Fraternity-Testvériség, 1941 (19. évfolyam, 1-12. szám)

1941-05-01 / 5. szám

18

TESTVÉRISÉG

Shake the young Ceaser’s throne, and rouse up all The unslumbering vengeance of his capital:

Last o’er those wide, wild plains, where Kossuth’s name Lives on all lips — it fans all hearts to flame:

The Magyar maid flings off her sable stole —

The Magyar youth leaps up with tameless soul;

Aye, almost turn, beneath their glory sods,

The heroic dead — “the unnamed demigods,”

While Poland’s myriads lift the mingled cry,

“Kossuth and Kosciusko” to the sky.

Enough, the nations can be sayed, saved too Without the dropping of that deadly dew Whose moisture rots, not ripens; thou hast taught This truth — a truth with deepest meaning fraught.

Go on thy way rejoicing — may the Power Of Truth and Freedom guard thy every hour,

May the broad waste of the Atlantic seas Be smoothed before thee by a favoring breeze,

And, thy great mission done, return once more A guest thrice welcome to our island shore,

Till the swift hours shall summon thee to see Thy task completed and thy country free.

Anonymous

Prom: “Kossuth in England; His Progress and Speeches.” pp. 68-69. (Weekly News and Chronicle Office, 1851.)

*

KOSSUTH’S FAKEWELL

Farewell, my own, my native land — a long, a last farewell, Though exiled, ne’er against thee shall my broken heart rebel; With tear-dimmed eyes, uplifted hand, I go, but do not flee, Borne from the home, the land I love, in sad captivity.

Farewell — and yet I linger still; the voice of thy distress Pursues me, till again I feel the weight of loneliness.

I see the stars of glory’s birth are fading one by one,

Shall I e’er look, but look in vain, and find they all are gone?

Though mountain, flood, and sea shall soon divide our captive lot, I shall not cease to think of thee—wilt thou forgot me not?— And from afar my restless thoughts shall wander back to thee; E’en now methinks I hear the knell of thy captivity.

Hungary, the remembrance of thy glorious martyr throng Shall linger ever like the strains of some enchanting song; Amid the ruins of thy might — fallen, but never crushed,

It still shall live and mould thy thoughts when thy last hope are hush’d.

One thought remains to soothe my lot; ’tis said that if I go, A freer life shall spring from out thy gloomy vales of woe, And Austria’s kingly monarch shall forgive — forget the past, Till freedom’s beauties dawn upon thy chivalry at last.

Then welcome peril — exile — death, if they can win for thee The hopes for which thy sons have toiled, the strength to set thee free;

Amidst a wild and desert past this thought shall ever bloom,