Fraternity-Testvériség, 1941 (19. évfolyam, 1-12. szám)
1941-11-01 / 11. szám
20 TESTVÉRISÉG Which raised the mean liberticide to the patriot’s blood- bought place! And just, the traitor heel of scorn that spurned into the ground That slavish, plotting parliament by Liberty disowned: Dungeoned like felons, well the fate which then brought home The poisoned cup themselves had filled — the Nemesis of Rome! Alas! to France herself belongs her Bourbon’s withering curse — Forgetting nought, and learning nought, in suffering and reverse! Ever a helpless pendulum between the dire extremes Of worship at a conqueror’s foot or the wild Utopian dreams! Yes, Tyrant! stirke with stroke condign: let best be born of worst. Heavier and tighter rod and rein — the quicklier shall they burst! Oh, in these last crusades of earth for Freedom’s sacred shrine, What chiefs shall arise, what paladins of the people’s ancient line! Bohemonds, Tancreds, Baldwins, and Roberts of Paris bold, With purer blazons and barer breasts than those of the strife of old. The war-cry shall be “Populus Vult;” and we know who in the van Shall march the gallant Godfreydo of this armanent of Man! (1) This, as the reader is aware, is Kossuth's own military and very correct figure — he says that Italy and Hungary are wings of the army of liberty, ranged against the common foe. (2) At this part of the lyric, the news of the French “coup d'etat” came. (3) The Eighteenth Biumaire was the day on which young general Bonaparte overthrew the French Directory. He took a body of grenadiers and turned the members out of itheir chamber at the point of the bayonet. In this he imitated that “immortal rebel,” Oliver Cromwell, who sent the long Parliament about its business in something of the same way. (4) See in I Kings, Chapter Twelve, Rehoboam’s answer to the deputation of the people who came to expostulate with him. Sworn and conspiring Danube, roll! roll on thy old ways — Dread of the Caezars still, as once, in the stormy Dacian days! Thy sons from thee shall drink a soul — the soul of ancestral war, Till through all lands their victories be trembled at, near and far; Till, as Modena prayed of yore, this chorus of kings be given:— “From the weapons of all Hungarian men, preserve us, Lord of Heaven!” Roll on, strong River; cherish still, through all thy plains and vales, One memory living greenly there, one hope that never fails, — Where through the hamlets of the land, by man a sad fire-side They talk of him, their exiled chief, their glory and their pride;
