Fraternity-Testvériség, 1941 (19. évfolyam, 1-12. szám)
1941-11-01 / 11. szám
TESTVÉRISÉG 21 He is not dead — his voice is heard, at times o’er land and main; Freedom and vengeance will return! Kossuth will come again! I see the new Hunyadv, I see the embattled ranks, The storm of banners and the strife, far round thy thundering banks! I hear thy shout — and thy brethren bold, with shouts replying to thine — Hudson and Tiber and Thames and Seine •—Adige and Tagus and Rhine! Roll on, Hungarian Donau! as from the Forest old Thy course stil grows with many a stream to thy lordly current rolled, So from thy fatherland, Kossuth, shall Freedom’s fountain flow, Its waters broadening in the sun still seaward as they go; Kot Wallach, Szekler, Serb alone — the Saxon or the Sclave — But the Frank and Teuton, Celt and Russ, swelling that glorious wave! It has not fallen, it has not fallen, O brothers! in the fall Of Görgey at Világos camp or Komorn’s stubborn wall — That banner of Magyarland, which braved, a thousand years, The charge of the Kaisar’s ritter knights and the Soldan’s grand viziers; A hero snatched it safe afar — Behold it still unfurled, Hearing the gleaming crosses twain, war-meteors through the world! William Dowe ★ TO KOSSUTH Thine eyes, Kossuth, just caught the early glow That streamed from Freedom’s yet unrisen sun And lit the Future’s peaks, — while all below Was dark as the dark earth when day is done. That glow lit up the soul, of meaner men Saw its reflected splendour in thine eyes, And following their gaze, with anxious ken Watched for the coming daybreak in the skies. And timid hearts grew strong, as doubt by doubt Fled in the light of Freedom’s morning star, — Till Hope’s scarce-kindled flame was trodden out Beneath the imperious- footsteps of the Czar. A dungeon was thy portion; — three long years, Exiled and fettered, did the vulture Care Feed on thy Titan heart, and drink thy tears, But fail to make thy dauntless soul despair. Three weary years, — yet came the hour at last, The hour that marked thy Exodus from pain, When Freedom blew aloud her trumpet-blast, Loosened thy gyves and led thee forth again. Illustrious Magyar! thou shalt triumph yet, — The world’s leagued despots are no match for thee. Hedged round by good men’s prayers, and hopes thick-set — Mailed with the million wishes of the Free! Washington City R. S. Chilton
