C.D. Warner, et al., comp. The Library of the World’s Best Literature.
An Anthology in Thirty Volumes. 1917.
Our Country
By Sándor Petőfi (1823–1849)
T
Appeared in heaven,—all dark above;
No light around, except the taper
Dim glimmering, and my homely love.
That shines around both near and far,
A home of sadness—sad Hungaria!
Where wilt thou find that lovely star?
And midnight comes; but in the gleam,
Faint as it is, I see a shadow
Which half reveals a future dream.
Each flame brings forth a mightier flame;
There stand two figures in the nimbus,—
Old Magyar honor, Magyar fame.
But bid them hide their brows in night;
Your eyes are weak, those suns are dazzling,
Ye cannot bear that blasting light.
Could speak the threatening, thundering word;
’Twas like the bursting of the storm-wind,
And Europe, all responsive, heard!
Honored, his name a history
Of glory,—now a star extinguished,
A fallen star in Magyar sea.
Was round the Magyar forehead bound;
Shall fancy, eagle-pinioned, ever
See Magyar hero-brow recrowned?
So long thy light has ceased to gleam,
Thy greatness seems a myth, thy story
A fable of the past—a dream!
But now I weep; and can it be
That these are dews of spring—the dawning
Of brighter days for Hungary?
That for a moment burst and blazed,
Lighted with brightness all the heavens,
And sunk in darkness while we gazed?
Is sure as is the march of doom;
Hungary shall hail it, blazing, burning,—
It cannot, will not fail to come.