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

1941-11-01 / 11. szám

TESTVÉRISÉG

19

And then, when thro’ roaring capitals, thro’ the fields of corn and wine —

From the surge of the Magyar Donau to the sweep of the German Rhine —

Our brothers call for brothers’ aid — O, by our late regret,

By the hero shade of Washington and the sword of Lafayette,

We will not see the stride unmoved — Chief of the Huns, we swear

That American hearts and American swords shall not be wanting there!

For, it wakes — the generous soul that once thro’ the infant nation ran —

Hudson again to the Chesapeake is murmuring of “Arms and the man.”

Traditions of the hero days are freshening all in the sere;

For, hid beneath this pilgrim’s garb, is girt the warrior’s gear;

And the old arms in our old cots and halls — a bard believes it well —

Rattled when first within our bounds the wanderer’s footsteps fell!

(1) See the Tenth Chapter of Revelation, for the magnificent picture of an Angel with a rainbow on his head and a book in his hand.

Yes; Germany’s the centre of Freedom’s host, and the wings

Are Italy and Hungary, (1) in the battle of men and kings;

And there, O doubt it not! — shall blaze the meteor — sword of France,

Iberia’s rebel rifle-tube and Poland’s desperate lance;

And Scandinavia’s stalwart hands shall strike with stormy cheer,

And the slow reserve of England move, massive and sure in the rear.

And hark! even as we speak the word, (2) —the old volcanic strain!

Freedom’s remembered signal call — the trumpet of the Seine!

Yet, with a weak uncertain sound, that sudden blast is blown —

Still girt by his Praetorian swords, the despot holds his own —

’Twas but a breeze that shook the air — when comes the thunder-gust

That strides the tyrannies to earth-scattering their strength like dust!

Alas, for France! thus doomed to brook that small mimetic soul,

Ambition’s tawdry thread-bare farce, the vile exploded role —

The old stroke of the Eighteenth Brumaire, (3) or Cromwell older purge —

The cocked hat for the Phrygian Cap, the scorpions for the scourge, (4)

While Freedom stabbed by traitor hands, in a dire traitor’s name!

Oh, fitly paid that servile voice — that suffrage of disgrace