Fraternity-Testvériség, 1941 (19. évfolyam, 1-12. szám)
1941-05-01 / 5. szám
TESTVÉRISÉG IS 6 Hail then, heroic Magyar! Welcome to Liberty’s Island! For Exiles, like thee, from the storm to retire, Long hath she been an Asylum: Best thou! but deem not thy mission completed; Yet awhile, and the clouds that envelope the sky Shall blow o’er — and thine aims, for a season defeated, Keflourish with splendour not quickly to die, When a Haynau’s’ 1 — a Georgey’s’2 — a Jellalich’s’3 name Is forgotten, or only remember’d with shame! 7 Truth — Honour — Justice divine Blend to sanction the costly libation So copiously lavish’d at Liberty’s shrine, From the hearts of a brave oppress’d nation: Heaven smiles on the cause, though in doubt it seem pending, When the just join, in earnest, their wrongs to redress; Once more Freedom’s clarion the welkin is rending, 4 And thy kindred emprise — millions bid it success; Shall hallow thy memory, illustrious Kossuth! Alexander Gouge (1) Marshal Haynau, the flogger of women. (2) Lieutenant-General in Kossuth’s army, of infamous memory because he deserted with his forces to the enemy’s ranks. (3) An Austrian General, Ban of Croatia, etc. (4) This line was suggested by the outbreak of the Russo-Turkish war, and Kossuth’s re-appearance in public and oration at Sheffield, in June 1854, on the proposed formation of a Polish Legion as an auxiliary to the Anglo-French and Turkish forces. From: The Golden Age and Other Poems by Alexander Gouge, London, 1854. * THE HUNGARIAN GOBLET Messrs. Editors: Just at this moment, when everything relating to Hungarians is exciting such a lively interest, the following translation of a piece found, without name of author or indication of scene, in a Milwaukee German newspaper, may be acceptable:— Way-worn and sad, a stranger-guest Came to a hall, with gay guests crowded: “Wine! wine! good host, thy very best!” He murmured low, with eyes o’erclouded. And down his jaded limbs he flung, When suddenly his face flashed fire, “But, good mine host,” his voice now rung: “Hungarian wine — the true Tokayer!” The vine’s red blood purls in the bowl, Inviting smiles the generous liquor, But he, in bitterness of soul, Looks down upon the sparkling beaker. He stares into the golden flood, As if his joy therein were sunken, And, boiling, glows his heated blood, Ere yet a drop of wine is drunken.
