The Bugaczian Csarda

Now, Csikos, Gulyas, now—come hither—hither,
And make your way through fly-swarms numberless,
And armies of loud croaking frogs, and legions
Of insects which torment the herds—come hither,
Forth from the robbers' nest, and tell me who
Placed thee in that wild waste. Not what thou seemest
Art thou. The badges of mine host thou bearest
Deceitful, for thou hast no welcome. Four
Blank walls, a stable into ruin falling,
A roof that's like a wash-trough—fitful sport
For the wild winds—and all thy wealth is told.
Nay! there's a ditch hard by, in which is hidden
Thy dirty, red-cheeked helpmate—and two blocks,
Rammed into earth and rotting, where a horseman
May tie his steed up. Then the broken kettle,
And the crack'd pot, still reeking with the odors,
Not fragrant, of the last long by-gone guests.
Its bearer looks suspicious, and the travellers
Rather lie down without, night-frozen, waiting
The morning, or fly hurrying by, impatient
To reach their journey's end, than tarry here.
But when the heaven is veil'd in threatening darkness,
And the fierce battle of the clouds begins,
And lightning, thundering, burst the furious storms,
And the winds rage, and down the torrents rush,
And all the plain becomes a sudden sea—
O, then we are less delicate—O, then
We seek not Farkas, nor Arany-Sas,
Vad-ember, Hét Elector,—satisfied
With something less than best. No quarrel then
With John the waiter, who has left the key
Behind him. No! a little room suffices,
And we judge not the architect. The love
Of gorgeous buildings is a vanity,
And it devours the land—till, ere too late,
They and the country totter. He who seeks
For peace and quiet, will condense his soul,
Narrow his circle, nor extend desire.
These marble church-high walls—these glass-clad pillars,
Superb recesses, sparkling chandeliers,
Vases of China, and Carrara urns,
And the carved woods of distant worlds—do ye
Give peace? Are ye the evidence of bliss?
Doth happiness dwell with ye?
Doth happiness dwell with ye? Men of old
Had better witnesses of joy. The oak,
The ash, and the wild pear-tree, furnished all
Their dwellings, and the lofty pine their floors,
Or oft the solid earth. One chamber made
A home—when guests, however numerous, came,
A blanket flung around them well suffic'd.
No rich superfluous beds—the roof was thatch—
And the walls hung with friendly arms around;
Not silk or paper tap'stry—wooden stools
Or benches round the smiling board, and plates
Of earthenware or tin—but bliss was there,
And mirth, and song, and friendship. We possess
The show, but the reality is gone.
How many are the cabinets where now
An honest Chizma may not tread—shut out
By slippers, socks, and other fantasies,
With which a man must garnish, or remain
In th' outer chamber.
In th' outer chamber. Csarda! Unto me
Thy desolate retreats are dearer far
Than all these follies. Come I—night or day—
Splash'd, streaming, soak'd, and even with forty guests,
I am as welcome as a monarch coming
To peace unbroken: then thy oven gives
Bread finer than Keskemeths, and thy vaults
Flow with the richest of Kőrösian wines.
O let the pilgrim rest in thy sweet shades!