Fraternity-Testvériség, 1941 (19. évfolyam, 1-12. szám)
1941-11-01 / 11. szám
14 TESTVÉRISÉG ’Twas a Scythian wind was blowing, and massy and wildly tossed, These clouds went before it hurriedly, like the rushing of a host; Then he was ’ware of something there — Lo! It was a giant form, Serene and grim and smiling on him from the ramparts of the storm! (1) “Deus Vult” — “God mils it” — was the war cry of the Crusaders. (2) The old Hungarian banner bore a double cross upon its field. (3) It was at Debreczin that Kossuth organized those victories of the Magyar generals, which drove the Austrians out of Hungary in the beginning of 1849. (4) Kossuth, in 1848, procured the Emancipation Act, which made all The Hungarian race free citizens. Oh, the Captive hailed old Arpad; (1) he knew him in the rack All by his Tartar battle-axe, and his lofty fur kalpac; Waving his weapon to the West, the Phantasm followed on, Till, lost in the press of the marching clouds, that kingly shape was gone! Kossuth then blessed the omen; and he watched till the morrow morn; And a battle-ship of the destined West passed on by the Golden Horn. It flies — the Magyar standard! — by the world’s orisons fanned — Flies for a sign and a wonder, by the sea and by the land. On a broader field than Hungary ’tis high advanced at large— Beyond the Pillars of Hercules, beyond the sea of St. George! All Europe knows the banner cry — the breathless air it thrills, From the sunny seas of Calabria to the Northman’s iron hills. By a Gate of France, (2) on the Midland Sea, ’twas borne on the orient blast, And the base, cold despot of the clime, he cursed it as it passed. But there, in the land where Alfred reigned and Tyler and Hamden fell, A stout and a storied commons they cheered it loudly and well: And cordial the greeting of Father Thames — remembering Beckford’s part, And the mail-clad hand of his Burgher-Chief on the old Baronial Chart. But the voice of imperial Hudson — the continental cheer, O, Washington of Hungary, rings mightier and more clear; And the Genius of this bold, free land that loves thy cause the best Of all the lands of all the world, hath snatched thee to his breast. List to the people’s million-shout-true heart in thunder-tone!— The Magyar’s cause — old Europe’s cause — that cause is all our own!
