still, within thy aching
heart,
Doth gnaw the worm of care,
And thou forsaken wholly
art
By men and fortune fair;
If all thy pleasure, hope,
delight
Are killed by poison's bane,
And to expect new
days more bright
Too late it is, in vain:
Think
over this and drink;
The world doth pass and
sink;
A bubble bursts, but there
Abides
the empty air.
And if despondency and
wine,
United in thy brain,
To thee the picture should
define,
Of thy life's barren plain.
Think of some brave
and noble thing
And for it risk thy life;
He is not lost who
still doth cling
To faith, and faces strife;
Think
over this and drink:
The world doth pass and
sink;
But while it still doth
stand
Structures and wrecks are planned.
I.
The hunter sits in
ambuscade
And, with bent bow, awaits his game,
While, high and
hot, above the glade
The noonday sun does brightly
flame;
vain he waits in shady
groves;
By cooling streams the wild herd roves.
Anxiously waits the hunter
yet,
Trusting good fortune soon to gain,
When presently the sun
will set,
And lo! he does not wait in vain -
But 'tis no
game; a butterfly
Chased by a fair maid, passes by.
"Fair insect, golden
butterfly,
O, let me catch you, on me rest,
Or lead me to what
place you hie,
Where the sun sinks within the west."
She
speaks, and, like a chamois light,
Graceful and charming is her
flight.
Arising quick, the hunter
cries,
"Now this is noble game, God wot",
And
straight, forgetting all, he hies
After the fair maid, lagging
not;
In sportive pastime thus they vie,
He follows her and she
the fly.
"I have you!"
says the girl with glee,
And, having caught her prize, doth
stand;
"I have you!" gayly then says he,
And on her
shoulder lays his hand.
The scared girl lets her captive
go,
Thrilled by his eyes' admiring glow.
II.
Does Péterdi's house
stand to day?
Does he still live, the hoary knight?
The house
still stands, but in decay;
O'er wine he sits with heart
grown light.
The maiden's eyes, those of the guest
Love's
ardor in their glow suggest.
The wine-cup has been quaffed
in toast
To Hunyadi, the fallen brave;
For his gray chief, his
country's boast,
Hot tears the hero's eyeballs
lave;
Freely the burning tear-drop falls
As erst his blood at
Belgrade's walls.
"Here's to my
good old chief's young son!"
Says the old man, "Long
live the king!"
The hunter of his wine tastes none,
His
cheek the warm flush reddening;
"What is this, wherefore
drink'st not thou?
Up, youth, thy father follow now!
For I could twice thy father
be,
Worthy is he I pledge in wine;
From head to heel a noble
he,
Nor will he shame his noble line!"
Rising, the youth
his cup doth raise,
Moved by the old man's earnest praise.
"Long life then to the
hero's son,
While for his country he doth stand;
But may
his life that day be done
When he forgets his fatherland.
Better
no king than one who reigns
In sloth and by oppressive pains!"
The merriment more loud doth
grow,
In jovial speech the hours pass.
The maid doth on the
guest bestow
Admiring looks, and thinks, alas;
"Who is
he, and where does he dwell?"
Yet fears to beg him that he
tell.
"Thee, too, fair flower
of the wood,
Thee, too, I pledge in this last cup,
Thy huntsman
waits thee, if God should,
With thy gray grandsire, bring thee
up,
Where in proud Buda's mighty fort
I can be found in
Mátyás' court!"
He speaks and, rising, says
farewell;
Outside the huntsman's horn doth call;
He
cannot with his hosts now dwell
In spite of their entreaties
all.
"Do not forget us; come once more.
Should we not
seek you out before."
Thus modestly fair Helen
now
Speaks, on the threshold standing there,
And, kissing her
upon the brow,
He goes and through the night doth fare;
Still
is the night, but, ah, no rest
Visits her love-invaded breast.
III.
Péterdi and his grandchild
fair
Now go to visit Buda's fort;
The graybeard marvels
everywhere
To witness sights of new import;
The yearning girl
'mid sighs is fain
To meet the huntsman once again,
Great is the crowd, the gala
high;
From triumphs new returns the king:
From wrathful
vengeance he draws nigh,
Which at Vienna he did wring.
A
thousand eyes expectant wait;
Fair Helen's face grows not
elate.
"Where is our charming
stranger, say?
What fortune did he chance to meet?
Does he
return, or, far away,
Hunts he again the chamois fleet?"
She
asks her heart, the while, in turn,
Her cheek doth pale, anon doth
burn.
'Mid victory's
shouts Ujlaki comes,
He and the Gara, friends again;
The king
majestic also comes,
All the land's magnates in his
train.
Old Péterdi his guest doth see;
"Long life to him;
the king, 'tis he!"
"Lustre and blessing on
his life!"
The countless voices shout around,
An
hundredfold, with echoes rife,
The hills and vales and ramparts
sound.
Than any marble bust more white
Silent fair Helen views
the sight.
"Shall we, dear child,
to Mátyás' hall
To see the hunter now proceed?
I think
for peace, 'tis best of all
Back to our home to go
indeed!"
Thus speaks, with half-suspicious pain,
The
graybeard; sad they turn again.
If thou hast seen a blossom
fair
Die from some canker hid within, -
Thus beauteous Helen
faded there,
Pained, shrinking from the loud world's
din,
Passion, remembrance sore, hope dead,
Ever are her
companions dread.
The brief but anguished life
is done:
Fair Helen in the grave is laid,
Like lily-leaves
that, one by one,
In purity and sadness fade. -
Once more, when
endlessly they rest,
Stands in the house their kingly guest!
THE
SONG FROM FOT.[5]
FÓTI
DAL.
Upward rise within the
cup
Pearly
beads;
Naught can stop it, as each globe
Upward
speeds.
Skyward let all that ascend
Which
is pure,
Leaving on the earth beneath
All
manure.
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
'T
will restore:
Heaven for us no other cure
Hath
in store.
Care and grief sleep like a
child
After
wine:
For cycles 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
Joyously:
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.
If 't is God's wish, as our
own,
We
no more
Will disgrace thee; Hungary we
Must
restore!
Up, my friends, and let us
take
One
good 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's 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 now flows this wine, and, by
God
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
Liberty!
To
thy health we drink this glass
Of
glad wine;
No Magyar to drink this toast
Can
decline.
Peace, dear land, shall have
a home
On
thy grounds;
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 our lives, our fortunes,
asks
Our
dear land,
With our heart's blood let us meet
The
demand;
Proudly claiming, peace or war,
Whatso
come.
"We repaid thee all we owed,
Sacred
home!"
JOHN ARANY.
The night is dark and
close,
The south-wind fiercely blows;
O'er Buda's
tower high
The weather-cock, doth cry
And sharply shriek aloud.
"Who's there,
what's that? I see!"
"My Lord, my King,
prithee,
Be calm and sleep in peace,
The tempest soon will
cease
That stirs thy window-pane."
The clouds will burst, it
seems,
And issue flames and streams;
And from the iron spout
In
floods the rain pours out
From Buda's towers high.
"Why murmurs then this
band?
Does it my oath demand?
The crowd, Lord, King, naught
crave;
All's silent as the grave;
The thunder only
rolls."
Hearken! The chain and
ball
From off the captives fall!
And each one, like a
cloud
Which Buda's walls did shroud,
Himself now lowers
down.
"Hunyad's two
sons espy!
Their fetters break and fly -"
"Fear
not, my Lord, not so!
László is dead, you know
The boy a
captive still."
Beneath the fort's high
wall,
A silent crowd and small,
Steal quiet as the grave.
And
so their lives do save
Kanizsa, Rozgonyi.
"Increase the guard
before
Hunyadi Mátyás' door!"
"Mátyás was
left behind;
No captives can we find
It seems they have
escaped."
At last the rain has
ceased,
The storm's rage is appeased,
Over the Danube's
bright
And soft calm waves the light
Of myriad stars'
array.
"Leave this land while
we can,
Safer's Bohemian!"
"Why be possessed
by fear?
All things are calm and clear,
Between the earth and
sky."
While some in slumber
bide,
The fugitives do hide.
If a leaf stirs they fear
That
spies are very near,
Do Kanizsa, Rozgonyi!
"Say, is the frontier
nigh?
Slowly the moments fly."
"Now we have crossed
it o'er
My Lord, and with us bore
Safely, the captive
boy."
While calm the sleeper
sleeps
The fugitive upleaps.
No wind is - yet it blows,
No
cloud - yet thunder rose
And lightning from afar!
"My true Bohemian,
pray;
Give me to drink, I say."
"Here is the
cooling cup
My Lord, King, drink it up;
It quiets.... as the
grave."
Now vengeance stays its
hand;
The boy's safe in this land.
And here, too, in this
soil,
The King sleeps after toil...
The prisoner returns!
The garden of the
queen
Blooms over night all green;
Here a white rose, there a
red rose -
Brown maids and blonde are seen.
"Dame Queen, my sister
dear,
'Fore heaven I pray thee, hear;
This loveliest red
rose of thy maids
My heart I would hold near."
"Sick is my heart for
her,
For her doth beat and stir;
If I should die, this fairest
flower
Hath caused my sepulchre."
"Hear, Casimir, I say
I
cannot give away
Her for a hundred. - I am wroth, -
Trouble I
dread to day."
"Now I must wend my
way
At early mass to pray.
If thou art sick, thy heavy
head
Here on my cushion lay."
And the queen goeth
straight
Unto the church in state.
The lovely flowers, her
virgins fair,
Follow and on her wait.
Fain would she pray, but,
lo
She cannot now do so.
Her rosary she hath forgot;
Who now
for it will go?
"Go, bring it, Clara
dear,
'Tis to my cushion near,
Or in the oratory which
My
daily prayer doth hear."
Clara for it hath been
Gone
a full hour I ween:
And in the church, while she doth
search,
Vainly doth wait the queen.
She cometh back no more
Unto
the virgin corps,
Rather would she among the dead
Lie cold and
shrouded o'er.
Rather unto the tomb,
Into
the black earth's gloom;
Than in her grayhaired father's
hall
Would she her place resume.
"My child, my daughter,
say,
What troubleth thee, I pray,
Come to my breast, and there
confide,
And wipe thy tears away."
"Father it may not
be;
Ah, what shall come to me!
Let me embrace thy feet, and
then
Crush me out utterly."
The noonbell's strident
peal
Calls to the royal meal:
Just as Felician goes to meet
His
King, but not to kneel.
His King indeed to meet,
But
not with him to eat.
A direful vengeance he hath vowed,
His
sword gleams as with heat.
"O, Queen Elizabeth!
I
come to seek thy death
For my child's wrong" - her
fingers four
Fall, as the word he saith;
"For mine, thy children
twain
Louis and Andrew, slain
Shall be!" Gyulafi
stays
The sword from further stain.
"Quick to the rescue,
men,
Cselényi come!" and then
Felician soon the minions
round
Seize and disarm and pen.
"Thy fingers bleed I
see,
For naught this shall not be!
What dost thou ask, most
gracious queen,
For this hurt done to thee?"
"For my first finger
there
I ask his daughter fair,
And for the next his knightly
sons
Dread death shall be my care.
Then for the other two
His
son-in-law shall rue
And daughter; in his race's blood
My
hands I will imbrue."
The evil days draw nigh;
Ill
stars gleam in the sky;
Protect our Magyar fatherland
From ill,
O God, on high!
CALL
TO THE ORDEAL.[6]
TETEMRE
HIVÁS.
In Radwan's wood's
most gloomy part
Benjamin Barcz lay 'neath
a tree,
A poniard pierced his youthful heart;
Lo!
before God, 'tis plain to me
Foul
traitor's force hath murdered thee.
Home to his own ancestral
hall
His father bears his son's cold
clay;
Unwashed, uncovered with a pall:
On the
plain bier, day after day,
The corpse in the
cool palace lay.
As guards he calls four
halberdiers.
"Watch at this door with
strictest care!
No one must enter! heed no tears
Of
mother or of sister fair;
To brave my will let
no one dare!"
The women, in their own dull
halls
Wander about, their grief suppressed
-
While he unto the ordeal calls
All he
suspects, to view the test
Which must the guilt
make manifest.
The hall with black is
shrouded o'er;
The sun no radiance seems
to send;
The crucifix is placed before
The
corpse, while priest and sheriff bend:
The
yellow tapers soft light lend.
"Let now the dead man's
foes appear!"
Calls out the father, but in
vain:
Those whom he names approach the bier;
The
hands of none increase the stain;
"He is
not here who Barcz has slain!"
The father cries in accents
stern,
"Vengeance on him who dared to
kill;
My grave suspicion yet must burn,
My
dearest may incur it still -
Who breathes may
fear my anger's will."
"Let now his youthful
friends appear."
Proudly steps forward
many a knight.
With pain they view the hero's bier
Who
fell not in the open fight -
Yet Barcz'
son bleeds not in their sight.
"Let now my vassals,
old and young,
In order pass and touch the
dead;
I will, must, know who did the wrong!"
All
pass, and burning tears they shed -
Still at no
touch the wound has bled.
"Mother and maiden
sister fair,
Go to the corpse," sounds the
command.
With woeful shrieks is filled the air,
The
mother's grief is touching, grand -
But
the open wound will not expand.
At length there comes his
darling bride,
Fair Abigail, he loved so
well;
She sees the dirk, her eyes glare wide,
She
stands as stricken by a spell -
The flowing
blood her guilt doth tell.
In tears or cries she does
not bow;
Her two hands only press her
brain.
What sudden thought appals her now?
It
seems her heart would break in twain. -
"Girl,
thou this youth hast foully slain!"
Tis told her twice, but she
is still,
As if bewitched; then utters
slow:
"Benjamin Barcz I did not kill.
God
and his angels hear me, though
I gave the dirk
that dealt the blow."
"My heart in truth he
did possess;
He should have known it; but, ah,
woe!
He still besought another 'yes,'
'Or
unto death I'll freely go;'"
"Here,
take my dirk, and end it so!"
Wildly the dirk she snatches
forth;
She laughs and weeps, the steel gleams
bright,
Her eyes to glowing fire give birth.
Like
a wild hawk she screams outright.
None stay her
in her speedy flight.
And through the village
streets so long,
Dancing she sings from house to
house.
"There was a maid" - thus runs her song
-
"Who dealt in such way with her
spouse,
As the cat trifles with the mouse."
Bende, the hero, holds his
nuptial feast.
The first day this; it lasts for weeks at
least.
The music plays, trumpet and bugle
sound;
Dancers blithely move and fast,
Bende calls: "This
cup's the last!
My dry, parched lips shall
soon have found
Lips where moist sweets abound!"
The hero by the bridesmaids
straight is led
Unto the chamber where these sweets are
spread:
Silence and gloom the castle-halls
endow.
Lo! by the couch a steel-clad knight
Standeth, whom
Bende knows by sight,
While, from his vizor,
o'er his brow
Weird, blue light falleth
now.
"Bende, I come to fight
thee now once more,
I was the victor, and not thou, before.
Let
us begin anew; the bout was rough;
Ha, ha, again thy armor
don,
And servile hirelings trust not on,
This
maid is surely prize enough,
To make our
struggles tough."
The knight doth rise - "What,
ho! quick bring my sword
And harness!" "Whither goest
thou, sweet Lord?"
"To fight for
thee!" Soon in the armory hall
The fight is heard, - the
weapons' clash,
The sound as they in conflict
dash,
Cries, groans and curses that
appal,
And foemen's feet that fall.
The fair bride cannot even
close her eyes;
Alarmed about her spouse, she doth arise,
And
with her trembling hands a lamp doth light,
Then goeth forth her
lord to seek
And, by his side, till dawn doth shriek,
Where,
as though dead, in grievous plight,
He lieth
through the night.
Bende, the hero, holds his
nuptial feast,
The second day of mirth has almost ceased,
The
music sounds, the wine cup passeth free,
Bende doth reckless seem
and gay;
He dances, drinks, in a forced way;
And
the fair bride - what thinketh she? -
"Shall
this like yest'reen be?"
That night the hero drinks of
wine too deep
And by his men is borne to heavy sleep;
His
pretty bride doth fear his couch to share,
But, lest her secret
she disclose,
Straight to an extra couch she goes,
And
in her fear she breatheth there,
Crossing
herself, a prayer.
Bende awakes at midnight,
sober, pale;
There in the door a knight stands, clad in
mail.
"Ha, Robogány!" - Reluctantly
he cried,
"Come, thou destroyer of my love,
To fight, the
hour now strikes above;
Till thou hast conquered
me, thy bride
Lieth not by thy side."
Again that night is heard a
fearful fight,
And Bende seemeth dead at morning light,
Nor
can he rise till noon-day waxeth late;
Till, when arrived hath
every guest,
Of him his servants go in quest; -
"Where
art thou, lord? the people wait;
Haste to the
Banquet straight."
Bende, the hero, holds his
nuptial feast,
But on this third day sadness hath increased;
It
seems as if the music mirth outran,
The dance drags wearily and
slow,
Most of the guests make speed to go:
Never
a nuptial feast began
In blood, without God's
ban.
The kindred of the pair, a
bishop one,
Ask what hath happened, what misdeed been
done;
Bende is silent, but his bride doth
weep,
Shakes like a dewdrop in storm-stress,
Confesseth she
dare not confess.
Then, when all else are sunk
in sleep,
Biddeth the guard watch keep.
Unto the armory then, a
strong guard haste;
And Bende laughs - "The honey I will
taste."
And hurries late unto his lady's
bower,
Just as the barn-yard chanticleer
His second summons
soundeth near,
And when above, from the high
tower,
Tolleth the midnight hour.
"Knight Bende, come;
this last bout now maintain,
To morrow sees thy nuptial bonds in
twain:
So once more come, and if my dying
groan
Thou hearest not, then will I slay
Thee and thy soul most
sure, I say.
Let the false one her sins
atone,
And all her life bemoan."
Bende, the hero, with his
eyes aglow
Hastily to the armory doth go,
And
there a fearful sight the guards descry;
Their Master raves; with
naked blade
The air he pierces, smites a shade,
He
yells and curses; three men die,
Who to control
him try.
Chained in a dungeon, out of
sight,
Bende doth still shriek, rave and fight;
The
fair bride wedded none shall ever see:
"The first I was not
worthy of,
The next did not deserve my love:
Lord
Bishop, may it fall to me,
One of Christ's
brides to be."
The sun hath almost run his
course;
Over hill and vale is shade -
Hero Bor bestrides his
horse,
"Farewell, sweet and pretty maid."
Over hill and vale is
shade,
Chilly winds the dry twigs sway;
"Farewell sweet
and pretty maid,
Hero Bor is far away."
Chilly winds the dry twigs
sway,
Lo! a singing lark is near.
Hero Bor is far away,
Freely
flows the maiden's tear.
Lo! a singing lark is
near.
Whither goes it, where has fled?
Freely flows the
maiden's tear;
Saith the father: "Thou must wed."
Whither goes it, where has
fled?
O'er the wood hath crept the night;
Saith the
father: "Thou must wed!"
But the maiden flees
troth-plight.
O'er the wood hath
crept the night;
Ghastly looks each bush and tree;
But the
maiden flees troth-plight,
Hero Bor said: "Come with me!"
Ghastly looks each bush and
tree.
Life, it seems, the scene invades.
Hero Bor said: "Come
with me,
Spirit knight from land of shades."
Life, it seems, the scene
invades,
Spirit lips now chant a song.
"Spirit knight
from land of shades,
My dear spouse, take me along."
Spirit lips now chant a
song,
A long bridal train draws near.
"My dear spouse,
take me along,
Thou mad'st oath to wed me, dear."
A long bridal train draws
near
Now a ruined church they pass:
"Thou mad'st
oath to wed me, dear;
All are meet for holy mass."
Now a ruined church they
pass,
Brightly lit as e'er before;
All are meet for holy
mass,
Festive robes the dead priest wore.
Brightly lit as e'er
before,
Brightly gleam a thousand lights:
Festive robes the
dead priest wore,
"Hand in hand," the vow unites.
Brightly gleam a thousand
lights,
Darkness rests o'er hill and vale;
"Hand in
hand," the vow unites,
The bride's face is deadly
pale.
Darkness rests o'er
hill and vale,
An owl shrieketh in dismay,
The bride's
face is deadly pale -
In the ruins dead she lay.
THE
MINSTREL'S SORROW.
A KÖLTŐ BÚJA.
A minstrel mused one
gloomy night
Over his sorrows infinite,
In
his dark room alone;
Mute as a coffin lies his lyre,
His heart
is sad and filled with ire,
Upon his lute lies
prone.
Around the poet now
arise
Ruins of many broken sighs,
Plaintive
and wing-clipped songs.
While, 'mid these ruins walks his
soul,
His thoughts amid sad memories roll -
One
thought the other throngs.
Say, son of song, why art
thou mute,
Why touchest not thy charming lute?
Thou
wert not so before.
Why is thy heart with sadness filled?
The
charms of life thy soul once thrill'd,
Bard,
lovest thou no more?
Dost thou not loftily
rejoice
When loud resounds the silvery voice
Of
nature in the spring?
When tree-tops in the zephyrs sigh,
When
streamlets' waves flow gently by,
Dost
thou know what they bring?
The rising or the setting
sun
That oft thy admiration won,
Why does thy
song not hail?
Has night got no more charm for thee?
Writest
thou not an elegy
On moon and nightingale?
"Leave me to yearnings
silently:
Ah! that my soul were ever free
Of
love, and void of song.
But, as the bush of Moses burned,
The
bard's heart must be ever turned
To love
and passion strong."
"The spring comes and
the flowers grow;
'Tis all from heroes' dust
below
That spring brings back to sight;
The
thousand sighs from tops of trees,
The mournful splash of streams
and seas
To understand is light."
"The sun which dawns
and sets again
Does it for us secure, attain
Pleasures
and hopes anew?
The night, its loneliness e'en
lost,
Enlivened is with shade and ghost
Which
it with life imbue."
Say, Minstrel, if thy heart
is filled
With grief, which pain has almost chilled,
Why
dost thou still keep mute?
Where sorrow and where sadness
dwell,
The sweetest songs did evar swell;
Sad
hearts are like a lute.
"How shall thy lyre,
then, tuneful sing
If weirdest agonies touch the
string,
Instead of grief profound?
If thou
with brutish force wilt knock
Thy lute against a
mountain-rock
No harmonies resound."
Art thou the child of coward
time,
Is thy soul filled with thoughts sublime,
But
lacking themes withal?
The minstrel's noblest mission is
To
rouse and wake our energies,
Mankind to duty
call!
"Not in a timid age
lived I,
I witnessed much, sublime and high,
And
understood it well:
The lofty songs the minstrels sang
Of deeds
on which whole worlds' fates hang,
Which
history doth tell:
"Marathon's
victory I saw won,
The deeds by Sparta's daughters
done,
Saw Xerxes' giant might;
Leonidas,
the hero true,
The minstrel Tyrtseus I knew
With
song enflame to fight."
What marvel! yet thy sweet
lute-strings
Speak not of higher, nobler things
At
Victory's great feast?
When past the battle's rage and
zest,
When heroes on soft myrtles rest,
Sweet
songs have still increased!
'The battle o'er;
no joyous feast
Exists which minstrels praise the least
With
song and cup, I wot.
In Cyprus' mist the heroes throng
Hear
not his glorifying song
They understand him not.
- He singeth not. In deep
dismay
His voiceless lute be casts away;
In
agony he cries:
"Ye mighty bards great and sublime,
Ye
demigods of former time,
Whom nations idolize!
"To live in brilliant,
glorious days -
Scenes to remember, hopes to raise
Was
your most happy share,
To share the heroes' laurel wreath
Or
o'er their graves to boldly breathe
Freedom's
inspiring air;
"The wheels of time
which roll so fast
Into the mist of the dark past,
To
clog with one sweet air;
The history of yesterday
And of to
day, through mellow lay,
To suffer perish ne'er:
"All this was yours;
upon a weak
Faint lute of grand, strong themes to speak
This
all was given to you.
The braves who were in battle slain
With
Gods to raise to one high plane,
Bring them to
life anew:
"And yours it was,
that, o'er the grave
Of those who died, new life you
gave
Unto a stronger race.
And, like the old
bard Amphion,
Your songs brought life to tree and stone
And
moved a populace.
"But I, alas! an
epoch's days
Behold which constantly decays,
Is
void of passions strong.
'Tis late to hope once more to
see
Bloom once again the fallen tree
Or cheer
it with my song!"
Mistress Agnes in the
streamlet
Washeth well her linen sheet;
Almost is the
blood-stained cover
Borne off by the water's
fleet.
Father of mercy, leave me
not!
"Mistress Agnes, what
thing wash you?"
Boys now ask her from the street.
"Children
go away, keep quiet;
Chicken's blood hath stained my
sheet."
Father of mercy, leave
me not!
Neighboring women then come
asking:
"Where's thy husband, Agnes, say?"
"Why,
my dears, at home he sleepeth;
Don't go in and wake him,
pray."
Father of mercy, leave
me not!
"Mistress Agnes,"
says the sheriff,
"Come to prison now with me."
"O,
my dove, I cannot go till
From all stains this sheet is
free."
Father of mercy, leave
me not!
Deep's the prison, one
ray only
To the darkness bringeth light;
This one gleam its day
illumines;
Ghosts and visions crowd the night.
Father
of mercy, leave me not!
All day long poor Mistress
Agnes
Opposite this one ray sits;
Looks and glares at it
unceasing,
As before her eyes it flits.
Father
of mercy, leave me not!
For, whene'er she
looketh elsewhere,
Ghosts appear before her eyes;
Did this one
ray not console her
Sure, she thinks, her reason
flies.
Father of mercy, leave me
not!
In the course of time her
prison
Opened is, and she is led
To the court; before the
judges
Stands she without fear or dread.
Father
of mercy, leave me not!
She is dressed with such
precision
One might even think her vain,
Even her hair is
smoothed and plaited
Lest they think she is insane.
Father
of mercy, leave me not!
In the hall around the
table
Sit the judges in concern,
Full of pity they regard
her;
None is angry, none too stern.
Father
of mercy, leave me not!
"Child, what hast thou
done? Come, tell us.
Grave's the charge against thee
pressed.
He, thy lover, who committed
This fell crime, hath now
confessed."
Father of mercy,
leave me not!
"He will hang at noon
to-morrow,
Since thy husband he hath killed;
And, for thy part,
a life-prisoner
Thou shalt be; the court hath willed."
Father
of mercy, leave me not!
Mistress Agnes, seeking
clearness,
Striveth to collect her mind;
Hears the voice and
knows the sentence.
Clear of brain herself doth find.
Father
of mercy, leave me not!
What they say about her
husband
She cannot quite comprehend,
Only knoweth well that
homeward
More her way she may not wend.
Father
of mercy, leave me not!
Forthwith she commences
weeping,
Free her tears flow as a shower;
Like the wet from
swans down rolling,
Dew-drops from a lilac flower.
Father
of mercy, leave me not!
"O, dear Sirs and
Excellencies,
Look to God, I pray of you;
I cannot remain in
prison,
I have work at home to do."
Father
of mercy, leave me not!
"For a stain is on my
linen,
Blood that I must wash away -
God! if I should fail to
do it,
Dread things to me happen may."
Father
of mercy, leave me not!
Then, at this appeal, the
judges
At each other look aghast,
Silent all and mute their
voices,
By their eyes the die is cast.
Father
of mercy, leave me not!
"Thou art free, go
home, poor woman,
Go and wash thy linen sheet,
Wash it clean
and may God strengthen,
And with mercy thee entreat!"
Father
of mercy, leave me not!
And poor Agnes in the
streamlet
Washeth well her linen sheet;
Almost is her now clean
cover
Borne off by the water's fleet.
Father
of mercy, leave me not!
Snow-white long time is her
linen;
No trace in it of blood-stain;
Yet poor Agnes ever sees
it,
Blood-red still she sees it plain.
Father
of mercy, leave me not!
From the early dawn till
evening
In the stream she laves her sheet,
Waves may sway her
frail-grown figure,
Winds her gray, once black, locks
greet.
Father of mercy, leave me
not!
Even in the night by
moonlight
She is ever at her post,
At the streamlet's
bank still washing -
There she stands, a river-ghost.
Father
of mercy, leave me not!
Thus, from year's end
unto year's end,
Winter, summer brings no ease,
Now from
burning heat she suffers,
Now the chill winds make her
freeze.
Father of mercy, leave me
not!
On her head has come the
winter,
Gone her beauty is and grace,
Bent and broken; full of
wrinkles
Now is her once beauteous face.
Father
of mercy, leave me not!
Mistress Agnes in the
streamlet
Washeth well her ragged sheet,
Almost are her cover's
remnants
Borne off by the water's fleet.
Father
of mercy, leave me not!
THE
CHILD AND THE RAINBOW.
A GYERMEK ÉS A SZIVÁRVÁNY.
One phase of heaven in
grievance wept,
The other laughed in glee;
A double rainbow
spanned the land
As if from sea to sea.
Its gleam against the
cloudy sky
Was noticed by a child,
A dreamy, winsome,
blonde-haired boy
With wistful eyes and mild.
"O, what a splendid
bridge is yon,
A heavenly bridge!" he thought;
"Methinks
the angels tread it now,
Whom I so long have sought!
Yes, I
will run and see them there;"
He cried, the rainbow's
charm
Moving him. "Angels surely can
Do little boys no
harm!"
"It cannot be so far
away,
'Tis behind yon great tree;
Before the evening has
set in
At heaven's gold gate I'll be.
O, God, how
beautiful must be
Thy paradise within!
O, God, if only into
heaven
A brief look I could win!"
So saying, he sets out to
run,
And soon is far away;
His anxious mother calls to him;
He
hears not, will not stay:
An hundred flowers call to him,
"Sit
down, thou little boy,"
The birds say "we will sing to
thee."
He hears not their decoy.
So slippery is the path, he
falls,
But soon doth rise again;
Thorns tear his dress and fain
would try
To hold him back in vain.
And then another barrier
comes
Before him, 'tis the creek:
This too he crosses, on
he runs;
He is not tired or weak.
He from the creek does not
recoil,
Heeds not the slippery way,
He stops not at the wild,
rude thorns.
On, on, without delay!
Pleasure or danger stop him
not,
Though be encounters each:
Up to the rainbow still he
looks,
That goal he fain would reach.
Travelers, peasants, passing,
hail -
"Lo! stop thou little one;
Tell us what is thy
urgent haste
Where dost thou quickly run?"
"O,"
he replies, but, hurrying on,
Regards not those who ask -
"To
reach that bridge and to return
Ere evening, is my task."
"O, foolish child!
where is that bridge?
Thy race had better cease;
A rainbow
'tis, the ends of which
Arch over distant seas.
The empty
clouds it fills anew
With water, bringing rain,
But, if you
disbelieve us now,
Run on, 'twill all be vain."
"Be it a rainbow or a
bridge,
Reach it I must ere night!"
Thus said the boy,
and on he runs,
Viewing the lovely sight.
And now a bushy
by-path leads
Into the forest-glade,
Where it would seem that,
for to-day,
Nature her rest hath made.
A rustle here, a whisper
there,
Mystery all around.
Something e'en snatches off
his cap,
Magic doth here abound!
Gray, heavy boughs fall in his
way,
But tireless on goes he,
He sees the charming rainbow
shine
Bright above bush and tree.
And pilgrims meet him who
inquire
His quest; he answers fair:
"O little fool, 'tis
useless quite;
None ever may get there.
Many and divers tales
are told
Of Heaven's prismatic bow,
But what it is none
of us all -
A crowd - can say 'I know.' "
But still the boy is not
content;
"I want to know," he cries;
Leaving the
wood behind, he gains
The hill and on he flies.
He falls, he
wounds his little feet,
But nothing stops him now,
Until,
exhausted quite, he falls
Reaching the mountain's brow.
Even when, exhausted, lying
there
With pains and aches that tire,
He casts a glance at
Heaven's arch,
Yearning and full of fire.
The rainbow now
begins to lose
The splendor of its ray;
Slowly more dim and
vague it grows,
Turns gray and dies away.
"O, golden bridge or
splendid arch!"
Sounds the boy's piteous cry,
"I
love thee, whatsoe'er thou art;
Leave me not, do not fly!
If
I may not, like angels, walk
O'er you to Heaven's
dome,
Let me your glory see until
I reach my final home."
By an old hermit this is
heard,
With age and care weighed down:
A long gray beard flows
o'er his chest,
White locks adorn his crown.
"What
ails thy mind, what ails thy heart,
What ails thee, little
waif?
Why dost thou wish, being so young,
So soon to reach thy
grave?"
"Thy heart's
desire and earnest wish
Lies in a realm unknown;
Naught but an
empty shape it is,
A fairy dream alone:
A ray 'tis of the
sun's bright eye,
Which doth victorious fall,
Breaking
through clouds and showing us
God's glory; that is all."
And the old sage did further
teach
The little boy his lore,
Taught him the wisdom which
unlocks
Nature's most secret door.
Full of compassion
then he took
The lad into his care,
And to his parents safe
returned
Their boy with golden hair.
And afterward the boy would
view
Full oft the golden bow;
Always, beholding it, his
heart
Would melt in tears and glow,
That it was but a picture
void,
No bridge into the sky,
That it was but a fairy
dream
Caused him at times to cry.
JOSEPH EÖTVÖS.
Land of the brave; my country
dear, farewell!
Goodbye to valleys deep, to mountains high!
Land
of my hopes, and where my sorrows dwell,
I leave thee now -
Farewell! Goodbye! Goodbye!
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;
And 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 classic ruins is famed Hellas vain;
My
country, thou hast but a hallowed pain.
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;
Silent expands 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.
Long before time 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 filleth our heart with pain.
So long as on the Danube's
silver face
A Magyar's eye will gaze, upon her bank
Will
live one of the sturdy Magyar race,
So long vibrate our hearts
with sorrow's pang.
Pray tell me, Danube old, that floweth
here,
Art thou a stream? Art thou my country's tear?
I love thee in thy hallowed,
silent grief, -
Unbounded is my love, my land, for thee!
Thou
art my heart's most cherished fond belief,
Though stricken
down with woe and misery.
Cheer up! Thy hope 's the future
most supreme
Soon to dawn o'er thee in a golden gleam.
And now, goodbye! Farewell,
thou blessed spot,
Farewell, forever fare thee well! I go!
Whether
again 't will be my blissful lot
To see thee happy - Well,
who is to know?
And if, my dear land, I return to thee,
May thy
sons through thy bounds contented be!
When I shall once have
trod
My clod-filled path of life;
And in the tomb am
laid,
Where is an end of strife.
Raise not a marble dome
To
keep alive my name;
The triumph of my thoughts
Will then assure
my fame.
And if you pass the
spot,
Where in repose I lie,
Then sing above my grave
A
chant most sweet and high.
A stirring Magyar song!
That
fills the soul with fire.
Beneath my verdant grave
Its sound
will me inspire.
Then drop a sentient
tear,
After the song is through:
Give to the bard the song,
The
tear the lover true.
THE
FROZEN CHILD.
A MEGFAGYOTT GYERMEK.
'Tis late and cold; who
totters there
Yet in the graveyard lone?
Mute is the earth and,
long ago,
The sun to rest has gone.
An orphan child it is, whose
heart
Sorrow and pain make sore,
For she who loved him dearly
once,
Alas, will rise no more.
The child kneels at his
mother's tomb,
His tears the grave bedew:
"O, my
beloved mother, thou
Wast ever kind and true!"
"Since they entombed
thee dead for aye
Are all my joy and bliss;
None in the village
offers now
Thy child a loving kiss."
"And no one tells me
now; 'my child;
To me how dear thou art!'
And cold
and hunger give me pain:
I am so sick at heart!"
"O, that I could escape
the storm,
Find rest beneath this grave!
The winter is so
fierce to me,
To me, poor outcast waif."
The child in agony
laments;
Fierce is the north's cold breeze,
While in the
tempest die his moans,
His tears to crystals freeze.
And, shivering from the cold,
he stares
Around with icy face.
Terror and fright come over
him,
He feareth now the place.
For dread and quiet are the
graves;
Horror glares in his eye,
The wind with force sways
bough and twig,
And snow falls from the sky.
He tries to rise, but is too
weak,
Falls back upon the grave
Of the beloved one who to
him
Life and all pleasures gave.
But see! The child is happy
now,
He feels both light and free,
For sleep has brought to him
a friend
To banish misery.
His pale lips smile, his
heart doth seem
To throb with gleeful joy;
For gone to his
eternal rest
Is the poor orphan boy!
JOHN GARAY.
Thirty knights towards Buda
march,
Quite prepared to die are all,
And in
front of them there strides
Kont, the hero,
strong and tall.
Heroes they and noble
men,
Patriots striving to be free;
Their
conspiracy betrayed
By the recreant Vajdafi.
Before Buda's angry
King
Calmly, proudly, there they stand;
In
their eyes resentment glows
And the power of
sinews grand.
From his throne the haughty
King
Utters wrathful words like these -
"Bloody
traitors, straightway fall
Here before me on
your knees!"
In revenge and ire he
spoke;
Each then scanned his comrade's
face,
Till the thirty all to Kont
Questioning
glances did retrace.
And he cries: "Not so,
O King!"
As he shakes his hoary head,
Even
as the tree-tops shake
When o'er them the
wind has sped.
"Nay, O King, by
Heaven, nay:
Thou the traitor art most
great,
Since to this land thou hast brought
Grievous
curse and heavy weight.
Blood and life the land hath
spent
Freely for thee and thy throne,
And
requited is with hate; -
Why? is known to God
alone.
Either we our ancient
rights
Will by strength of arm regain,
Or,
dear comrades, we will fall
Fighting for it
might and main.
But, since thou hast wronged
our land,
None of these will bend the knee,
Nor
will Kont of Hedervár
Ever, tyrant, bow to
thee."
Thus did Kont, the hero,
speak,
Filled with wrath and courage now:
Rather
would he go to death
Than before the tyrant bow.
Wrathfully the King replies
-
Great and fearful is his ire -
"Death
be thine, as dire a death
As thy treason hath
been dire.
Death be thine who even
here,
Stubborn leader, dost incite!"
And
behind the thirty knights
Stands the headsman
dark as night.
Pales the crowd; the hero
stands,
Likewise does his knightly ring.
While
the stern eye scans them o'er
Of Zsigmond
the tyrant King.
Now the thirty nobles
pass
Singly to the place of doom,
Till the
headsman has to pause
Tired, and then his work
resume.
With the calm, still air
around
From them not a murmur blends;
But
from out the watching crowd
Now a smothered
groan ascends.
Who is this that now
appears,
Last of thirty, last of all?
He, the
glorious one, is kept
Till he sees his comrades
fall.
As the pride of ancient
woods
Stands he like the giant oak;
And the
very headsman quails,
Fears to deal the fatal
stroke.
Waits the oak the woodsman's
blow:
Thus the hero stands to wait,
Gazing in
the headsman's eye -
Kont, the powerful
and great.
As a hero, as a man,
Thus
it is he fain would die,
Patriot he, not criminal,
Standing
on the scaffold high.
For a mean and paltry
life
Criminals their God deny:
To the hero
death but comes
Glory's wreaths to
beautify.
"My death and the death
of these
Is a bloody martyrdom,
Whence the
land will gain much good,
But to Zsigmund curse
will come!"
Thus the hero spoke; the
day
Darkens at the headsman's blow:
So
with thirty nobles died
Kont, the brave and
mighty foe.
With the calm, still air
around
From them not a murmur blends;
But
from out the watching crowd
Now an ominous cry
ascends.
And the tyrant Zsigmund's
blood
Freezes straightway in his heart:
"Since
thy sentence is unjust
Thou the people's
prisoner art!"
Thou wert a Magyar Lady
born;
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,
From Heaven a mission you have
got;
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 canst not fail to know -
To be a Lady and thy
love
On thy dear land bestow.
To live, to love, and loved to
be
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.
Thy lot to duty 'tis 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.
Thou wert a Magyar Lady
born,
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,
From Heaven a mission you have
got;
Blessed are you here below.
He went into the holy land,
A
friar, to atone;
Clad in a cowl, with ash bestrewn,
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 most burning pain;
To wrongs he bowed
and yet he did
Others to wrong disdain.
Throughout his weary
pilgrimage
Devoutly still he prayed,
Yet from his soul he could
not lift
The weight of sin there laid.
From Palestine to Home he
went,
His anguish naught can 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 even He hath pardon
for
Treason to fatherland!"
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 didst 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
Heirs of Bendeguz, the knight.
Where'er
Danube's waters flow
And the streams of Tisza swell,
Árpád's
children, thou dost know,
Flourished and did prosper well.
For us let the golden
grain
Grow upon the fields of Kún,
And let Nectar's
golden rain
Ripen grapes of Tokay soon.
Thou our flag hast
planted o'er
Forts where once wild Turks held sway;
Proud
Vienna suffered sore
From King Mátyás' dark array.
But, alas, for our
misdeed,
Anger rose within thy breast,
And thy lightnings thou
didst 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 Ozman'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 the chased
one lie,
Even then he fears attacks.
Coming forth the
land to spy
Even a home he finds he lacks.
Mountain, vale, go
where he would,
Grief and sorrow all the same -
Underneath a
flood of blood,
And 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
On grief's sea he may be lost.
Fate, who, for
so long, didst frown,
Bring him happy times and ways:
Atoning
sorrow hath weighed down
Sins of past and future days.
Every flower of my days
Which
the fates may bring to me,
Grief-sown, joy-sown, though it
be,
Grown in glad or grievous ways,
Love
and friendship true
I dedicate to
you!
Every flower of my days
Twine
I gayly in my hair;
Now the sky is dull, now fair;
Spring new
roses still doth raise,
Love and
friendship true
While dwell with me
ye two!
Every flower of my days
At
my grave in time shall fade;
Of my rest the hallowed shade,
Where
no pain or sorrow preys,
Love and
friendship true
I then shall find in
you!
JOSEPH BAJZA.
The wanderer looks back from
the hill;
Below lies stretched his lovely home,
Before him
smiles the charming plain;
But in the ear of him who goes
The
sad fond words of parting swell;
His heart still bleeds, his heart
feels pain:
"O, exile, wanderer, farewell!"
The hill is passed, in
valleys deep
He only sees clouds from his home,
Vanished is now
the charming plain,
But, ah, his sadness leaves him not.
His
heart still bleeds, his heart feels pain,
He ever hears the echoes
swell:
"O, exile, wanderer, farewell!"
Even hill and vale are also
lost,
No clouds from home he more can see;
A vision is the
charming plain,
His pains pursue him like the sky.
His heart
still bleeds, his heart feels pain,
In deepest grief his wail does
swell:
"O, beauteous fatherland, farewell!"
The years roll by, his hair
is gray:
Forgotten long he is at home.
But ever will the
charming plain
Before his soul in splendor stand.
His heart
still bleeds, his heart feels pain,
I hear his dying accents
swell:
"O, beauteous fatherland, farewell!"
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!
CHAS. SZÁSZ.
Dedicated to Edouard Reményi.
Hear the violin's
voice, O, hearken
How she weeps and speaks distress!
That in
four chords so much sorrow
Is confined one scarce would guess.
Do
you hear her plaintive 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 Rákoczy'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 the Csikos from his chest,
When, in
Csárdás' dance, he presses
His brown sweetheart to his
breast.
Then, afield, the
maiden-reaper
Sings a light 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 doth pain -
And, at this most
anguished grieving,
Like to break the chords now strain.
Hear
the violin's voice, O, hearken!
Now in glee, now in
distress:
That in four chords so much sorrow
Is confined one
scarce would guess.
NIGHTINGALE'S
SONG.
FÜLEMILE DALA.
A small, brown nightingale
sings there,
In coverts hidden - who knows where?
None listens
save myself alone,
And my heart throbs at every tone.
Upon the velvet grass I
lie,
Beneath a shady tree close by.
The bird doth still her lay
prolong;
I listen to the charming song.
The breeze away the tune doth
waft,
But in my heart 'tis echoed soft -
Yea, it is
echoed in my soul
As sad, as lovely in its dole.
And thus the little bird doth
sing -
"Life but one summer hath to bring,
And, when this
summer fair doth wane,
Sere leaves and sapless twigs remain."
MY NATIVE COUNTRY'S CHARMING BOUNDS.
My native country's
charming bounds,
Will I again behold thy grounds?
Where'er
I stand, where'er I fare,
Mine eyes 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 I am
left alone -
As 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.
KISFALUDY KÁROLY.
THE
BIRD TO ITS BROOD.
A MADÁR FIAIHOZ.
How long, ye birds, on this
sere bough
Will ye sit mute, as though in
tears?
Not quite forgotten yet are now
The
songs I taught you, surely, dears;
But if for aye are vanished
quite
Your former cheer, your song so gay,
A
sad and wistful tune indite,
O, children, sing
to me, I pray.
A storm has been; our rocks
apart
Are rent; glad shade you cannot find:
And
are ye mute, about to start
And leave your
mother sad behind?
In other climes new songs are heard,
Where
none would understand your lay
Though empty is your home and
bared,
Yet, children, sing to me, I pray.
In memory of this hallowed
bower
Shady and green, call forth a
strain,
Greet the time coming, when in flower
These
barren fields shall bloom again.
So, at your song, anew shall
life
O'er this dead plain with ease make
way,
Sweetening to-day with sorrow rife:
O,
children, sing to me, I pray.
Here in the tree is the old
nest
Where you were cherished lovingly
Return
to it again and rest
Albeit among the clouds you
fly;
Now that the storm has laid it bare
Would
you the traits of men display;
Leaving this place, your home
transfer?
O, children, sing to me, I pray.
MICHAEL TOMPA.
O no! that is not death which
death we call,
When on our coffin clods of earth do fall;
That
is not death, when o'er us shadows creep
And, mouldering, we
are laid in endless sleep;
Nor call that death when for us others
shed
Tears, true or false, over our narrow bed.
Ah! that is
death and that is death alone,
When we our own existence do
bemoan.
I recollect - I knew a happy
boy,
Bright, playful, winsome, ever full of joy.
Now, for wild
honey, he the trees would climb,
His mother he would tease another
time;
O, boundless mother-love! his greatest bliss
He found in
her embrace and tender kiss.
That boy, so happy once, is dead -
alas!
I was that boy myself; but let this pass.
And then I knew a youth: no
human soul
So passionately loved! his highest goal
Was love;
despising every other thing
To him naught else save love could
pleasure bring.
O, how he loved! and then this poor youth
died;
For him, alas, most bitterly I cried.
O, could some
spring wake him to life again!
I was this youth; my hopes are all
in vain.
There was a man, honest and
true, no vice
He knew. Truth, honor, faith and sacrifice
Made
up his life. Gratitude is, he thought,
And that all deeds of men
with good are fraught.
But even this man was poisoned; he soon
found
Base selfishness on all sides to abound.
Why was his
faith so strong? Why did he trust?
He might be living now, not
turned to dust.
Ay, ay! we often die, more
often than
The swift brook-bubbles o'er the pebbles
can:
They burst and, changing form, come forth again;
Death in
the graveyard doth not solely reign.
Even here, in life, to die we
oft are fain;
Feel we have long been dead, yet hand and brain
Work
still and move. This is not life we know;
'T will but
removal be when hence, we go.
COLOMAN TÓTH.
THE
RUBY PEAK.
A RUBINT TORONY.
The chamois hunter hunts his
game
O'er mountain peak and vale the same,
O'er
highlands, by the calm blue mere,
Where
browse the goats and dappled deer;
And
where the sheep-girl's song sounds near.
The hunted chamois speeds
away,
In silence dies the maiden's lay,
The
lake reflects the heaven's light,
Love
in the eye is mirrored bright;
"Dearest,
be my sweetheart this night."
The eager youth says
yearningly -
"My little maiden come with me;
Be
mistress of my humble cot
Where in the
woods I cast my lot;
A paradise 't
will be, I wot."
The playful maiden answers
straight -
"To gain this hand the cost is great:
Behold
on yonder mountain's brow
That ruby
which doth glisten now,
That ruby is the
price, I vow."
Bright gleam the chamois
hunter's eyes;
None, as a marksman with him vies;
His
arrow spans the bent bowstring,
Then, like
a lightning-flash, doth wing
And quick the
ruby down doth bring.
"I have it! nay, where
hath it sped?"
The ripples of the lake show red!
The
water-fairy smiling cries -
"Come
for the stone, see, here it lies,
Surely,
the bride the gem will prize!"
Into the deep descends the
youth,
No more to rise again, in sooth.
The
mermaid who doth own the place
Loves him,
and in her charmed embrace
Holds him; the
ripples leave no trace.
The bride doth wait and wait
in vain,
Her bosom filled with anxious pain,
With
dread her broken heart is rent,
Till, all
its hope and treasure spent,
To seek her
youth she also went.
LADISLAUS NÉVY.
Pearling streamlet, tell to
me,
Doth my sweetheart bathe in thee?
Do thy pearly dews
delight
My fair dove to wash snow-white?
Velvet sward, O, say to
me,
Doth my sweetheart rest on thee?
Doth her heaving, snowy
breast
Breathe with fragrant roses' zest?
Gloomy forest, answer
me,
Doth my sweetheart roam in thee?
Do the fierce southwinds
that go,
Spare on her milky cheek to blow?
Birds that in the plain
rejoice,
Do you hear my sweetheart's voice?
To her lips
do blithely leap
Carols from her bosom's deep?
Nightingale that sad dost
trill,
Ne'er thy note her ear should thrill;
Did she hear
thee, she would vie
With thee and, heart-broken, die.
GREGORIUS CZUCZOR.
Here, in a field I
stand
Heaven's peace doth now expand
My heart, and in my
ear
I distant murmuring hear:
As when the people raise
In
church the voice of praise,
Even thus now moved am I
To holy
thoughts and high.
In springtide's field I
stand;
Above sigh zephyrs bland:
I feel as though I trod
The
very House of God.
JOHN ERDÉLYI.
Her father was a county
judge, and all
His property - a farm and homestead small -
He
left to her; and, like her father, she
From courts of law is never
wholly free.
Like him, in suits she takes supreme delight,
And
has one claim for which she still must fight.
Strange is her claim, and
such as of it hear
Involuntary smile or drop a tear.
To those
who list she tells her piteous tale,
Expecting them her grievance
to bewail;
And sympathetic say, "your wrong is great -
Heavy
the cross imposed on you by fate!"
'Tis years since first,
her sad complaint to lay
Before the councillors, she made her
way:
"Below my garden is my murderous foe,
The wild
stream, Körös, who has, long ago,
To rob me of my heritage
begun,
And will not cease, I fear, till he has won."
To humor her the council,
when they meet,
Resolve to send some delegates to greet
The
angry stream, and ask it to forbear,
Since when they have of
nicknames had their share;
Albeit their eloquence was spent in
vain,
The stream was at its wild work soon again.
Then to the county chief
judge she doth wend
With a petition, which her own hand
penned;
Many quaint characters it doth contain,
She deems that
thus importance it may gain;
And, lest the quill's unaided
work prove vain,
To press her work in person she is fain.
Her ancient fur-trimmed cloak
doth form her gear,
Before the judge she would not else appear;
A
large gold chain adorns her withered neck,
Long elbow-gloves her
hands and arms bedeck;
Old-fashioned courtesy marks her greeting
now:
Her mother in such wise did doubtless bow.
"Your Excellency,"
- then her tears break out;
His Worship feels uneasy, shifts
about,
Soothes her, and calls her kindly, "my dear
child,"
He must make ending of her anguish
wild;
The county her endangered place will buy,
Pay her, and
all her loss indemnify.
Miss Agatha springs up - "Of
no avail,
My ancient property is not for sale;
No wealth or
prize for it could make amend;
This little garden is my only
friend;
The quiet nursery of my memories dear
I can not, will
not, part with; it is here.
"Each sod endeared to
me is, in good sooth,
Reminds me of things precious, of my
youth,
Of spring-time, such as since I have not seen,
And of
the song which only once, I ween,
The nightingale within the heart
doth shed: -
A living message from my love, long dead.
"By moonlight in my
garden, wet with dew,
A rosebush once was planted by us two;
And
then he went. At freedom's call he rose,
Where his grave is
to-day God only knows.
Last at Kápolna's battle he was
seen,
Alas! - and yet the rosebush still blooms green.
"I will defend the spot
where now it stands:
Give my petition back into my hands.
Straight
to the King himself I now will go,
Who will secure to me my right,
I know.
He will command the county to protect
Me, a poor
orphan, and my claims respect."
On autumn's yellowing
leaves the dew-drops play;
Miss Agatha grows older every
day;
Scarce in her locks can one dark hair be found,
Where
formerly black tresses did abound.
Her once bright eyes to dimness
she hath cried,
Her trembling hand the pen can scarcely guide.
Morose she hath become; she
is not seen,
As formerly, oft in her garden green:
With pain
alone the ruin she can view;
With fear the murderous Körös thrills
her through.
Still flows the stream which washeth strife
away,
Endangering the rose-bush day by day.
On one spring eve, beside her
rosebush there,
Yearning, she dreameth of the past so fair;
Its
scent brings thoughts of him who doth await
Their meeting; memory
calls up straight
The song of nightingales heard sweet above,
And
recollections of her fond true love.
By stealth her neighbors kind
and true unite,
Dig up the rosebush by the roots at night;
And,
yearly, prompted by sweet charity,
Plant it unto her
dwelling-place more nigh:
Her many tears have made her blind, I
wot;
Gone is the garden - but she sees it not.
JOSEPH KISS.
APOTHEOSIS.[7]
O'er Osman's land
dread night doth brood;
All round is gloomy quietude;
The owl
doth hoot, the bat doth cry -
"The land is sick, the land
must die!"
Bloodthirsty beasts appear ahead
To claim the
body, ere 'tis dead:
The vampire and the owl alight,
Over
the nation's soul to fight.
Before the hour of midnight
dies,
A ghastly crowd of ghosts doth rise.
The diggers did
their duty well,
The grave is dug, now sounds the knell.
"The time has come, I
will not stay,
But straight will ravish, spoil and slay!"
The
demon cries whose name is legion,
"Murder! nay, call it now
religion!
O, o!" he cries' "destroy the
nation,
Leave it no hope or consolation!
Say that it is thy
faith's command!
Burn cities over all the land!
Destroy
the race, it is but wild,
Kill first the mother, then her child;
A
mountain of dead corpses shall
Proclaim thou hast destroyed them
all!"
Ye Gods, is this a war where
woman's tear
And children's wailing are the nations
call -
"To arms!" But, sorry sight! no one is near
To
bring about the brutal foeman's fall.
Yet, from his dreams the sick
at length awakes
And calls for aid. Who heeds his call? Alas,
Who
knows with what emotion his breast shakes?
Who knows what pain and
anguish o'er him pass?
Sympathy's only offerings are
tears.
An unkept promise doth a debt remain.
The fever-stricken
man each one still fears;
Why not? Infection may bring deadly
bane.
But see! An ally comes to
help the land;
Irrefragable is his strength and might.
Without
his aid the nations cannot stand;
Without his help it is in vain
to fight!
And countless is his army,
like the stars;
And never doth it fail to earn great fame:
His
aid alone decides the fate of wars,
And "Victory" is
his unfurled banner's name!
Kingdoms at his command are
oft cast down,
Or are secured to everlasting fame!
He makes and
unmakes nations, and doth crown;
And Patriotism is his mighty
name.
Those whom he helps no other
aid do need.
God, who protection grants, is with him still.
He
feels no pain; the wounds are sweet that bleed,
And resurrection
meaneth death's worst ill.
God's wonders are with him,
and him before
A fiery pillar goes, to plunge again
In the red
sea of Moses, as of yore,
Pharaoh's great army, now of
victory fain!
* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
On the horizon morning
nears
And bright in splendor now appears.
"Ye brutes and
beasts, away, away!
The night is gone; here comes a ray
Of sun.
Into your dens! Do not
Forget the lesson you have got:
There is
a God above us all,
Who is our trust and hope withal.
This God
is One where earth extends:
From Kárpáth's hills to ocean's
ends
He reigns supreme. This God above -
We know him all - is
Patriot's Love!"
MAURUS JÓKAI.
- - - "And as ye
go, preach; ... freely ye have
received, freely give. Provide
neither gold, nor silver,
nor brass in your purses." - St.
Matthew x, 7 - 9.
- - -
Dark and gloomy is the
charnel cave:
The rays avoid its foul and
mouldy air;
The ghosts of flying time
alone dwell there,
And on the stones sad legends they
engrave.
O'er the cathedral's proud and mighty
porch
A dreary silence reigns. The vaults
of Death
Below, the saints of stone within the church,
All,
all are mute. No whisper, sound, or breath!
Lo! from the dusk a figure
clad in white,
A marble statue come to
life, it seems,
Glides forth. His grave, sad face, in
infinite
Love and sublimity, with lustre
beams;
As if devotion, hope, and faith more great
Than ever
here in prayer most passionate
Found
utterance, God had with life imbued:
Thus
show His eyes divine beatitude.
Each vault a grave; above
each grave a stone;
Yet He their proud
inscriptions readeth not:
He goeth toward
an ancient, sacred spot.
To Him, alas! it is but too well
known
That oft is undeserved the flattering praise
Which
upon stones men often thus engrave.
Though now 'tis sad,
soon brighter grows His face,
Standing at
the Apostle Peter's grave.
He gently lays upon the stone
His hand;
The church and porch receive a
mighty shock;
The granite columns of the
tomb unlock.
The sleeping corpse beneath, at His
command,
Shakes off the dream of eighteen
hundred years,
And, stepping forth,
trembling with hopes and fears,
He recognizes in the dawning
light
His Master Great, Divine and Infinite.
He falls upon his knees and,
bowing low
His hoary head, he kisses on
the feet
And hands the scars of wounds got long ago.
Falls
on the breast, which is with love replete.
"O, Saviour mine!
Master of earth and sea!
Master of all!" .... He beckons:
"Come with me.
Come, let us find how
men commemorate
My Resurrection, falling
on this date."
They leave the church.
Without, the failing night
Wageth fierce
conflict with the rising sun;
The dawn's
white angel soon the fight hath won;
A seeming blood-stream marks
a demon's flight;
With victory
flushed, bringing the breaking day,
The
sun, as tribute, sends down his first ray
On the Messiah, who, in
rags arrayed,
Stands there like one who begs for alms and aid.
"Thou clad in rags!"
saith Peter, in amaze.
But He replies:
"Wealth did I ever own?
Was I not poor, the poorest, all my
days?
Thou knowest that peace and love
were mine alone.
With these, nigh on two thousand years
ago,
The world I did redeem. Come, thou
shalt know
Whither the blood I sacrificed did flow
And
what fruit from this dew divine did grow!
Come, let me see the
way our heirs now wend,
Whence so much
pain and grief rise from this sphere.
Each curse and shriek which
to my heav'n ascend
Here in its
cradle thou shalt surely hear;
Let us see how is my behest
obeyed:
'Be simple, plain, and with the poor be found;
Love
thou each man for his own sake, and aid,
Sharing
his sufferings when they most abound.' "
The bells ring out,
proclaiming holiday,
In regal splendor all
the churches seem!
A golden cassock which bright gems array,
A
sparkling ring and chain where beauties gleam.
These, with a
pastoral staff, where diamonds blaze,
Mark
one whom the obeisant crowd do raise
Upon their shoulders on a
throne all red,
While on each gem a ray of
sun is shed.
Standing erect, the Master
waits close by,
To watch the passing of
the Magnate's show.
"Down on your knees! Kneel down!"
irate, they cry;
A halberdier calls:
"Ragmen, beggars, go!"
Pushing Him rudely with his
coarse, base hand.
That touch.... a drop
of blood from out His side
Falls to the earth. "And who is
this so grand?"
"Know you not?
'Tis Christ's Vicar sanctified!"
"But Christ was poor!"
"In wealth His Vicar rolls!"
"Christ
walked afoot!" "But borne aloft by men
Is he we saw,
who Christendom controls!"
"And
Christ drove not away the beggars, when
They came to him. He still
allayed their groans
And cured and blessed
them, filling them with hope;
Blessed even those who threw at him
with stones."
"Well, He was
Christ; but this, this is the Pope."
"Come, Master, let us
go. Around us all is gay;
We are not
wanted here." The twain then go their way.
Evening has come. The priests
go home to dine;
In all refectories
bounteous boards are spread,
Laden with delicacies and fine
wine,
All the world's good things to
their splendor add.
An appetizing fragrance forth doth
flow,
Inviting to their doors a hungry
horde.
At one of these the Master knocketh low.
"Give,
and it shall be given thee," said the Lord.
"To hell! Go hence, ye
lazy beggars all.
Wait for the
kitchen-scraps, were you not told?"
In golden letters graved
is on the wall:
"One shepherd there
shall then be and one fold."
And, sick at heart, He goes
away, and sees
Upon the walls the works of
masters old,
Which many pictured deeds of
saints unfold,
Martin, the Saint, who gave his cloak
away;
Elizabeth, who alms did never
spare;
The loaves and fishes famous from His day;
The
fig-tree, cursed because it did not bear;
And then the Lord
Christ, toiling 'neath the cross.
How beautiful all this!
He, at a loss,
Asks Peter: "What is
this place? Tell me! Come!"
And he
replies: "This is the Jesuits' home!"
Without, upon the hot stones
of the street,
A mendicant and wretched
crowd await;
Tarrying till, feasting o'er, they get their
treat,
Their thirst and hunger all the
time are great.
One of the crowd, a most
unhappy wretch,
Standeth alone, while
tears roll down his face.
Into this crowd, which man could hardly
sketch,
Stepped the Messiah, with bland,
godlike grace.
"What ails thee?"
asks He of this wretched one.
"I
for my children sinned. Denied to me
Was
absolution!" "Sure, 'tis known to thee
That
God forgives!" "Yea, but when feasting's done,
I
shall to-day for this get naught to eat,
Naught
for myself or for my children sweet."
Now come the
priests....
The
banqueting is o'er.....
"Then let us go," the
beggar said; "for we
Will sure be
driven off." But Christ doth say:
"I have no home."
"Then come along with me.
No bread
have I, but where thy head to lay,
That which I have I will divide
with you."
The Master at these words most happy grew.
Therewith the mendicant
conveyeth Him
Through many a devious,
dark, and lonely street.
A hundred
sounding bells their ears do greet,
Which celebrate Christ's
rising. Eve grows dim,
And in the distant
east upon the sky
Bright, gleaming stars
shine forth to beautify,
Flags float above, from every quarter
round
The hallelujahs (seeming satire) sound.
"This is my hut,"
the beggar now doth say.
Within, four
almost naked children cry.
The Master then his cloak doth cast
away.
Five bleeding wounds his person
glorify,
His forehead bleeds, the thorns one may descry.
"Know
me," He calmly saith, "Lo! it is I!"
"O Master, I believe!
My hands I fold
In revereut prayer! I love
and I believe!
For ours Thou art! From
Thee we now receive
Aid in this wretched home, so bare and
cold!
But not for wealth or earthly joy
crave I.
These are but vain and paltry. Grant me this:
Before
Thy bleeding, nail-scarred frame to die.
That were, indeed, to me
the greatest bliss."
In grief profound the Master
then doth speak.
"Yea, he is right.
His bliss, indeed, excels
Who on his soul's clean wings to
Heaven is borne;
Not his who on the earth
uncertain dwells."
...."Come with me, then, and
testimony bear
That precepts holy, for which wrong I bore,
For
which, two thousand years ago, I died,
To-day are scouted from the
rich man's door;
That on this earth, redeemed by grace
divine,
The hut and sepulchre alone are Mine!"
ANTHONY VÁRADY.
1 "MAYFLY, YELLOW MAYFLY" - Cserebogár, sárga cserebogár, is the opening line and the name of a most popular Hungarian song.
2 EGER - German Erlau, a town in the county of Hevesh, celebrated for its wine, one of the best in Hungary.
3 DÉLIBÁB - Fata Morgana.
4 SOLOMON - King of Hungary 1064-1074.
5 FÓT - A little village in the county of Pest, the country residence of the poet.
6 Among the proofs of guilt in superstitious ages was that of bleeding the corpse. If a person was murdered, it was believed that at the touch or approach of the murderer the blood would gush out of the body.
See Trials and Proofs of Guilt in Superstitious Ages, in I. D'Israeli's Curiosities of Literature.
7 APOTHEOSIS - Written by the author on the occasion of a benefit performance given at the National Theatre at Budapest in aid of the Turkish wounded in 1877.