Abbildungen der Seite
PDF
EPUB

The messenger pursued the stream,
The banks, the fields, the flood;
He drank of Duna's water there,

And swore that it was good.'-pp. 4, 5.

General Arpad, who the greatest riches had,' was, it seems, not only an extraordinary fellow in himself, but also the cause of the most miraculous virtues in others. He dispatches a messenger, who, according to the above account, was charged to attack the banks of the Danube, in single combat; and the said messsenger being arrived at his destination, puts to flight not only the banks, but all the fields in their neighbourhood; the stream also, nay, the mighty flood itself fly before his valour in the fray, for we are told that he pursued them to a very considerable distance, and

drank of Duna's water there,

And swore that it was good.'

After the battle was over, what became of the quondam lord of the country?

'Alone he ran, poor flying man!

What could he do but leap,

To save himself in Duna's stream,
And hide him in the deep?

One of the advantages a poet possesses who translates from a musical language, such as the Magyar, is, that when he wants a rhyme in his own tongue, he may borrow it from his original. Of this license Doctor Bowring often makes free use, but in no instance, that we remember, more happily than towards the conclusion of the same ballad:

"Of those who gain'd the Magyar land,

A chief as bold as any,

Was Buda, who when Arpad died,

Was Magyar's Kapitany.'-p. 9.

Francis Kazinczi has written a song of triumph for the frogs of Hungary, who, at least in that poet's time, held their own musical powers in no small estimation. They had a sovereign contempt for the nightingale, who, they said had a hearing of "melody's school," thus anticipating the sort of disdain with which some of our frog-poets speak of the "classical school," and its sad monotony. Upon this song Doctor Bowring seems to have laboured hard with his verse-pounder, a new instrument, for which he has lately taken out a patent.

'Brekeke,

Brekeke, brekeke!
Koax, too-oo!

Brekeke, koax-brekeke, too-oo!
Brekeke, brekeke, brekeke,
Brekeke, brekeke, brekeke, brekeke;

Koax, koax-too-oo, too-00;

Brekeke, too-00!
Brekeke, brekeke!

'Tis the dawn of delight to the sons of the pond:
From its green bed they look to the bright moon beyond.
Brekeke, brekeke,
Koax, too-oo;

Koax, koax-too-oo, too-oo!

The thunderer made us the favorites of Heaven;

'Neath the green-vaulted wave how we thrive and have thriven!
All honor and praise to his wisdom be given.
Brekeke, brekeke, brekeke;

Koax, koax-too-oo, too-oo!'-p. 52.

'Here,' to borrow the Doctor's words, here are some of the adornings of the inward man-here is something of the costume of the mind'!

All honour and praise to his wisdom be given.

Brekeke, brekeke,

Koax, koax!-too-oo, too-oo!

But for the honour of Magyar land, we must say, that the book contains better things than these. The love sonnets of our former acquaintance, Alexander Kisfaludy, breathe a tenderness which sometimes penetrates even through the dulness of the translation. We shall cite two or three examples.

[ocr errors]

Thee I envied, joyous bird!

Singing love-songs in the dell
To thy mate: each note I heard
Seem'd with joy and truth to swell.
I have also songs, which sweetly
Tell the tale of love-yet fall
Unobserved, however meetly

Answering beauty's fancied call.
Happy bird! that singst love's joy—

I, its sorrows, its annoy

Would I had th' alternative,

For thy song my soul to give !'-p. 80.

The feelings that arise from absence are beautifully poured out in the following sonnet :

[ocr errors][merged small]

The reader, who is not acquainted with the original, may, nevertheless, easily understand how much the thought is injured by the translation, in the following lines:

'Now another century blended

With past centuries rolls away;
When another century 's ended,
All that lives will be but clay.
Thou and I-a pair so joyous,
Spite of dance and song must die;
Time, rude tempest, will destroy us,
On his death-piles shall we lie.
Dost thou mourn? O mourn no longer!
Death is strong, but love is stronger;
And where'er we go, shall go,

Sheltering us from lonely woe.'-p. 91.

Charles Kisfaludy, the brother of Alexander, has had some success as a dramatist. His first production, "The Tartars," drew forth such enthusiastic applause, that, as we learn from Schedel," the poet could hardly save himself from the rush of young people, who, with loud shouts of joy, insisted on producing him on the stage." His lyrics have considerable merit. The poem called Ages of Life,' is not remarkable for novelty of reflection, but it will afford some idea of the direction and power of his genius.

[ocr errors][ocr errors]

Mid smiling friends and sports, far, far from sorrow,
Hanging around a mother's lap, we play

In the bright sunshine of our childhood's morrow,
Nor dream of any darker future day:

We smile on smiling hours that pass, and borrow
No gloom from all the mists that dim our way;
But rise and fall on every floating wave,

And with each image sweet communion have.

Each blessed sunbeam in that glorious time
Wakes us to never-palling jests and joys;
And transport-in those days, unstained by crime,
Flings all around her, roses-nor annoys
Our innocent paths with pains. Though not sublime,
Yet sweet as honey-dew, the hours when boys
Dance on the emerald grave-heaps of the dead,
And upward, heavenward, all their footsteps tread.

And now the bud of lovely Hope is bursting,
And a new life its streams of passion pours;

And, like sweet, shadowed dreams, which fancy nurs'd in
Our parents' bosoms, all the household shores,
Which seemed so bright and beautiful at first, in
Dimness are shaded. Yet the spirit soars

To something far above its narrow cell,

And seeks with brighter thoughts than earth's to dwell.

[merged small][ocr errors][merged small][ocr errors]
[ocr errors]

s strong, and to pursue

And tingrant dow's and lovely fantasies:

So soul waxes.

theble destiny and high emprise

Will wrestle with all foes-all storms will meet,
Crushing all disappointments 'neath its feet.
The spirit feels its dignity of birth

And destination, in the mighty strife
It holds with all the storminess of earth:
It bends not to the yoke of mortal life,
But strives at something greater-feels a dearth
In worldly luxury-in aspirings rife

It mounts on mightier wings than time's-and flies
To heights which o'er heaven's highest torches rise.

It clads itself in purple like the morn's,
And walks in its imperial dignity-
Dives to the deepest seats of thought-adorns
The very dreamings which around us lie-
Wakes images of light and beauty-scorns
Th' infirmities of human destiny,

Pointing to hope's own pyramid sublime—
A watch-tower o'er the waves and storms of time.

First, youth's pure love develops the high source
Of intellect within him-gives it wings
Heavenward to urge its passion-prompted course.
While to his breast the lovely loved-one clings,
Into one maddening moment is the force

Of all existence flung- and angel-wings
Are borrowed for a time-while Hymen's breeze
Wafts two united spirits' harmonies.

And so sweet chains surround us till we die,
And when we die, we sleep-we toil, we rest:

The visions of life's morning-twilight fly

Grief cools the life-blood boiling in our breast-
The buds are blown away-the fruit is nigh-
And man by time's strong urgency is press'd.
On, on to labour-duty must be heard;
She speaks in majesty the mighty word,
"Country!"-the invaders on her bosom tread :
Up to the field-he stands among the brave;
His cheeks with freedom's roseate glow are red,
And he is there to sink, or there to save.
Amidst the ghastly forms of death, no dread
Is his indifferent if a hero's grave
Or garland wait him-if he dies, or lives,
Some brighter pledge he to the future gives.

Trembles? He trembles as the granite trembles,
Lashed by the waves; for the courageous heart
Bastions of brass around its shrines assembles,
Which snap or spurn away the sharpest dart.
Duty becomes delight, toil joy resembles,

And health and bliss are labour's better part;
While love for lovely women-and for friend
Friendship and tenderness for children-blend,
'Blend in a beauteous light.
Creation's power

Flings radiance on the soul, and leads it on,
Firm as a column, through its mortal hour,
Stretching for higher recompense. Anon
Both heaven and earth their benedictions shower
On that which is their kindred, and hath won
Their own reflection-while its torch will light
Through the world's darkness and its own dark night.
So speed we-so we sink-so disappear

So fades our little lamp-and so we fade.
Winter will scatter snow-storms on our bier,

And midnight mantle darkness round our head-
And graves will yawn-and death, with frown austere,
Fill up our hearts with ashes of the dead-
And joy will be a grief-and lust will pall-
And all be tasteless, hopeless-heartless all.
And all life's painted shadows disappear,
While solitude puts out her frozen hand
To lead us, hapless, to that unknown sphere
Which ignorance has called the promised land,
And blindness, peace. Cold mistiness is there,
Clouding around that superhuman band
Which shines like moonlight rays upon
the waves,
And rears green altars over mouldering graves.
It may be-nay! it is-a sleep as sweet

As ever infant slept. 'Tis more: to hope
Is nothing confidence and faith are meet
For mortals: there is an eternal scope
For immortality. When death we greet,
We greet a resurrection-and we ope
Heaven's mansions, making room for other mortals
As death wafts our poor ashes through life's portals.'

pp. 247-251.

The Hungarian Popular Songs,' are not likely to be ever popular in England; and if we extract a few of them, it is rather for the purpose of shewing how little they were worth the trouble of translation. Here we have a dancing song.

'Aching, quaking, tottering, shaking,
Half transported, half afraid;

To my lightly-dancing maid

« ZurückWeiter »