Obrazy na stronie

he has eloquently and truthfully appealed, and in the teeth of his opponents, and immediately following their attack, his new edition was published. Sorry are we that our space and their length, forbid the insertion of a specimen of his patriot-songs. A few verses, however, recommending themselves to us by their brevity and nontendency towards party spirit, we will insert.

They are entitled by him, “OSZTALYRESZEM," or, My Portion ; and are a beautiful example of Sapphic measure.

“What though the waves roll awfully before me,
Quicksands and tempests from the ocean border
Calmly I launch me, all my sails unfurling;

Laughing at danger.

Peace has returned, J drop my quiet anchor;
Beautiful visions have no power to charm me;
Welcome the wanderer to thy cheerful bosom,

Land of retirement.

Are not my meadows verdant as Tarentum,
Are not my fields as lovely as Larrissa,
Flows not the Tiber, with majestic beaming,

Through my dark forest ?

Have I not vines and golden corn-ears dancing
In the gay winds, and doth not heavenly freedom
Dwell in my dwelling? Yes, the gods have given me

All I could envy.

Thou, thou, my lyre, if thou dispense thy blessings;
Bright on the tortuous pathway of existence,
Deserts shall smile, wastes wax them into gladness,

Charmed by thy music.

Place me among the eternal snows of Greenland,
Place me among the burning sands of Zaara,
There shall your bosoms warm me gentle muses,

Here your breath freshen.

Loving his country perhaps as fervently as Berszenyi, certainly holding a higher position than he, in its literary society, is Gabor Döbrentei; unlike the last mentioned, this man is courted and carressed by the wealthy, the noble, and the intellectual of the land; besides a poet he is an essayist and a critic of considerable powers, and the author of a diffuse and learned article upon the Hungarian literature. His lyrical style is very simple and sweet, take for example the first verses of an Hussar song, of immense popularity in these present stirring days.

“Mother dost weep that thy boys' right hand
Hath taken a sword for his fatherland?
Mother, where should the brave one be,

But in the ranks of bravery?
Mother, and was it not sad to leave
Mine own sweet maiden alone to grieve;
Julia, where should the brave one be,

But in the ranks of bravery?

Virág, notwithstanding the classical character of his muse, which has gained for him the title of the Hungarian Horace, may be still by us included in the first division of our subject, for there is ever the beatings of a warm and a patriotic heart, to be heard and felt by the close observer, beneath the cold and stony scrolls of his poetry. It is always after this strain that he speaks of the Hungarian's land. Beautiful it is, all will acknowledge, beautiful, and seemingly cold as chaste,


“Where do you bear me, into what solitude,
Midst groves and vallies, daughters of Helicon:
Have ye awakened new fires within my bosom?

Have ye transported my spirit ?
Here, in this quiet temple of loneliness,
Will I pour out the songs of divinity,
To the Hungarian Minerva, and worship

At the immortal one's altar.

As ye have borne the bright virgins of victory,
Whom with a passionate longing for blessedness,
Fain would I follow; and breathing of glory

Heavenly sisters I hail ye.” Here we take leave, strictly speaking, of the Heroic Bards of Hungary. In our next article we (with somewhat of the old chivalrous spirit, which connected so closely the attributes of valour and love) shall proceed to enumerate a few of those who have chosen to play as it were, rather upon the lute than the trumpet, upon the cymbal rather than the drum, among the modern bard-band of Hungary.

The Dreamer.


WOULDst thou be a Dreamer and throw away
At thy will, the cares and toils of to-day?
Exchanging the trouble, the doubts, the strife,
That weigh down the spirit in active life,
For visions of beauty, and dreams of bliss
That ne'er can be known in a world like this ?-
It is well for hope to make life look bright,
And to throw o'er our path her cheering light,-
It is well for fancy at times to roam,
Or deck with rich colours the shaded home;
But if she alone o'er the mind should reign
Its powers would be useless, its gifts be vain.

Trust me, though Dreaming be pleasant play,
It is best to be working whilst yet we may.
Like the bee culling honey from every flower,
Let us gather fresh knowledge and mental power,
But all our toil and research will be vain,
If we gather and do not disperse again.
We have gleaned from others, and thus in turn,
From our garnered wisdom should others learn,
As those in the past have nobly wrought,
Let us aid the present, by deed and thought.
Honest in purpose, and strong in heart,
Let us boldly perform the WORKER's part;
And if clouds should gather across our way,
Let Fancy her rainbow hues display.
Gather the flowers which around us bloom,
That their beauty may banish all worldly gloom-
Pluck the rich fruits from the laden bough,
And treasure the wealth you are gaining now-
But ever be ready, by word and deed,
Others to aid in their hour of need.
Dream if thou wilt, but oh ! let it be
The prelude to earnest activity.
Let us dream that our race grows better,—and still,
Work well and long that bright dream to fulfil :
That when we awake in another sphere
We may feel that we've done our duty here.

January 17, 1852.

Art v. Jaturt,


The heart's song-wires, and their striker.

The fires were roaring out their carols in the broad chimneys; the lamps were shining with the true Christmas heartiness through their garments of “deepest green and berries red,” and underneath them the young and the old, the wedded and single, were whirling, and twisting, and tacking, to the heart-moving tones of a Christmas Polka. Fair faces were not lacking there, nor light hearts; but in accordance with the stern old axiom (that poets have so long pored over their dictionaries, and painters, and sculptors, their canvass and marble, to express), that the good and the beautiful may not exist on this planet, without the caterpillar to eat away, or the thorn to counterbalance their beauty or their worthiness; so in this happy English ball-room, among the genuinely light-hearted, there were faces beautiful, and forms graceful, while the hidden hearts were full of larvæ that waited but for opportunity to spring into reptile life. Other hearts also, were there, whose kindliness and nature had to be coated over with the tinsel of custom, and of light advice; and there was one not very far, not very far, from its silent breaking.

Let us single out:

Yonder girl that I see, (in my memory's eye), with the lovely ringlets and the white shoulders, who is dancing as if her very soul were in the exercise, and stealing such half tender, half modest looks, at her military partner; her heart is of the tinsel-spread. Yon red-faced whiskerless bachelor; yon young man with the false whiskers; yon old one with the sham head of hair, to which his own white remnants form a curious, and not over elegant fringe; yon little girl in the short dress and long trousers; yon plump-cheeked, healthy country lady; all these are unimportant, every-day-to-be-met-withs; yon pale young gent, that is looking so gloomily on there—but stay! he is not of the everydayers; he is the man we want; his forehead is high and broad; and the dark hair falls idly over it, and a care-shade falleth with

the hair- let us hope indeed that his circumstances are not common; for there is in his heart a fissure, that is widening, widening,

-a fissure that religion and philosophy will fail to close. Having then conjured his form so well before me, it is meet that I tell, as simply as may be, his simple tale: for I know it well. For the sake of one in that gay company, he had long neglected the harder and rougher duties of life, and that not (as he had, a little time before, reason to think,) in vain. He had walked with her in the lanes of the village; and that not only when the sun's rays were abroad, but also when the dangerous moon, and the winking stars looked confidantly down upon them. He had driven her to the near market town in his gig. He had written sonnets to her; and she had approved them. He had attended her to quiet tea drinkings of old maidens, and noisy and innocent parties of young ones. He had marked out the lessons, and turned over the Psalms for her, and sang them with her in the village church ; and he had been happy, so happy! but all this was, (at the time of that Christmas ball), ended. The 41st had come to the market town, and with them their Captain, in the pride of his good birth, and of his commission, of his scars, and of his medals. Alas! for the poor rural nincompoop; alas! for their country-cut broad cloth, what could it avail against scarlet, and lace, and gold-tags? Alas! for the respectable gig, built in 17— ; (no one can fill the blank) what might it say for itself, in answer to the dashing defiance of the London tandem, spick and span from Long-acre? What the sleek cob of the clover field, to the spanking bloods of Tattersall's, with their shining leather and silver rings, and the foam on their proud nostrils? What might the man say to the man and the officer?

The accustomed seats of the student at the tea drinkings and in, the pew, were filled by the soldier; nay worse, and by the soldier's friends; fine fellows were they, with their fertile upper lips, with the copper tinge on their skin, and with their honours on their breasts; and a comfortable sight it was, to behold them bent and softened down by the united influences of love and religion; so thought many; but the student not so. The sight of the mustaches suffocated him, as though underneath his own nostrils, and the full voices of the militaire's command-strengthened,—extinguished his trembling tones; onward, onward, day by day, proceeded the superiority of the sword, to its full fruition.

When we commenced the record of that progress, it had grown into the invitation for the Christmas party, procured for the whiskered gentry by the fair inconstant; it was accepted of course,

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