The God of the Magyars

Away, ye narrow minds, who even now
Dare harbor doubts about the future's days;
For who will not a mighty God avow,
His loving care for our home who gainsays?
The times, the people's tempests, dire and dread,
Is held by Him in His parental care;

For centuries He has upheld our Land,
To fight the robber foe from everywhere.

"The times, the people's tempests, dire an dread,

Would have scattered us, as if we were
But dust; His saintly wings were o'er us spread —
The gales past o'er our heads — and all was fair.
The volumes of our story read, you'll trace

His power divine on every page thereof;
Like golden thread runneth His kindly grace

Throughout our life, which he hath blessed

with love.
And thus we lived the thousand years that passed;
And should these thousand years have lasted but
That now, when we have reached the port, the last
Waves shall us all unsparingly englut?
Not for a moment think that this can be;
It would be sacrilege to think this e'en. t
No human being would, of course not He,
Upon His children play a trick so mean.
The Magyar nation sinned, her sins were great;
For all transgressions though she did atone.
She has had virtues, too; rewards await
Her still — 'rewards the future can't postpone.
Thou, my dear home, wilt live because thou must!
Sweet joys and glory be henceforth thy share!
Forever freed of woe and care, 'tis just

To look expectant toward a dawn most fair.