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

1941-07-01 / 7. szám

14

TESTVÉRISÉG

If generous sympathies would serve for swords,

And burning thoughts could spring up armed men,

How soon thy battle-day would come again,

With sure success and brightness without spot!

And shall it not soon come — Oh, shall it not?

Yes! By to-day’s assurance of tomorrow;

By the nobility of thy great sorrow;

By Freedom’s faith and quenchless aspiration;

By the grand soul of thy unconquered Nation;

By all the Brave that died on battle-plains,

Or linger still in exile or in chains,

Looking to thee, thou star amid their gloom:

Thy truth shall yet prevail, thy day shall come!

And tho’ poor Statesmen temporise with power,

And give eternity to gain an hour;

Tho’ fierce exulting despots, blazing forth ’Mid clouds of curses, smite the suffering earth,

And lift their red hands ’gainst the patient heaven;

Tho’ sweet, sad Liberty, bruised, hunted, driven,

Hiding in secret like a guilty thing,

Withers and pines with homeless wandering:

Yet still be comforted, thou noble heart:

Thy day must come! Thy triumph is a part Of the grand Future’s unrecorded story. —

Oh, like true brothers may we aid thy glory!

May the proud watchword in a coming fight Be-England’s might for Hungary’s fair right!

1856 William Whitmore.

From: Gilbert Marlowe and other Poems

By William Whitmore, London, 1859.

*

KOSSUTH

Type of two mighty continents! — combining

The strength of Europe with the warmth and glow Of Asian song and prophecy, — the shining Of Orient splendors over Northern snow!

Who shall receive him? Who, unblushing, speak Welcome to him, who, while he strove to break The Austrian yoke from Magyar necks, smote off At the same blow the fetters of the serf, —

Hearing the altar of his Father-land

On the firm base of freedom, and thereby Lifting to Heaven a patriot’s stainless hand,

Mocked not the God of Justice with a lie!

Who shall be Freedom’s mouth-piece Who shall give

Her welcoming cheer to the great fugitive?

Not he who, all her sacred trust betraying,

Is scourging back to slavery’s hell of pain The swarthy Kossuths of our land again!

Not he whose utterance now from lips designed The bugle-march of Liberty to wind,

And call her hosts beneath the breaking light, —

The keen reveille of her morn of fight, —

Is but the hoarse note of the bloodhounds baying,