Hungarian Heritage Review, 1987 (16. évfolyam, 1-12. szám)
1987-03-01 / 3. szám
®lje literature of ^Hungary SÁNDOR PETŐFI’S BIRTHPLACE, KISKOROS KISKŐRÖS: (31 km from Solt): Its attraction is a reed-thatched, single storied peasant house. It was in this house that the great poet and national hero Sándor Petőfi was born on January 1, 1823. The other building in the garden is a museum today. nation. His works were written in language all could understand — romantic love poems, ballads, long narrative poems about heroes of the past, and melancholy sighings for his country. The total body of work he produced is absolutely prodigious. The great tragedy, of course, is that so little of it is known in other languages. ... lost without trace Petőfi, who was born in 1823 in a small village in the Alföld, was swept into the patriotic fervor of Hungary’s gallant struggle for independence. He became an aide to General Bern, and in 1849, at the age of 26, Petőfi vanished during the Battle of Segesvár. It is assumed that he died in this battle, but his body was never found. Today, on the banks of the Danube, in the heart of Budapest, there stands a splendid bronze statue — a larger than life image of the poet, hair streaming in the wind, declaiming his great poetry. Recognition The true extent of Petőfi’s genius can be realized when one reads the words of some of the critics of his own time. The renowned German literary scholar and critic, Hermann Grimm, placed Petőfi among the greatest lyric poets of the world, ranking him with Homer, Dante, Shakespeare and Goethe. And the English critic, John H. Ingram, stated: “Petőfi is the world’s greatest lyric poet. He who, in my mind, is more the representative spirit and soul of Hungary than any man has been of any country.” Certainly these judgments, in addition to the mighty contributions Petőfi made to his country and to the spirit of liberty everywhere, make one feel that he is a poet to be read and cherished by all, but particularly by those of Hungarian heritage. THE TRANSYLVANIAN ARMY — by — ' SÁNDOR PETŐFI (1849) Shall we not win? Bem, our commander, knows; Freedom’s old champion find omens bright. And with avenging fire before us goes The bloody star of Ostrolenka’s fight. The hoary chief goes yonder; and his beard Flutters before us like a snowy flag. When victory is won, its badge revered In turn of peaceful days will also brag. There goes the aged chief; with him go we, The young men of our land, in ardour warm, As the impetuous billows of the sea Escort the fury of the thunderstorm. Two nations march united in our force. What are these two? The Magyar and the Pole! When called by fate, what could more mighty be Than two such peoples with a single goal? Our aim is one: the fetters off to tear That our two countries have with anguish borne. With deep, red wounds we solemnly will swear To free our countries that have suffered scorn. Imperial brigand, dark and evil-willed, Your hireling legions from our soil expel, That with our fatal sabres we may build A bridge of corpses for you clear to hell. Shall we not win? Bern, our commander known; Freedom’s old champion finds omens bright. And with avenging fire before us goes The bloody star of Ostrolenka’s fight. MARCH 1987 HUNGARIAN HERITAGE REVIEW 17
