Fraternity-Testvériség, 1956 (34. évfolyam, 1-12. szám)
1956-11-01 / 11. szám
FRATERNITY 13 von Matthisson, an emulator of Schiller, who was praised by Schiller himself. In contrast with this sentimental inclination it should be said that Berzsenyi’s self-imposed classical discipline added quality to his poetry. His romanticism is not spontaneous, but, though sincere in emotion, is rather a poetically elaborated, one may say stylized expression. Much of it echoes a “tempora mutantur” philosophy, a melancholy mood with metaphysical perspective. Such poems as “Magányosság” (Solitude), “Fohászkodás” (Invocation), “Osztályrészem” (My Lot), “A temető” (Cemetery) — expressions of man’s submission to God, or, in their mythological references, of man’s fate as a human being — seemed to breathe a philosophical spirit into Hungarian literature. Little of Berzsenyi’s work is translated. Count István Széchenyi, the statesman, experimented with German translations; in English there are William Loew’s attempts, but the Competent translations are those of Watson Kirkconnel, among which “My Lot” deserves to be quoted in its entirety:2 Now at the shore I’ve anchor’d, and reef’d my sails in; Shouted tauntings back at the angry tempest; Past Charybdis, borne through a thousand perils, Wanly I wander’d. Peace is now my lot, as I moor my vessel, Thence, I swear, no magic shall e’er untie it. O thou heaven, welcome a youth of spirit Back to thy bosom! Though my fields are poorer than proud Tarentum’s, Though in grace Larissa outdoes my meadows, Though my springs may not, as in Tiber’s woodlands, Shine in the shadows, Vineyards yet, and sunny-ripe leagues of corn-land, Cheer my heart. Here freedom and love are dwelling. Ah, what more from God in His gracious bounty Ought we to beg for? Cast my lot wherever in life you will then, Keeping care and poverty from my threshold; Ever happy, ever at peace, my forehead Fronts the wide heavens. Only stay thou, beautiful Muse, beside me! Strew thy gifts as spells to enrich my spirit! Then will deserts blossom in fragrant beauty, Woo’d by thy singing. Place me north, in snowfields of wintry Greenland — There thy breast, O muse, is a genial shelter. Place me south, where Saracen sands are burning — There thou’lt refresh me. 2 Watson Kirkeonnell, “The Magyar Muse”, Winnipeg (Manitoba), 1933, p. 52.
