Fraternity-Testvériség, 1941 (19. évfolyam, 1-12. szám)
1941-05-01 / 5. szám
TESTVÉRISÉG 17 Still holds the keep of his beleagured tower, What though around his marshalled myriads wait In pomp of war — barbarically great — A mightier force than bayonet or sword, Loosens the knees of every sceptred lord. Thought writes the doom of Despots — thought pervades The lowliest alleys and the loneliest glades, And genial Culture with her smile allures The erst rude hearts of artisans and boors. On iron roads — along electric wires, Science and freedom flash their kindling fires, Invaded Darkness mourns her sons released, Each day the Press gains ground upon the Priest. The peasant reads — let but the soldier think, And Europe’s Empires, based on Bayonets, sink. Kossuth our love goes with thee — when we heard First of thy coming, all our hearts were stirred, Presentient of thy presence — now thou'rt grown One of ourselves — a brother of our own — In this Great England thy true words have lit A quenchless fire — let tyrants quake at it! Let nations bless its blazing! never more Shall England sit upon her island shore Alone among the Peoples — thou hast taught A loftier wisdom and a nobler thought. With yon great Nation o’er the Western wave — Hand joined in hand — we’ve sworn the world to save. We — heirs of ancient freedom — we who give The civic rule by which the nations live; When Europe’s despots, with their rabble rout Of cowled camp-followers, league to trample out The life of Freedom; in her holy cause — In her great name — our voice shall thunder “Pause!” That voice is more than armies — Priests and Kings, At its deep roll shall quail like guilty things. The echoing peal resounding from afar, O’er all the world shall do the work of war — The trumpet blast of nations — one and all, The bastioned outworks of pale Power shall fall, When the great voice is spoken — let it be Spoken at once! — and Europe shall be free. What! saw ye not, how at the echo ran Fresh blood from the green wounds of crushed Milan? Saw ye not, how the perjured Bourbon leapt, Scared from the couch of lust on which he slept? Can ye not mark the flash of joy that darts Through the live graves, where moulder noble hearts Whose last throbs beat for Naples? — did ye scan, How, like God’s bolt, upon the Vatican Pealed down that far-off thunder? — how the Pope Swooned with despair, and Rome rose strong in hope? From down trod Venice, think ye there will rise No answering echoes through the Italian skies? “O’er blue Friuli’s mountains,” far and fast, That mighty voice shall sweep upon the blast, —
