“My heart is filled with tuneful lay,
As lilacs on the lilac spray;
Alike, both sings and heart are filled
With passion strong and love that thrilled.”

Julius Rudnyánszky.



Alexander Petőfi.

The garden flowers still blossom in the vale,
    Before our house the poplars still are green;
But soon the mighty winter will prevail;
    Snow is already on the mountain seen.
The summer sun’s benign and warming ray
    Still moves my youthful heart, now in its spring;
But lo! my hair shows signs of turning gray,
    The wintry days thereto their colors bring.

This life is short; too early fades the rose;
    To sit here on my knee, my darling, come;
Wilt thou who on my breast dost now repose,
    Not kneel, perhaps, to-morrow o’er my tomb?
O! tell me, if before thee I should die,
    Wilt thou, with broken heart, weep o’er my bier,
Or will some youth efface my memory,
    And with his love soon dry the mournful tear?

If thou dost lay aside the widow’s veil,
    Pray hang it o’er my tomb. At midnight I
Shall rise, and, coming forth from death’s dark vale
    Take it with me to where, forgot, I lie,
And stanch with it my ceaseless flowing tears,
    Flowing for thee who hast forgotten me,
And bind my bleeding heart, which ever bears,
    Even then and there, the truest love for thee.



Alexander Endrődi.

A thousand roses bloom around,
    Their odor pleasures bring;
The zephyr sighs, the song bird’s heard; —
    I, too, a song will sing.

If I could but remember it, —
    The song so sweet and fair,
And yet, alas, I know it not;
    I cannot find the air.

The song bird sings again, again;
    The bird forgets no lay;
It loves, and to its loving mates
    It sings its love all day.

Sweetheart, if thou wert only here!
    Methinks I see thy face;
And at the thought the very flowers
    Seem sweeter in their grace.

All nature’s wrapped in peace and joy;
    The clouds, the sun, the shade;
And sweet the breaths of forest rise,
    Like incense, newly made.

Methinks this added peace and rest,
    Sweetheart, thy shade has brought;
Thou art with me, and lo, I sing
    The song my soul has sought.



Paul Gyulai.

A flower I would say
Thou art to me, but nay,
For though thy fairy face
Shows rose’s, lily’s, grace.
Yet, thee I call not so;
Can flowers feel? Oh, no!
Dear maid, remain what now thou art,
My loving and beloved sweetheart.

Shall I call thee a star,
The eve's bright crown afar,
That watches dreams so sweet,
With secrets fair replete?
I call thee not a star;
Stars cold, though brilliant, are,
Dear maid, remain what now thou art,
My loving and beloved sweetheart.

The dawn thou art, I’d say,
Which, when it brings the day,
To heavenly smiles gives birth,
While dewdrops fall to earth.
But golden dawn, alas,
Too soon, too must pass!
Dear maid, remain what now thou art,
My loving and beloved sweetheart.

Ay, be a flower, which
Makes me thy lover, rich,
A star, which spreads a light
Through my ill-fated night;
A dawn, with joyous tear,
— Dewdrops — for thee, my dear;
Throughout this life, O, let me call
Thee what thou art, my own, my all!



Paul Gyulai

Whoever else may cause my heart to bleed,
    I would not feel the pain; ’tis ever sore;
If but, sweet love, it had not been your deed,
    Yours, who my guardian angel wert before.

With love I watched your tender childhood days;
    A brother — yes, a father was to you;
With joy I saw you at your gleeful plays;
    I loved you as a friend, pure, good, and true.

The beaming lustre of your laughing eyes,
    Your winsome nature, ever sweet and bright,
To me, — pursued by fate’s unhappy guise, —
    Oft solace brought, and made my burden light.

You wounded me with mockery and sneer!
    Throb not, my foolish heart; sad heart, keep still!
That gentle hands should strike blows so severe;
    But you are young, this all my wrath doth kill.

You still but dream, you know yet no deceit;
    No deeper sorrow has yet come to you;
You therefore cannot know, how hard to meet
    In this wide world a friend faithful and true.

When you have learned life’s lessons you will know
    That friends and lovers false and base can be.
But no one may, I pray e’er treat you so
    As you yourself, my friend, have dealt with me.



Francis Kölcsey.

Every flower of my days
Which the fates may bring to me,
Though sown in grief or joy they be,
Grown in glad or grievous ways,
In love and friendship true,
I dedicate to you.

Every flower of my days
Twine I gayly in my hair;
The sky now dull, shall soon be fair,
Spring new roses e’er doth raise,
White with me dwell ye two:
Love and friendship true.

Every flower of my days
At my grave in time shall fade;
When I rest in hallowed shade,
Where no pain or sorrow preys,
Love and friendship true
I then shall find in you.



Alexander Petőfi.

An hundred forms my love at times doth take,
    And in an hundred shapes appears to me;
Sometime an isle around which billows break,
    The seas — my passions that encircle thee.

And then again, sweet love, thou art a shrine;
    So that I think my love luxuriant falls,
Like leafy bowers, verdant and benign,
    Around the church’s consecrated walls.

Sometimes thou art a traveler, rich and great,
    And, like a brigand, on thee breaks my love;
Again it meets thee in a beggar’s state
    And, suppliant, asks thee for the alms thereof.

Or thou art as the high Carpathian hills,
    And I the thunderous cloud that shakes thy heart;
Or thou the rosebush round whose fragrance thrills
    The nightingale, of which I play the part.

Thus my love varies, but doth never cease;
    It still remains imperishable and sure;
Its strength abides, but with a greater peace;
    Oft calm, and yet with depths that will endure.



Michael Vörösmarty.

Ah, God alone can tell
    My sufferings how great
My body’s and my soul’s,
    Peace I have lost of late.
Dreams fill my head by day,
    The night finds me awake;
I hardly cease, when I
    Complaint anew must make.

It is my sighs alone
    Which keep my life in me,
Although my anguished breast
    They rend most terribly.
I can but pine and yearn
    As if it were ordained
That I for that should burn
    Which ne’er can be attained.

Ah, if this yearning all,
    May but my heart’s love be,
Then woe this little maid;
    Then, woe, indeed, to me;
Since one who could return
    Such love as I bestow,
Faithful in life and death,
    Lives not on earth below.



Alexander Endrődi.

Haidé, the Sultan’s sweetest child,
    Strolls in the garden ’neath the trees;
She listens to the streamlet’s murmurs,
    And to the whispers of the breeze.

To rest awhile she stops just where
    A shady bow’r cuts off the lane;
When some one lightly kisses her
    And quickly disappears again.

One scream: — “Quick, quick, the daring slave,
    Seize him! His cloak is made of blue!”
The chase arouses all. Fell death
    To the impudent slave is due.

The Sultan sits upon his throne,
    Aroused in him his dreadful ire;
“Lead him in here, the daring dog!
    His punishment be swift and dire!”

When he approaches Haidé stands
    Nearest her father at the throne;
His cloak is blue — but, oh, his eyes,
    Impassioned, lustrously they shone.

His cloak is blue, but pale his face;
    Who knows what in his eyes she read?
“Is this the man?” the Sultan asked;
    “That’s not the man!” is all she said.



Alexander Petőfi.

O, judge me not, fair maid, I pray;
    Not from our first and sole salute;
Not always is my tongue, as then,
    So ill-behaved, so dumb and mute.

Oft floweth from my lips a stream
    Of cheerful speech, and often floats
Humor or jesting o’er its waves,
    Like merry folks in pleasure boats.

But when I saw thee first I tried
    Some word to say, and tried in vain;
Before a storm breaks out all round
    A graveyard quietude will reign.

A storm came up here in my breast;
    I speechless stood, charmed by a spell;
The storm broke out, ’mid thunderings
    The lightnings of my wild love fell.

How the tornado rends, destroys!
    But I shall suffer patiently.
For when I once thy love shall gain
    The rainbow of my soul I’ll see.



Anthony Radó.

Another shake of hands — adieu;
Will ever I again see you?
The sweet thoughts in my soul that swell
Will it my lot be thee to tell
                Some future day?

As were we strangers, thus we meet;
And cold the speech with which you greet
Me now; but that you must suppress
Your heart’s true state, will you confess
                Some future day?

Do you not feel with me, sweet heart,
That it is wrong for us to part?
You go! — God bless you! — I remain;
Shall you and I e’er meet again
                Some future day?



Alexander Petőfi.

Night’s darkness o’er the forest creeps;
    Of a safe guide I am bereft;
Which path leads from these lonely deeps?
    Is it the one to right or left?

Far o’er me, on the arch of sky,
    Many a star doth brigthly shine.
Taking their course, who knows if I
    Might reach the goal for which I pine?

For, brighter than all stars above,
    In lustre shone my darling’s eye;
I trusted her; false was her love;
    Deceived, still o’er my loss I sigh!



Paul Gyulai.

As weary I as is a stag hard presst:
    My soul doth thirst as summer’s torrid plain;
Thy beauty’s rays beat down on me with zest;
    My youth endures love’s ever-bleeding pain.

Under thy tresses’ shade let me lie calm;
    Heal thou my grievous wounds with fond embrace;
Be my physician with thy kisses’ balm,
    And bring me to the dawn’s sweet dream of grace.

Say, dost thou feel the spring’s charm subtly sweet?
    The air vibrates, the butterfly flits round.
The swaying flowers their fellow-blossoms greet,
    The bird’s song like an amorous kiss doth sound.

Do not deny what now thy heart doth feel.
    How could’st thou only unresponsive be?
Forget the world of men; hear God’s appeal
    In nature’s every phrase addressed to thee.



Coloman Tóth.

If to gems the tears should turn
    Which my eyes in secret shed,
Not on clay, that little maid,
    But o’er pearls her way would tread.

If my thousand sighs should change
    Into flowers round her feet,
Then my little girl would rest
    On a couch of violets sweet.

If my love became a sun,
    Nevermore would there be night;
O’er my girl-rose would I shine
    Everlasting, fervid, bright.



Michael Vörösmarty.

Low burns the flame of love
    Upon the sacred shrine;
The flickering light thereof
    The faintest sigh would quench.
And never more relit,
    The flame has gone to rest.
The blood of love runs white
    Within the pulseless breast,
And dead is what in life
    Gives man: hope, pluck and light.

The bitter, heartfelt pain
    Upon love’s sacred shrine,
And tears that fall as rain
    No powers can succeed.
A small tear, yet a sea,
    In which a life’s desire
Is buried utterly.
    The tear rolled down, and numb,
And joyless, evermore
    The void breast does become.

The beauteous memory stays
    Upon love’s sacred shrine;
Pictures of bygone days
    Repeatedly reflects;
Years pass, the gladsome guest —
    These pictures of the heart —
Fades from the fickle breast,
    And thou, with heart long dead,
And fearing most thyself,
    Of death hast sure no dread?



Alexander Kisfaludy

As the stag whose wound is deadly —
    From the hunter’s shot so true —
Flees too late, his blood runs redly
    Till the streamlet takes its hue;
So thine eyes, which, past relieving,
    Pierced my left breast, now I flee;
Wet the ground with tears of grieving,
    Falls each step most painfully,
All is vain, the farther faring,
    Deadlier doth the venom spread;
All the more my heart ’tis wearing,
    I but flee to doom more dread.

There, where my early days were spent,
    A streamlet issues from the hill;
Full often there at eventide
    Happy content my life did fill.
As joyous as its banks between
    Gayly that rivulet did flow,
So toward eternity, unseen.
    My days of life made haste to go;
Within the bounds of innocence,
    Just as the stream its course pursues,
They flowed; — Alas! all passes hence,
    The good, the pleasant, we must lose.


The world, indeed, looks otherwise:
    I view it in another way;
Things are transformed before my eyes;
    My poems suit a different day.
My feelings find a channel new,
    My soul now takes a varied flight.
My being fresh aims must pursue;
    And my whole nature changes quite.
Because within me love has moved,
Because I also am beloved,
For other times have come to me,
Since now my own, my all, is she.

Behold this rose! while budding new
    Its breast is closed and folded tight;
While this one, which in bloom we view,
    Expands its bosom to the light.
My rosebud sweet, like to the first.
    Thou wert a youthful maiden fair;
My sweetheart now, to full flower burst,
    In Hymen’s garland woven fair.
The third one, all its petals dead,
Is full at breast with seeds to shed;
When thou art like it, thou to me.
Though rose-bloom fade, most fair wilt be.



Paul Gyulai.

Thou art not with me, though with thee I am;
In vain do dreams convene; in vain comes night
There glows the starbeam of thine eyes so bright.
So lustrous there it shines, transfusing calm.

Thou art not with me, though I am with thee;
Vain in confusion, vain in quietude;
The sweet voice in my heart doth still intrude,
Till loud it beats in tremor or in glee.

Thou art not with me, though I am with thee;
With thee in unison and all alone;
And, in companionship when we are thrown,
Mutely I love thee, and none other see.

Thou art not with me, though I am with thee;
And blissful happiness transports my soul;
Until again great sorrows o’er me roll,
I curse, I bless, I wither as a tree.



Alexander Petőfi.

Upon the roof a dove,
    A star within the sky
Upon my knees my love,
    For whom I live and die;
In raptures I embrace
    And rock her on my knees,
Just as the dewdrop sways
    Upon the leafy trees.

But why, you surely ask,
    Kiss not her pretty face?
It is an easy task
    To kiss while we embrace!
Many a burning kiss
    I press upon her lip,
For such celestial bliss
    I cannot now let slip.

And thus we pass our day,
    I and my winsome wife,
Bright as a rare gem’s ray
    Has been our wedded life.
A friend — my sword — it seems
    This love likes not at all;
He shoots his angry gleams
    Upon me from the wall.

Lock not on me, good sword,
    With eyes so stern and cold,
There should be no discord
    Between us, comrades old.
To women leave such things
    As green-eyed jealousy;
To men but shame it brings,
    And you a man must be!

But, then, if you would pause
    To think who is my love,
You never would see cause
    Your comrade to reprove.
She is the sweetest maid
    She is so good and true;
Like her God has but made,
    I know, a very few.

If thee, good sword, again
    Shall need our native land;
To seek the battle-plain
    Will be my wife’s command.
She will insist that I
    Go forth, my sword, with thee,
To fight — if need, to die —
    For glorious liberty!



Alexander Petőfi.

The rosebush trembled when
    A bird on its twig flew;
My own soul trembles when
    I think, my dear, of you,
I think, my dear, of you,
    My darling, charming maid.
Thou art the richest gem
    My God has ever made.

When swollen is the Danube.
    Then it doth overflow:
My heart, with love replete,
    Doth now for thee just so.
Tell me, my dearest rose,
    Art thou to me still true?
Not even thy parents, dear,
    Can love thee as I do.

I know thy love was mine
    Neath last year’s summer sun;
But winter came since then —
    Who knows what he has done?
Shouldst thou love me no more,
    I pray God bless thee still;
But, if thou lov’st me then.
    A thousandfold he will.



Louis Csáktornyai.

I ask of heaven’s fair child, the moon,
    To bring me reveries,
That I, forgetting all, may dream
    Beneath the blooming trees.

Bring consolation unto me,
    Ye stars that shine so bright;
So shall I feel that mercy reigns
    Above this realm of night.

I prayed the sun to give me, too,
    Bright smile and radiant joy;
That in my heart be no waste place
    Where grief finds no alloy.

I asked the minster’s marble shrine,
    On which I bowed in care,
To hearken and to succor me,
    Now ’whelmed in dark despair.

The flower, the grass, the leafy tree
    I prayed to bring me balm;
And you, so near and dear to me,
    My sorrows kindly calm.

And yet, from all the answer comes,
    Alas, your prayer is vain;
No balm may heal a heart betrayed
    Nor cool its fevered pain.



Louis Dóczy

Onward! forward! good cheer is mine;
    The world is good to me.
My days of sorrow must decline;
    Of ghastly nights am free.
A loser I in love affairs,
    In game of life I won;
My brown maid no more for me cares;
    A blond to me doth run.

This woman fair, dame fortune she,
    Betrays a love intense;
She sends her page, fair fame, to me,
    To gain my confidence.
Her dainty messenger begins
    To play upon my lyre;
With life renewed, I sing a lay, —
    One full of hope and fire.

As though I ne’er your face had seen,
    Its image seems to fade;
Methinks I see afar a queen,
    In cloud and mist arrayed.
What hero tries, with might and main,
    To win the palm of victory —
A wreath, instead of rosy chain.
    In place of love, glory!

Lost youth of mine, the sparks supply;
    The fire shall burn again.
There’s work for me beneath the sky;
    There’s life beyond to gain.
My life’s work is yet to be done;
    All’s well by fate’s decree;
I could not gain the love of one,
    The millions, though, love me.

And cedar-like I stately grow,
    And, like an oak, am strong;
Unbent by fiercest stormy blow,
    Admired by the throng,
And tho’ death ends my earthly frame;
    My name will never die,
For when my strength breaks down, my fame,
    An eagle, soars on high.

Proud dream, deceptive thought, I know
    My heart does naught but pine;
I feel my sorrow, feel my woe,
    Great misery is mine
My soul to dreamland soon will pass,
    From ’neath the tomb I’ll cry;
I fought, I conquered, but alas!
    Unloved, unhappy I.



Géza Zichy.

When I am dead, I will come back
    To the earth each night;
But I will not come as a ghost,
    Clad in ghastly white;
With the break of golden dawn, I
    Will become a lark.
And my flight above thy head, my
    Sweet love song will mark.
Balmy zephyr, gently blowing,
    Will be made of me,
Covering with loving kisses
    Neck and lips of thee,
Will become the scenting blossom
    Of acacia sweet;
Spending odor, fade, and fall then,
    Loving at thy feet.



Paul Gyulai.

I long to see you once again,
Beneath the garden’s shady green;
Once more to hear your words of cheer,
The rose to pluck with you, my dear,
And happy be as we have been.

I long to see you once again,
As you, on misty autumn days,
Sat rocking me, awake, it seems;
Yet, though awake, you were in dreams,
While tenderly on me you gaze.

I long to see you once again,
As oft before you watched for me;
My pulses then were wont to stir,
And, although calm your greetings were,
Your heartfelt joy was plain to see.

I long to see you once again,
As in the summer’s balmy eve
The garden’s moonlit paths we tread,
And on my breast you leaned your head
And softly said, “Oh, do not leave!”

I long to see you once again,
As when we at the house-porch said
Each unto each the last good-bye,
And looking back, the first time I
Knew what it was hot tears to shed.

I long to see you once again,
That moment’s sight would cure my pain,
My sufferings I could forget,
And cheerfully, without regret,
For you bring back my youth again.



Louis Dóczy.

Marietta, draw thou nearer — still more near;
One must not boldly speak, that all may hear.
’Tis understood alone by those who lean
To listen what a sweet, true kiss doth mean.
Therein there is no right, will, or intent;
Exchanging not they mutually present —
Born of a minute, as though suddenly
Two sparks should catch and cause a flame to be.
Sweet is the kiss thou stealest from the deep
And crimson calm of lips that sleep;
But sweeter still if from the pouting lip
Denying and delaying thou dost sip.
But sweetest ’tis when both athirst do feel,
And, giving, each from t’other fain would steal.
Yet, if desire exists where no claim lives,
It dares to take, but feels not that it gives;
Indeed, such kisses, which by hundreds thrive,
Not wedded yoke but sweet love keeps alive.
Even this is sweeter when earth’s envious eyes,
Like falcon’s watch thee and thy honeyed prize.
The moment comes, thou feelest “now or never!”
Arms fly to arms, lips cling as though forever
Each would be first and each be last in bliss;
Each one is kissed and each doth warmly kiss.
Just as a diver to the depths doth leap,
So doth desire plunge in the moment’s deep.
What rapture can a brief span not conceive?
If not forbidden, ’tis no kiss, believe!



Alexander Petőfi.

Fair maiden of the village fair,
    How love I thy resplendent eyes!
Resplendent? No; the phrase is weak,
    And all my warm intent belies.

How often have I written, said:
    That I have seen a pure blue sky;
Yet false it was, none such I saw
    Until I gazed into thine eye.

Didst thou not mark my raptured gaze,
    With what devotion on thine eyes
I hung, as on the crucifix,
    Enrapt, doth hang the saint that dies!

And thou couldst my redeemer be
    In truth, yet have no need to die;
My ardent breast thou wouldst embrace,
    Nor on a pulseless body lie.

What folly is it that I say?
    Love I ne’er can have from thee!
Where is the maid her love would give
    Unto a poet, poor, like me?

For God hath made the poet poor;
    And this is fit, for, mark my words,
No plumage, many hued and gay,
    Bedecks the sweetest singing birds.

How can the simple poet, then,
    Expect a maiden’s heart to gain?
Maids justly love to shine down here;
    As stars of earth they wish to reign.

Thou, little sweetheart, art my star,
    And none can say me nay that I,
Who may not wear thee on my breast,
    Shall yet pursue thee with my eye.

I with mine eyes shall follow thee;
    Through life I will pursue afar;
And if from thence thou send’st no warmth
    At least look down on me, my star!



Charles Szász.

Although not fair, by no means fairest; yet
    Upon the wide expanse of this world’s sphere,
And though thy charms may wholly pass away,
    I still will hold thee dear.
Though I may see thee growing pale and wan,
    And mark thine eye forego its lustrous hue;
Yea, though the roses of thy face may fade,
    This heart is ever true.

Thou still art young, and still within those eyes
    The magic lamp of beauty burns always;
Thy locks are like a charmed silken veil;
    Thy brow is thy proud praise.
All that is gracious and most fair on earth
    Doth follow thee where e’er thy footsteps fall;
These charms I see not; but thy heart,
    Most noble above all.

For I well know oblivion surely waits
    On all whom earthly charms arrayed;
Death follows close in beauty’s wake;
    The fairest rose must fade.
But only the pure spirit’s lofty flame
    Is gilt of heaven, and doth last for aye,
As in the lighthouse high the light, despite
    The storm, doth burn alway.



Michael Vörösmarty.

        For thy love
My brain would pay the toll;
    Each thought of it I bring
    To thee on fancy’s wing;
I’d give to thee my soul
        For thy love.

        For thy love,
On yonder mountains high,
    I’d be a tree, and dare
    My head to storm-winds bare;
Each winter willing die
        For thy love.

        For thy love
I’d be a rock-pressed stone;
    Within the earth, its flame
    Shall burn my trembling frame;
I’d stand it without groan
        For thy love.

        For thy love
My soul I would demand
    From God; with virtues I
    To deck it out would try
And place it in thy hand
        For thy love.



Gregorius Czuczor.

Violet, blue violet flower,
    How thy blossom’s fair to see;
Shall I pin thee to my hat,
    Or willt thou on my bosom be?

But my hat is mourning black,
    And my heart is veiled with woe;
Sorrow girds me as an isle
    Round whose shores the waters flow.

Blue the eye and blond the locks
    Of my dove who knows not dole;
Thee to her I’ll give, perhaps,
    With a kiss she may console.



Gregorius Czuczor.

Purling streamlet, tell to me,
Doth my sweetheart bathe in thee?
Do thy pearly beads delight
To bubble o’er my love so white?

Velvet sward, O, say to me,
Doth my sweetheart rest on thee?
Doth her heaving, snowy breast
Breathe the fragrant rose with zest?

Gloomy forest, answer me,
Doth my sweetheart roam in thee?
Do the winds that southward go
Dare on her fair cheek to blow?

Birds that in the plain rejoice,
Do you hear my sweetheart’s voice?
To her lips do blithely leap
Carols from her feelings deep?

Nightingale that sad dost trill,
Ne’er thy note her ear should thrill;
Did she hear thee, she would vie
With thee, and, heart-broken, die.



Paul Gyulai.

        I often, often think of you,
Oh, fairest, sweetest angel mine!
    And o’er my soul, like stormy waves.
    When in the night the tempest raves,
I feel the stress of pain malign.

        Mutely and passionately dear
I held you with a fervor true;
    With fears and longings manifold,
    With feelings sacred, pure as gold,
Such love the heart cannot renew.

        A mere confiding child I was,
And you but played with me, no more!
    I deemed the teardrop in your eye,
    The tremulous hand in mine let lie:
A deep and secret import bore.

        ’Mid brilliant fates my heartfelt songs
You buried with triumphant joy;
    Upon my hope you set your feet
    And ruthlessly the petals sweet
Of its fair flowers did destroy.

        I am alone! I am alone!
With whom in bliss could I abide?
    New disappointments, now, in truth,
    Cannot affect my heart’s lost youth,
Whose future love’s deep grave doth hide.

        Ah! If I could but weep again,
My tears for you I still would shed.
    And, like a pilgrim at the shrine,
    Find rest in thought of you, once mine
And still call blessings on your head.



Charles Szász.

Yea, be proud, for thus I like thee,
    Haughty as the cavern stone;
Bending not to the most plaintive
    Prayers of lovers making moan.
As the marble statue’s bosom
    Never heaves a sigh of care,
Be thou cold, mute as the roses
    Woven in thy braided hair.

Yea, be proud, for thus I like thee;
    Be not timid as the dove,
Seeking when the tempests lower
    Sheltered nest within the grove.
Be a falcon brave, whose pinions,
    Wind borne, soar to heaven high
O’er the sea; yet through the tempest
    Calm is he with danger nigh.

Yea, be proud, for thus I like thee;
    At your feet here let me pine;
Self-willed show thyself and callous;
    Let thy weakness none divine.
None must see thee show surrender,
    “Heartless” let their verdict be;
Still, my soul, before thee bowing,
    Crowns thee ever queen of me.

Yea, be proud, for thus I like thee;
    But when we a moment gain —
Free from curious eyes together
    When alone we two remain —
Then — then let not pride engird thee
    Like a heavy coat of mail,
But to this fond heart which loves thee
    Yield thy heart. Let love prevail!



Charles Szász.

The tresses of thy jet-black hair,
    Thy charming smiles and sweet,
The splendor of thy eyes so fair,
    Of gemlike tears the seat,
The whiteness of thy forehead high,
    The rose upon thy face,
Not from my mind or heart could I,
    E’en if I tried, efface.

If dreams the midnights bring, I see
    Thy face which they have brought;
My restless soul still turns to thee,
    Thou art my only thought.
Thou comest to me while I sleep,
    My true love, full of grace;
Wake, to thy windows now I creep
    By stealth to see thy face.

The tresses of thy jet-black hair,
    Spread over me at night;
Around me weave from sun and air
    A veil, thine eyes so bright;
But, when the day doth come, I break
    With lute-songs on thy dream;
For tress and veil, as presents take
    My love, my lute-songs’ theme.



Joseph Komócsy.

Woe him whose heart has never known
    The bliss that love imparts;
Eternal darkness is his lot
    Who never felt love’s darts.

Or like to one who sees the sun,
    But yet is ever cold;
Or one who ne’er their fragrance felt
    The while the flowers unfold.

Both joy and sorrow have been mine,
    And yet, dear God be blessed,
For love, sweet love, its bliss and pain,
    All these I have possessed.



Paul Gyulai.

Wonder not, wonder not at me,
Because a child I came to be;
’Tis love who now with me doth play,
With whom I sport from day to day.

Bright butterflies I shall pursue,
And such, dear little maid, are you!
When you on beauteous wings flit by,
Why should I not to catch you try?

Far up where even the bird doth tire,
I’ll rear a fairy castle spire,
And fleet on winged steeds unseen,
I’ll take you there to be my queen.

With childlike readiness I weep,
When worldly vexing cares I reap;
Yet, great as then my grief may be,
A soothing nurse you are to me!

And at your kiss and in your lap
My smiles efface my tears, mishap:
Your voice doth gently o’er me creep,
As fairy tales that lull to sleep.

A child I always shall remain,
For childhood’s bliss doth never wane;
Love, love, who now with me doth play,
Shall do so ever, day by day.



Joseph Kiss.

The poet, Yussuf, most did love, I vouch,
These three: the song, the maid, the couch.

The maiden must be young, but old
The couch might be, if soft, he told.

The maiden must be full of fire,
And passionate the tuneful lyre.

Such was the wisdom Yussuf spread.
A youth once came to him and said:

“Great master, hear my song, I pray;
Thou shall but judge, not praise, the lay.

My heart inspired the song! You know
The heart that loves will overflow.”

But Yussuf interrupts and says:
“A poem true needs no preface;

Commence.” The youth begins and reads;
His voice grows strong as he proceeds:

“Bulbul’s sweet secret, say, what is
The sweetness in the loving kiss?

In tree-tops sweetly coos the dove,
But sweeter sounds the kiss of love.

And heavenly bliss descends at night.
On my love’s eye-brow to alight.

Consuming thirst of soul, love’s breath,
Love’s kiss is life, love’s kiss is death.”

Just then a stir, — the youth doth pause,
By Yussuf’s nod he learns cause.

A curtain had been drawn apart,
And Leila, Yussuf’s fair sweetheart,

On wings of love flies to his breast,
To kiss, caress, be kissed, caressed.

They kiss and kiss, and kiss anew —
The youth’s amazed; what’s he to do?

Fair houris fill his thoughts, He seems
As if entranced in lovely dreams,

Until aroused by Yussuf’s voice,
Who hides, at first, his love’s best choice:

“Great Allah’s ways thou seek’st in vain!
Practice the kiss, but don’t explain.”



Johanna Wohl.

How I should like to die!
    That I, beloved friend,
    Once more could for thee send,
That thou might’st then be nigh
While I glance in thy eye
    Ere cometh my life’s end.

How I should like to die!
    Ere death o’erspreads my face.
    My soul flies into space.
To graft such pictures, I
Upon my soul will try
    As death shall not efface.

How I should like to die!
    If my last earthly bliss
    Might be thy parting kiss.
My soul therewith should fly,
Not toward the heavens high,
    But in thy heart’s abyss.



Joseph Lévay.

To forget thy face
    I vainly try.
I cannot forget,
    Or bid good-bye.
Every tree and shrub
    Breathes thy name;
Breeze, flower, and bird,
    Repeat the same.

From the clouds above
    Thy grief looms o’er me.
In the tremulous dew
    Thy tear I see.
The lightning’s quick flash,
    The meteor’s light
Are mirrored within
    Thine eyes so bright.

Mountain, grove, and vale
    In vain appear.
Every loved spot
    Thy face brings near.
On me it smileth like,
    A dream of grace,
Seen at morning still
    In every place.

Thou goest with me
    Where’er I go;
When thy footsteps fall
    The blossoms flow.
O, heart of my heart,
    My Soul’s soul, I
Can not forget thee,
    Or say good-bye!



Alexander Vachott.

She is forever gone,
    Who was my all, my own;
The lovely earth-maid stands
    Midst angels round God’s throne.

What anguish now I feel
    To view the heaven on high!
Because I see her home
    Beyond the star-sown sky.

The brook I also shun
    That glows with cooling gleam,
For plainly her abode
    Is mirrored in its stream.



Joseph Lévay.

Without each other, once it was that we
    Could not of any rapture find a trace,
Till, on a blissful life’s far-stretching sea,
    Our shallop floating forth, we did embrace.

Hope was the sail unfurled to catch the breeze;
    Love was the barque that floated on the tide;
Yet now it is adrift upon the seas,
    Yet now its course no ruling hand doth guide.

Both of us stand upon the shore thereof,
    So very cold, so quite indifferent;
The flower-chain of the anchor of our love
    Lies sunk beneath the waves where down it went.

Thou leanest, happy thoughts at thy command,
    Upon thy husband’s shoulder, close to him;
I, from the beach before me where I stand,
    Mark, o’er the ocean, the horizon’s rim.



Joseph Bajza.

Near the town ’s a forest,
    In the wood a glade,
In this glade a grave lies,
    ’Neath a poplar’s shade.

There a gentle streamlet’s
    Murmuring is heard;
There where zephyrs whisper,
    Sounds the chirping bird.

Odors sweet are rising
    From the beauteous scene;
Rosemary and roses
    There have plenty been.

O’er the hill the sun dawns,
    O’er the hill descends,
Through the woods at sunset,
    Still my pathway wends.

Soft winds gentle sighs waft,
    Sorrow’s soul are they;
In the streamlet flowing,
    Float my tears away.

Only I, no other,
    Know who’s buried there;
Know that she here resteth,
    The fairest of the fair.

Gentle streamlet, silent
    Move thy path along;
Singers of the forest,
    Hush your swelling song.

Zephyrs, sway more gently,
    O’er the tree’s green breast,
That my love beloved,
    Peacefully may rest.



John Bulla.

I still love the clouds which
    Gather up on high
Often, though by showers
    Welled through was I.

Daily, the bright sun
    Most lovingly I greet:
Through often, I have suffered
    From its intense heat.

Lovingly I look on
    Heaven’s dome, so vast;
Often, though, I saw it
    Dark and overcast.

Woman, lovely woman,
    I’ll love until I die;
Though more oft’ she deceived me
    Than cloud, or sun, or sky.



Julius Rudnyánszky.

Sweet dream and sweet reality;
Rose leaves fall from the rose tree.
With my sorrows sun-rays toy;
I could weep from heartfelt joy.

My heart is filled with tuneful lay:
As lilacs on the lilac spray;
Alike, both song and heart, are filled
With passion strong and love that thrilled.

Ah! Could but this forever last,
Ah! Could we die ere love has past,
Embracing you, my darling wife,
Together enter future life.



Andrew Pap.

I do not ask you not to dream;
That were a useless task, I deem.
The sweet song to the nightingale,
    The buds and leafage to the spring.
And unto youth its visions bright
    I know the gods in season bring,

I do not ask thee still to dream,
However sweet thy visions seem;
The radiant sun must ever set.
    But with the morning riseth new,
Just so a maiden’s golden dreams
    Will run their course and end it, too.

To keep unvexed I bid thee not;
Dreams ever disappoint, I wot;
For all who on the earth now live,
    And all who since the first have died,
Have borne this cross and often been
    By disappointment sorely tried.

I ask thee not what cannot be;
Enough will come in dreams to thee;
Thine eyes, so beautiful and bright,
    Are favored in God’s sight, I ween;
And yet their sweet, beseeching glow
    Can alter not the world’s routine.

Love, dream thy dreams, and from them wake;
Though disappointment thou must take.
My only wish for thee is this:
    Long be thy dreaming time increased,
And tardy thy awakening be,
    Thy disappointment be surceased.



Victor Dalmady.

Confusion, though the eye is clear;
Unrest, though the mind’s sincere —
A jealous thought, yet trust supreme,
Sad wak’ning ’mid a beauteous dream;
Silence or succinct reply,
Speech which faltering, can’t belie,
This denial with confession,
Maiden, this — is love’s expression!

The feeling which you guard with care —
To cope with naught on earth may dare;
For, though your lips may not proclaim.
Your face and eyes confess its name.
Then reveal it; if afraid,
Speak not; whisper it, dear maid;
If that be bold, then press to mine
Your mute red lips — I will divine.



Michael Vörösmarty.

Fair past denial is the azure eye,
Naught would I say its beauty to decry;
But each glance of the dark eye brings to mind
The deep, dense night with stars the clouds behind
Recalls the love oft sung in minstrel’s lays
Refined and fashioned fair in olden days.
For unto me the midnight bringeth light,
And in the noonday I am oft in night.

Look at me, sweetest rosebud, now;
My dark-eyed fragrant violet thou.
For the dark-gleaming eye I sing;
As lovely as a raven’s wing;
A mirror ’tis in which I gaze,
In which my soul’s reflection plays;
And peace is mine as when doth rest,
A flower upon a virgin’s breast.



Julius Kéri.

A star, bright star that shines on high
Love is a shouting star from sky:
Up in heaven, on earth below, —
On hill and vale it causes woe,
The shouting stars cause men to sigh.

I, too, had once a most bright star;
It shot afar one dismal night.
The bells ring out their saddest dole,
Dig deep the grave; flown is her soul;
And now my stars all buried are!



Joseph Hevesi.

Hark! there strikes the midnight bell!
My weariness I can’t dispel.
May sleep soon hold me in its spell!

I soon will lie upon my bed.
And lay to rest my weary head; —
Come, dreams, your wings be o’er me spread.

At last I lie in sweet repose;
My heavy eyelids now I close,
And conjure up your face, sweet rose.

And while awake and sleeping, too,
And while your loving face I view,
I whisper low: “I love but you.”



Gabriel Döbrentei.

My mother wept that I did once insist,
Though young, among the hussars to enlist;
Weep not, my mother; all is well and right,
I’m with the brave, who for their country fight.

’Twas sad to bid my love good bye;
To feel the pulse that throbbed with every sigh.
Sweet Julia, do not weep; for all is right,
Here with the brave, for our dear home I fight.

It may be, e’en, that now my mother’s dead;
That Julia another loves instead;
If this be so, life has no more delight,
Save, with the brave, I for my country fight.

If this be so I can but weep and moan;
And pass my days in sorrow all alone,
Alas! this fate weighs down full many a knight,
My comrades, who with me went forth to fight.

Mother, sweetheart, if you are still alive,
To be of good cheer, then, you ought to strive:
For he you two love best takes but delight
For his good king and fatherland to fight.

Brave I go forth, and on my csáko’s band
A laurel wreath be placed by victory’s hand.
And may the camp acclaim aloud with joy:
Good and true Magyar fire burned within the boy.



Nicholas Markus.


The sighs we breathe, where do they go?
    To no one is it known;
The sharpest eyes shall not espy
    To where our sighs have flown.

The sweetest secret of our love
    The starry night doth weigh;
The song bird shall not sing of it,
    Nor murmuring brook betray.

Let no one know but you and me
    What bliss ’tis to conceal;
And even we our happiness
    Unconsciously shall feel.


Think’st thou of me, and if thou dost,
    Is morning then or eve,
Is it sunrise, is it sunset,
    When I thy thoughts receive?

The golden dawn of morning doth
    My gilded hopes express;
The sun that wanes conveys to me,
    Dear love, forgetfulness.

Beloved one, in thy heart’s blue sky,
    Am I a rising sun?
Is o’er the day, dear heart, have I
    My daily gauntlet run?



Emerich Gáspár.

Approaching steps I ’neath my window hear;
Soul-stirring thoughts they rouse, and hope, and fear.

Now nearer to the hearth I bring my chair;
Of all save waiting is my life grown bare.

A fever stirs my heart into its core;
It lasts until the footsteps reach my door.

Then fainter grow the footsteps’ raps;
I shed a tear and into day-dreams lapse.



Julius Szávay.

I look and look and ever try
To find within the starlit sky
    The pair of shining stars I lost.
    Will them my eyes again accost?
But vainly sweeps my eager eye
All o’er the dome of heaven on high, —
    I find, that not a radiant star
    Above, as luculent, as are
A certain woman’s smiling eyes.

Place, oh, my God, within the skies
Stars, like her own two beauteous eyes;
    That when for them my own do quest:
    They may my searching look arrest
Into that woman’s eyes to gaze
Forbidden is! — a man so says,
    And man is master here below
    But to admire the stars’ bright glow,
Is not forbidden by God on High!



Michael Vörösmarty.

Hair, hair, hair,
Fine and silky hair
Has this maiden fair.
In her tresses’ waving flow
Bathes her swanlike breast of snow;
Hair, hair, hair,
Fine and silky hair,
Has this maiden fair.

Lip, lip, lip,
How gladly I would sip,
Her kiss of fellowship.
Her speech ’s like nightingale’s sweet lay,
Her teeth like pearly gems’ display;
Lip, lip, lip,
How gladly I would sip,
Her kiss of fellowship.

Eye, eye, eye,
Like the stars on high,
Is her sparkling eye.
Beauteous as the heaven above,
And, Godlike, therein reigns sweet love.
Eye, eye, eye,
Like the stars on high.
Is her sparkling eye.



Ladislaus Inczédy.


No, not that sorrow kills the soul
Which in smooth song from lip can roll,
The human heart ’s not rent in twain
By grief of which it can complain.

That grief howe’er man can’t confide.
Within himself attempts to hide:
That is the direst of all ills,
That is the grief that surely kills.


Like dew-drop, on a leaf of rose,
A word upon thy lips arose...
I never knew that with one word,
Bliss, sweet as mine, can be conferred.

Say not the word, let it remain
Where now it shines, and I would fain
With kisses sweet to have it won.
As dew ’s absorbed by rays of sun.


If of my love I sing at times,
How happy I confess in rhymes:
Fear naught, that I our secret bring
To light, in songs I gladly sing.

The cooing doves, in cosy nest,
Beneath a shady shrub found rest.
In rythmic rhyme, in songs; sweet air,
The truth to find, who’d seek it there?



Géza Udvardy.

She was alt beautiful when God above
Created her, but more so made by love.
    She was all beautiful when I could hold
    Her hand in mine, but more so thousandfold
When she had disappeared, my darling dove.

I loved her who to me was all divine,
Her picture held in my soul’s sacred shrine;
    I loved her well! Our love a sweet, fair song!
    But ne’er I loved her with such passion strong,
As when I found she was no longer mine.



Julius Szentessy.


Oh! let me love you though I’m far away,
    Into my prayers I your name enclose;
No sinner he, whose heart — resigned as mine, —
    With gentlest dreams and purest love o’erflows.

Within my heart bliss and submission reign
    Since I, on an autumnal-summer eve,
Beheld your face divine; I still can feel
    Each throb and beat; and still my breast doth heave.

The evening of my own summer has set,
    Since I have found and seen her, at whose sight
I blissful dreamed the golden dreams of youth,
    And spring-tide seemed to be a fairy bright.

A golden hue was cast upon my youth
    The while to find you was my highest goal;
When late in life we met at last, ah! then
    Autumnal frost had come to my poor soul.

My life’s each dream in you alone I dreamed,
    And all my reveries on you are set;
I never can efface you from my mind.
    Because, my dear, I ne’er e’en kissed you yet!


She comes, — sweet roses on her path I strew,
Beneath her glances I most happy grew;
    My soul bathes in her dear eyes’ azure blue.
    As stars do in the mirror of the dew.

She’s gone, and I await her with a song,
She comes, my heart throbs with a passion strong.
    When I her tiny hands to touch presume:
    Within my heart sweet flowers come to bloom.

Sweet flowers bloom all o’er, and sweet their scent.
Sweet fairy dreams the evening’s has sent.
    The morning breaks; my tender heart is sore.
    For beauteous dreams of love fill it once more.



Samuel Nyilas.

Upward to thee my longing song ascends,
As to the tepid breeze the flower tends.
    My fair one, my beloved one thou!
Beloved one come! the happy hour doth call,
As o’er the earth the playful moon-beams fall,
        Come! Come!

The air is full of balm, cool is the night,
The star of love is rising in the height.
    Thy casement throw wide open now!
Come out! To thee my tuneful flute-note sings,
And bears my doleful lay upon its wings!
        Attend, attend!

And far away from earth, in some fair place,
I long to die in rapturous embrace.
    Living anew, upon thy breast,
Though heaven is so infinitely high,
But loving, even there my soul doth fly,...
        O come! O haste!



Béla Szász.

    A sweet sound’s resonance
    Holds all my soul in trance,
As if the heart-beats of a dove I’d hear,
Or snow-bell’s ringing filled the atmosphere.

    And like the solemn knell
    Of evening vesper’s bell,
It makes me feel like kneeling down to pray,
A sentiment of grace holds o’er me sway.

    My hands devoutly fold,
    An Ave I have told;
And constantly I hear that bell’s low toll:
Thy name doth cause the trembling of my soul.



Charles Berecz.

A carriage speeds, — no, — it does not.
    The lazy horses slowly trot, —
Along a fine park’s carriage path,
    For lovers an auspicious spot.

Within the cab a comely youth
    And at his side a girl most fair.
Of course, one of them must be pale,
    ’Tis e’er thus in a love affair.

And unrestrained they speak aloud,
    Or whisper low their vows of love:
“Believe me, dear, my love will be
Eternal as the stars above!”

The driver on the seat, to while
    Away the time, all merrily
Whistles a well known tune, it is:
    “La donna é mobile!”



Aladár Benedek.

The flowers wither, droop and fade
    The morning dawn had icy been,
And pallid is their cup, as is
    My face and your’s, my fairy queen.

The zephyr comes and whispers low:
“Why grieve? Your life was one of joy!”
And o’er the faded flowers’ lip
A faint smile comes, all shy and coy.

The zephyr mild of memory
    Has soothing solace, and our face
Is brightened by one last, sweet smile
    When recollecting bygone days.



Gerő Szász.

There is no hell, no Eden, where
My soul would not thy feelings share,
        For in thy smiles and in thy eyes
    The most destructive witchcraft lies.

The fates may take thee far away,
Emblaze thy path with golden ray,
    Far famed couldst be by their decree
    And carried far beyond the sea;

Be faithful or be thou untrue,
Be pure, or sinful paths pursue,
    Be thou a queen, or go to dwell
    Within a convent’s barren cell;

Should sorrow or joy be thine:
I worship thee and for thee pine,
    My heart and soul to thee are tied,
    Eternally with thee abide!



Count Géza Zichy.

Give ear unto my sad farewell,
The last it may be, who can tell?
    The stars may fall, the sun may wane,
    My heart shall ever true remain.
Good-bye sweetheart! God be with you!
This is the minstrel’s last adieu!

I think of you with bleeding heart,
Feel, as if force had torn it apart;
    My sighs, and groans and moans are all
    Like death-knells which my soul appall.
Good-bye sweetheart! God be with you!
This is the minstrel’s last adieu!

Bless you the Triune God above!
His angels guard you, sweetest love.
    And they may keep from you to know
    Why I so sad, why my tears flow!
Good-bye sweetheart! God be with you!
This is the minstrel’s last adieu!



Gerő Szász.

Priceless is this moment’s worth:
Dearest, sweetest on this earth!

Heart and soul are full of bliss.
Lip meets lip in burning kiss.

Do we dream? Are we awake?
Bliss as our’s doth speechless make.

Says the brook: “I’ll tell the sea
To which I course merrily!”

Say the lark and nightingale:
“We’ll sing it on hill, in vale.”

Tree-tops whisper low and sigh:
“We’ll betray it to the sky!”

Summer winds that gently blow
Say: “The world this ought to know.”

Faded flowers seem to pray:
“May your young dreams last for aye.”



William Győry.

I care not what the whole world may
About me or against me say;
    What man, whom I as friendly know
    Or whom I know to be my foe
About me might have in his mind!
My soul forgets all things, I find
    Sweet comfort if we two agree:
    That I love you, and you love me!

Will treasures rich and great estate
Be ever mine? Or shall await
    Me poverty, a straw-thatched hut
    And misery to be my lot?
To be poor causeth no distress
And wealth gives only happiness
    If, my dear angel, we agree:
    That I love you and you love me.

Shall fame and glory I attain
By ardent work of heart and brain?
    Shall wreaths adorn me or ill fate’s scorn
    Press on my brow a crown of thorn?
I care for neither of the two;
Ambition, — hope, — I both subdue
    If, my dear angel, we agree:
    That I love you and you love me.

No fear or hope had ever given
To me the earth or even heaven,
    Not e’en the life beyond the grave
    What damns my soul or it might save.
What I desired with wish profound:
My life’s salvation I have found,
    If you and I, sweetheart, agree:
    That I love you and you love me.



Géza Udvardy.

The sun’s rays loved her, in whose eyes
    A brighter ray shone than their own;
The garden loved her, for whose choice
    The fairest flowers had richly grown.

The zephyr loved her, from whose lips
    In stealth it gathered honeyed sweet;
The lake’s smooth face loved her, because
    She gazed oft on the silvery sheet.

The dawn loved her, whose wakening
    The morning with a smile would hail;
The setting sun loved her, each eve
    He wrapped her in his own snug veil.

Heaven and earth loved her, because
    The brightest gem grew from her tear;
And God loved her, for at His shrine
    Her prayers were the most sincere.

The flowers loved her, at her feet
    They trail, or crushed, willingly die;
She was beloved by all, but none
    Loved her so faithfully as I.



Nicklas Szemere.

I do not watch the course of stars on high,
Nor care I nature’s secrets to espy:
The bowels of the earth, the air, the sky...?
What cares for them a happy chap as I?

One joy is mine: it is the budding rose,
The goblet full, the maid who with love glows!
One sorrow mine: It’s when the flowers fade,
No wine in glass, and cold has grown the maid.



William Zoltán.

Violin’s voice, sound of music ’s heard somewhere;
From a window leans a woman, young and fair.
Pale-faced, trembling lists she to the well-known air,
With a sob she clasps her bosom in despair.

Sound of music fills the air; a song is heard;
From a window leans a man, his heart is stirred.
Man and woman moved to heart’s core by the song:
“Why to each other we two could not belong?”



Joseph Csukási.


Why will insist to thee to fly
    The songs ascending from my lyre?
Thou art thyself a song most high,
    Thyself blessed with poetic fire.

I asked thus, and instead from thee,
    From my own strings comes the reply:
The doves fly where in joyous glee
    Their loving mates they will espy.


When balmy spring, the fairy queen,
    Comes in the land, all nature spreads
The fairest flowers she can glean
    All o’er the paths o’er which she treads.

Thou art my queen, when I aware
    That to my heart thou comest, I
Plucked flowers of song most sweet and fair
    Thy road to me to beautify.



Louis Palágyi.


You ask me why I am so sad
Who just now seemed to be so glad?
    ’Tis not a whim, not moody I.
    Beneath my very bliss doth hie
The thought: I am unfortunate.

Like autumn does one thought devour
The fairest flow’r of fairest hour.
    The years, like ghosts rise from the tomb,
    The awful years, ah me, but doom
To death the happiest moment’s fate.


If you begin your lost love to forget:
    Shun every place where your great grief arose,
As long its memory lives the snares are set.
    Beware! the former paths to risks expose!

The ancient woe does never, never cease,
    The soul within its awful depths but sleeps;
One look into the past: woe’s storms release,
    The wounded heart ’gain bleeds, and moans, and weeps.


The rose bush trembled ’neath the northwind’s force,
And roseleaves covered soon the ground of course.
    I met my old sweetheart, methought love ’s chilled,
    But as of old my heart with passion ’s filled.

The rose is gone, the rosetree seems decayed,
But newly it will bloom, again to fade; — —
    My love was dead, all its desires subdued,
    When now a hundred longings wake renewed!



Julius Sárosy.

I love her, whom my heart I gave,
I love her, though she ’s in her grave.
The tomb assuages ev’ry ill,
But not the woe my heart doth fill.

She has been laid to sleep below.
Naught of the realm of death we know;
And silent is the grave when made;
Tis silenced by the diggers’ spade.

I never did the spring await
In such a yearning, eager state.
The flowers from her grave that spring,
A message of her dreams may bring.



Michael Szabolcska.

Upon a railway carriage’s window pane,
Someone had scratched a name. I see it plain:
“Maud.” “Maud.” The letters are clear-cut and fine:
Hands traced the name to one heart all divine.

He who that name engraved, my heart tells me:
Had had a heart all filled with rosemary,
With tender love his heart was all aglow,
Remembrance filled his soul, a parting’s woe.

And slowly my own soul, — all unawares, —
My thoughts to bygone sweetest memories bears:
To days of glorious spring, I bless them still,
No more shall days like those my poor heart thrill.

The winter came, around me though, with scent
Of roses sweet, the air seems redolent.
“Maud! unknown maid, be blessed by God above!
May’st thou united be soon with thy love.”



John Dengi.

I through the thick of woods now wend my way,
To me bend, bow and stoop: branch, twig and spray
    Perhaps divine, perhaps they feel my woe;
    That for my heaven I lost quietly flow
    These burning tears, the trees may even know.

Around a thousand flowers are in bloom.
There was a time I loved their sweet perfume
    But all is o’er! sweet Rose is dead! Ah me!
    I am disconsolate, by fate’s decree:
    E’er wretchéd, brokenhearted I must be.



John Vajda.

I see thee yet, ’gain and again
I’ll see thee; and until I die
My fondest thoughts with thee remain,
Ne’er will I leave thee, yet — Good bye!

Oh! it was not the cruel fate,
The boundless distance was it not,
Not life, not death did terminate
Our union and severed the knot. — —

The distance has its golden hope,
Death has in memory a friend,
Faith strengthens who with ill-fate cope:
But all this even is at end!

If thou would’st say, that thou art mine:
Prostrate before thee I would lie;
And yet, thy love I would decline
And tearful say: Good bye! Good bye!

And resurrection opes the grave,
And nature groweth young and fair;
Naught is eternally dead; save
What I in thee have lost fore’er!

And yet, I can not let you go
From mind and heart, mute I confer
One glance on thee, that glance of woe
A ghost casts on his murderer.

And both of us have one great pain!
Thine is the sin, th’ accuser I!
’Stead idyls, pastorals, we gain
But sights of ghosts! Good bye! Good bye!



Louis Tolnay.

How I love you, you should not now be told;
You might say flatteries from my lips rolled.
    That shallow words but are — you could believe, —
    What’s sweet, frank, fair and true, would make me grieve.

...When we shall sit, a pair, in calm repose, —
The time will come, believe me, dearest rose, —
    When we count not the moments and the days,
    When both but know we’ll happy be always;

When gone shall be the first sweet weeks, and I
Know that my secret hope’s fulfillment nigh,
    When in the garden, where we played so oft,
    Two eyes shall smile on us, so sweet and soft.

When courtyard, and the rooms are like a camp,
See broken swords, hear our boy-soldier’s tramp,
    And flag and drum and horse and gun, — pell-mell,
        Of wars, our darling son had fought, will tell;

When to our long, long bliss a time shall come
That to a fancied grievance we succumb,
    When really angry we to be profess
    And our heart trembleth at what lips express;

When then the heart commands: enough! make peace!
And of itself our disagreements cease;
    Amidst sobs we then each other entwine
    Each one of us insists: the fault was mine;

And when again the sun’s bright glow is seen,
We laugh, — amazed, — that we such fools have been;
    And when once, ah! my dear good Lord, on High!
    All this shall be the past, behind us lie;

When we, at our life’s eve, shall sit one day
Beneath the old pear-tree, and gently lay
    Our hands into each other’s; when my dear,
    For our great happiness we ’ve but a tear:

When in another lives what in us burned,
Through him we twice happy to be have learned;
    Instead of reveries we’ll say a pray’r:
    How I have loved you, you will know it there!



John Erdélyi.

Your kerchief ’s red as is the rose,
Your eye is bright and starlike glows.
    Bless your heart! My darling maid,
    Capriciously with me you played.

If my own thoughts were yours, sweet May,
Come, let your lips your love convey.
    The happiest couple in this, God’s earth,
    We’d pass our life in love and mirth.



Michael Szabolcska.

Why wert thou not born
    In our hamlet, nigh
To our wayside home?
    How glad could be I!

Why not near, and then
    Why not penniless,
The most beauteous rose
    We at home possess!

Never had I left,
    — As we poor lads must, —
Even for a day
    That dear home, I trust.

Ne’er had learn’d to read
    From the other books,
But from they fair face
    And thy eye’s sweet looks.

From these even, I
    Nothing else would read,
Then for what our hearts
    Lovingly do plead.



Louis Bartók.

Why by frail maiden’s act offended be?
Do not resent it with brutality,
Do not the pollen of her love destroy
Because a dust-atom might thee annoy.

She’ll understand your sigh, your tears that roll,
She’ll humble herself ’fore thy noble soul,
She’ll kiss your hands upon her bended knee:
“My life is yours!” will be her true love’s plea.



Paul Gyulai.

The hour was short, but long had been
    That moment at the pier...
Thy kerchief white can not be seen,
    Nor can thy voice I hear.
The wind and wave carry away
    Thee, leaving me alone,
That truly I loved thee, sweet May,
    The first time now I own.

The wind brings back the sweetest scent
    Of tresses of thy hair,
And to the sea’s surface hath lent
    Thine eye its silv’y flare.
If I the blowing wind could be.
    My arms would thee entwine,
Carry thee off bold, proud and free:
    To be forever mine.

A long time I gaze after thee;
    My soul is by a thought
Carried far out and borne to sea,
    As if by current caught.
Do I the last time see thee now,
    Shall e’er again we meet?
I feel the first time, I avow
    How true my love, my sweet.

Upon the ship’s sail, which recedes,
    The sunset’s color glows,
She too, as o’er the sea it speeds
    To tiny black spot grows.
If I the sun’s rays could but be,
    Smiling my fate I’d bear;
I’d follow thee, bold, proud and free,
    Thou would’st be mine fore’er.



Coloman Tóth.

Book-lore is yours, love is my one intent,
    To truly love ’s the only thing I know.
Your merit is to be on efforts beut,
    While any worth to claim I must forego.
Your mind’s artistic brightness shines with you,
    A holy flame lights up my God-given soul,
Compared to you I’m ignorant, ’tis true,
    But from my heart and lips sweet love songs roll.

You elevate yourselves above the earth,
    — What’s true is true, — you oft soar in the high.
Your staunch endeavors have of gold the worth,
    Who knows, some day you’ll build air-ships that fly.
The passions of my heart devour my life,
    Moved by my soul though, Phoenix like I rise,
Oft even not perceive that in the strife
    My burning soul has risen to the skies.

That I know naught you might to me impute,
    Your judgment never shall my wrath arouse,
But all your learning must remain all mute
    Speak you of sentiment a heart avows.
That I can love, — leave this one thing to me, —
    ’Tis not a virtue even I concede,
The head and not the heart, — this is your plea, —
    Is it from which life’s noblest aims proceed.

But I’d not change with you though you excel,
    And hundred times I’d be more ignorant;
The glowing sun which in my heart doth dwell
    For your moon’s artful sheen to change I can’t.
Your learning sets forth daily a new claim.
    What ’s good to day, to morrow you deny,
The world of the heart is always the same,
    You are always deceived... but never I!



Ladislaus Torkos.

Cease bending low thou tree tops leafy spray,
To kiss my sweetheart’s curls cease to essay;
In vain you whisper her your flattering lay,
’Tis all in vain, she little heeds your plea:
She loves but me.

Though ardent breezes stop and to her sing,
No friendly nod their effort to them bring.
My sweetheart hates the songs that mournful ring.
To my triumphant songs she lists with glee:
She loves but me.

Your rays, you royal ruler of the sky,
To lure her heart from me all vainly try.
Her radiant face, her beauteous eye,
Her gracious self — all, all belong to me:
She loves but me!




If I were rich, — as I am not, — I’d buy
The dearest, finest things I could espy!
The things most beautiful of land and sea,
— E’en happiness itself, — I’d buy for thee:
Did’st smile on me.

If happy I, — as I am not, — and thou
Would’st say: “I thee with misery endow!”
My happiness on thee I would bestow,
And take from thee thy misery and woe!
Just for thy kiss.

Eternal life if mine by God’s decree:
I’d gladly die to give that life to thee!
I’d give to thee what heaven and earth and fate
Make me on earth, or yonder life await...
Wert thou but mine!



Julius Rudnyánszky.


Forbearance, goodness You,
Beauteous, kind and true!
To roses, on my way,
Your tears were fresh’ning spray.

My lone life’s dawn you were,
A saint, beyond compare!
Each letter of your name
Has thousand blessings’ claim.

A thousand times be blessed,
Whose sweet love I possessed!
To your love’s springtide may
Ne’er come a wintry day.


The cosy parlor hides us two,
I hold her hand, look in her eye,
My heart beats fast and timid grew,...
My thoughts to happy dreamland fly.

We both, a soothing quiet feel,
Bewitch’d, seem in a hallowed mood, —
Doth love itself to us reveal,
In our enchanted solitude?

And some mysterious boundless woe
Grasps heart and soul. What can it be?
And lo! our tears begin to flow,
The open heaven though we see!



Stephen Rónay.

And do you know what glory is?
    A precipitous, craggy hill.
If wounds the feet of who ascend,
    The dangers cause their soul to thrill.
When one has reached the top, his fame
    To all the universe is known.
He, looking from the height, howe’er
    The hollowness of life will own.

And do you know what is that: love?
    A quiet, hidden vale below.
A cosy hut within its belt,
    With trees to shield from winds that blow.
Beneath the narrow roof, two hearts
    Throb as one, held by true love’s sway.
The world at large knows naught of them,
    Themselves though feel how happy they.




You said: “Henceforth, I hate you, Sir!”
    That soon I shall forgotten be.
Not even Heaven’s kingdom would
    You as a gift accept from we.

I told you, that I hate you too,
    That to forget you would be play....
Days come and go, your memory
    Would very quickly pass away.

But in the silent, moonlit night
    With stealth I to your window creep;
And hating you, forgetting you,
    To ease my aching heart: I weep.

And in the silent, moonlit night
    I hear your moan, I hear your sigh,
I hear you call aloud my name,...
    Thus to our hatred testify.



Béla Szász.


My wound, I break thee ope again,
    Thy poison rankles deep; — I try
My secret woe to hide; in vain!
    It is more powerful than I.

Ye lips, in vain you fain to smile,
    In truth, you feel more like to groan,
And though you sigh not all the while,
    Your sufferings are to me known.

Then why not tell, do I not feel?
    It hurts, then why should I not cry?
Why shouldn’t my longings I reveal
    For rosy lip and smiling eye?


I know, not e’en the right to hope, have I,
The question is to love you or to die.

I know, you cling to your good husband’s breast,
With hot desires my heart is sore oppresst.

I know, when once in death my heartthrobs cease,
Not even then will end my true love’s pleas.



John Bulla.

What do you care how old the flower be?
A maiden’s age should never bother thee.
She ’s born when your love you have avowed,
She leaves you, — and you spread o’er her the shroud.



Charles Zilahi.

The wind has ceased, the tree tops seem to sleep,
And noiseless is the Durance river’s sweep.

My heart is sore, yet calm, because each night
My fancy conjures up thy face so bright.

Thou art with me, my hallowed grief is not
Disturbed by speech or unkind thought’s foul plot.

To what was dead my heart again does ope:
Thy slave again has faith, doth love and hope.



Louis Csáktornyai.

Remain as the rose,
Which its full beauty shows
At the dawn of the day.
    Fresh, smiling and fair,
    Sweet and debonnair,
Remain thus for aye!

A tear to your eye,
To your lips heart-born sigh
Shall ne’er have to rise!
    Then keep your heart pure,
    Be sweet and demure,
And — love, — you be wise!

Have you little maid
This lesson obeyed,
You’ll be sweet as a rose.
    If your love then is mine,
    In my heart I’ll enshrine
You! thus ending my woes.



Victor Dalmady.

The zephyr sweetly whispers while it blows,
    Upon its lips dwell love and keen desire;
And bashfully bends low its head the rose,
    As if too great the bliss the words inspire.

’Tis well beneath the spell of love to be,
    Forgotten is all sorrow and all care;
Our soul, so like a bark on angry sea,
    — Though injured — saileth on, despite the scare.

Quite close, a lovely maid and I took seat.
    Around us deep, mysterious silence reigns,
As it the bliss of hundred hearts would beat
    Within our own, such bliss our heart obtains.

The hearts alone beat fast, the lips were sealed,
    We uttered not a word, — but dreamed and sighed, —
Just as the flowers, growing o’er the field
    The narrow, winding pathway through it, hide.

One kiss! and all emotions of our souls
    Confession made,... the maiden understands;
She ’s ours! Before our mind enflamed, unrolls
    A world, a brighter path of life expands.

As were we more than ordinary men,
    We proudly look above to startlit sky,
We think to reach what eagerly we scan,
    All earthly thought and care behind us lie.

Oh, hour of bliss, most blessed of all hours!
    We can’t forget into our dying day,
The roses fade... the maid ’s no longer ours,
    But we shall dream of that first kiss for aye!



John Erdélyi.

What sounds beyond the high-ranged hill?
What than the years lives longer still?
What doth the future bury not?
What still with time increase hath got?
    ’Tis fame! ’Tis fame! ’Tis fame!

What than the sea is more profound,
Where gem-like pearls grow all year round,
Which now with calm, now storm, is fraught
Holy desires and hallowed thought?
    The heart! The heart! The heart!

What than the bird is fleeter far?
What warmer than the south sun’s car?
What santifies the very heart.
Consoles and bids its grief depart?
    The song! The song! The song!



Edmond Jakab.

I ask for no display of mourning,
    No flow of tears, when I shall die;
I’ve been a beggar all my life,
    I’ll be a beggar when I die.

My death will cause no awful shock,
    And my demise none will regret;
I’ll pass away, unnoticed, as
    Behind the wood the sun doth set.

What is there when a minstrel dies?
    The elements his bones caress...
The graveyard has another tomb,
    The world a few songs less.



Joseph Eötvös.

When I shall once have trod
    My rugged path of life,
And in the tomb am laid,
    Where is an end to strife.

Raise not a marble dome
    To keep alive my name;
The triumph of my thoughts
    Will then assure my fame.

And if you pass the spot
    Where in repose I lie,
Then sing above my grave,
    And chant most sweet and high.

A stirring Magyar song!
    That fills the soul with fire;
Beneath my verdant grave
    Its cadence will inspire.

Then drop a sentient tear
    After the song is through;
The song is for the bard;
    The tear for lover true.



Cornelius Ábrányi, Jr.

We must not love each other any more;
    Not love each other, though, beyond all thought
To part, is all that’s left for us in store,
    And since, then, to forget each other sought.

And since then, I forget you day by day;
    I shun the places where we ever met;
One only thought is in my mind alway:
    Learn to forget, forever to forget.

Each day common event suceeds event;
    In none am interested I, and yet
My heart doth follow all with close intent;
    I simply learn forever to forget.

Extensive travels oft will change a man;
    Into his mind and soul new thoughts will set.
I travelled much, impelled by that one plan,
    Thee to forget, forever to forget.

If sometime my wild spirits leap with joy,
    If woeful thoughts bring sorrow and regret,
My joys, my cares, all but one thought convey,
    Thee to forget, forever to forget.

We must not love each other any more, —
    We part! We say good-bye with deep regret.
See! faithful keep my word of heretofore;
    Do nothing else but constantly forget.

Thee to forget I nevermore shall cease;
    Not till the sun of life shall sink and set.
When death, at last, shall bring eternal ease,
    Within my grave I’ll learn how to forget.