Cserhalom (extract)

Round thee the soul of the past in the shadowy vapors of silence,
Cserhalom! wanders. Thou needst no pillars of bronze in thy memory;
Thou art a pillar thyself—a mountain of victory and battle.
Nature thee reared in her might and her majesty—building
Piles o'er ephemeral dust. No fugitive record of mortals
Thou, for thy head tow'rs aloft, and will tow'r, through all ages undying—
Record and witness to tell of the fame of our valorous fathers.
Arpad's dominions were peril'd in Solomon's dangerous rule-time;
Still it stood firm and unshaken — in strength of unperishing manhood's
Heroes undaunted : and most in the happier days of their concord;
Countless their enemies' graves, as countless their enemies' armies.
Like a tall rock, that towers from the earth with a double-crown'd summit,
Reaching to heav'n—from the east and from west reaching upwards to heaven;
Sunshine and day on its sides, while its brow is o'erturban'd in darkness;
Round it the lightning plays till weary, like innocent childhood;
Fixed are its roots in the earth, in its greatness and grandeur reposing:
Such was the land of Arpad, and the storms and the flashings of danger
Roll'd unmolestingly by—all harmless the rage and the thunder.
Then with his armies went forth, like the light-giving beam of the noontide,
Solomon Királ, with twain of the noblest and choicest of heroes,
Belá's descendant—wise Géza, and he of the battle-axe, Laszló—
Laszló the terrible: both seemed bright as the blessing of heaven.
Courage and power were theirs, and the union of temperate prudence
Shielded the land from the day of precipitate fall and perdition.
Lingering is now the course of the struggle of Sajò and Mohacs;
Tears flow forth from the eyes of the noblest son of his country,
Laszló. Doth Laszló tremble?—the brave, the terrible Laszló?
Cserhalom! thy proud brow is the proudest summit of triumph.

Prince of the Kunians, Ozūl—now where, with thy passionate legions?
Backwards thy banners are blown with the breath of the north wind chilling:
Thrice hath thy steed wheeled round—he will not bear thee onward.
Look! for the birds of prey are screaming frightfully o'er thee,
Gathering together in crowds—the famishing broods are impatient,
Waiting to feed their fill of thy multitudinous warriors;
Lo! how they hasten now! for their glorious festival longing.
There, as the wolf invades the fold of the shepherd, and ruthless
Plunders, ravages, raves, 'midst the terror-struck flocks, till the sheep-dogs
Howl in the distance, the dogs with the spike-girded collars—the shepherd
Steps o'er the threshold, excited, the terrified robber pursuing,—
So in their murderous purpose the enemy came, and Nyerseg Ravaged.
Their footsteps of violence crushed all the fruits of the Theiss, while
Blood spouted forth on her sands. Bihār saw the terrible ruins—
Saw—'twas too late: death sat on the gloom-cover'd brows of the valiant;
Grey-headed men o'er the dead sigh'd despairingly; all their life-currents
Flow'd like a slow stream of bitterness. Babes on their cradles disorder'd,
Wept in their innocent woe; their mothers, Ozūl's cruel bandits
Led bound in cords: heavy chains they fetter'd on youths and on maidens,
Driv'n into slavery—slavery hopeless of any redemption.
There was old Ernyei shorn of his fortune—one treasure, one only;
She of the auburn hair—Etēlke—Etēlke the lovely:
Nay! not Etēlke—how hollow and heavy the sound of "Etēlke!
"O, had I delved thy grave, had I made thee a bed on the silent
Bosom of earth, I had known it! If whelmed in the stream of the Danube,
Borne on the fawn-color'd waters, pursued by an army of fishes,
Still I had known it! If, gather'd in desolate sadness and sorrows,
Youths round thy death-couch were crowded, still, still———Shall my spirit
Sink in despair? No! I'll suffer and breathe resignation.
Blessed be God!—I look round me I look—but mine eyes can see nothing.
Loudly I call—and I hear but the echoes. Tears fall on my bosom.
Groaning I ask, Doth a God still dwell in the precincts of heaven—
One who old Ernyei hears and pities? Or, visiting error,
Awfully flings he his bolts at the sins which stand blazing before him?"
So mourned the wretched old man, and buckled about him his weapons,
Trembling. The King rises up; and the fame-covered children of Belá

On to the field—'twas in haste and in gloom—they were girded for battle.
Round the hill, like clouds, the hosts of Ozūl were collected:
He, 'neath gorgeous tent, was laid on magnificent carpets:
Under his feet was his club; at his head was the battle trumpet;
Stuck on his spear his cap; but his sword to his side was belted;
Firm in his terrible hand the sheath: around him singers and dancers
Sported, and spread the spoil; while sad and beautiful women
Sung of Ozūl's proud feats, and the horrible days of carnage.
Bönger's son alone, the stately one, Arbocz, scornful
Stood in the crowd, and flung his hate and his pride around him.
He, like the eagle watching the timorous brood, seems to linger
Most when most longing to pounce on the prey. In the silent
Rapture of joy and of fear in the circle he stood, where approaching,
Fair as a statue of marble, Etēlke, the brown-hair'd, the lovely
Near'd. She looked round, if the dust of the plain by the army of Laszló
Rose—if her father were there with the well-known, the wind-flapping banners.
All, all was silence—all silence—except the loud tones of the mirthful
Girdling thy limits, Cserhalom! and echo returned the rejoicings.
Laszló appear'd not then—the wind-flapping banner appear'd not,
Held by her father aloft: but, many a youthful one greeting,
Arbocz approach'd, whose eye was still fixed on the face of the maiden.
First was the silence broke by the voice of the dark-eyed Kődör:
"Beauteous is the swan, when calmly from heaven descending
Towards his well-loved home from foreign and distant waters:
Gracefully glides he on o'er his natural lake, while above him
Moon and stars scatter round their exquisite light-rays of silver.
Thou, O Bönger's fortunate son! the maiden is far more lovely;
Whiter her breast than the snowy down of the swan's snowy bosom.
See, she weeps, she weeps. Go, Arbocz—the tears of the mourner
Dry; on her brows sits hot sweat—and see, for her fore-head is burning."
Frowningly look'd the son of Bönger, the stately one, Arbocz:
"Light-thoughted Kődör! enough of such sportive and frivolous language;
Words such as thine may provoke—I can bear them an instant—no longer."
Kődör retired; but there came a legion of boisterous comrades:
One thus laughingly spake: "Arbocz, I pray, if thou love me,
Sell me one smile of the prisoner. She turns—O how lovely her motions!
Covering her brow—what a languishing look! what a beautiful figure!
Exquisite grace when she stirs!—'tis the beautiful bend of the wavelet.
Speaks she? Ten pieces of gold would I give for each word that she utters.
Give me her smile, and I'll give thee my bow with the costly adornings."
"Arbocz," another cried—"thou foolish one! leave me an instant
Resting beneath the shade of her auburn hair, and my spirit
More shall joy than to steal the pearls of a thousand oceans."
Then a third appear'd and began: "Thou art far too flighty;
I alone deserve an exquisite word to utter.
Maiden! thou dost right well not to hide thy feet so lovely;
Beautiful they as the piles of the foam which the wind awakens:
Happy indeed were I, could I bow me down and kiss them.
May I not watch the print of her exquisite footsteps, Arbocz?
Prints she leaves in the sands; on my shield I'll engrave them, and bear them
Over the earth till I find a maiden whose foot-print shall match them."
Dember the strong, Czika's son, was of all the most mettlesome youth there;
Rosy his cheeks, while his locks fell in light-color'd shocks on his shoulders;
Slender and tall was his form; his glance was a sharp-pointed dagger;
Stormy his soul when the flame flashed forth of the good and the lovely.
Forward he sprung—saw the maid—was astounded—and eloquent language
Burst unprepared from his lips: "Heaven certainly means to chastise thee,
Arbocz, who stealest its gems—or the maid steals its beauty from heaven—
Punished on earth for a while. No woman e'er bore such a beauty;
Milk never fed her; she drank alone the ambrosia of Eden.
Breezes play timidly round her, and exquisite dews of the morning
Damp her fair cheeks, which are fairer—aye, fairer by far, than Aurora's,
Aurora's that blush with deep hues of shame and of jealousy mingled.
Look on her eye—it has nought that is earthly—'tis like a black fragment
Torn from the midnight, and flung on the sun's burning centre. Its glory
Not brighter than that of her glances. Speak, Arbocz!—from morning I'll pray thee;
Bring thee the sun and the torches of heaven to purchase the maiden:
She is my life-giving day-light—beyond her all shadows and darkness—
Darkness and nothingness all." But the maiden stood trembling in sorrow.
Arbocz tow'r'd up erect o'er the crowd; he look'd on them fiercely;
Half unsheath'd his sword while he spoke: "Are ye more? Have ye finish'd?
Babblers! what would ye? Have I—have I interrupted your pleasures?
Why will ye weary the ears with your childish and spiritless prattle ?
Fling yourselves off-far too long have I borne ye: and, idle ones! listen:
One—aye, one single word more of such insolent jeers, and 'twere better,
Far better, the jeerer from birth had been blind and been dumb; for I'll smite him
With blindness and speechlessness here on the spot where he sports with his insults."
Said—and the youths gather'd round the intemperate, passionate stormer:
Dember held fast his sword. Arbocz his harangue had but ended
When the proud Ozūl came forward, and glanced at the maiden:
"Truly, 'twas not in vain Arbocz in the battle-tents tarried;
He guards a beautiful treasure: but list to the word of Ozūl now.
Give the maiden to me and instead, take my daughter, young Zeje;
Rich is she in song, and bright as the brightest starlet;
Softer is she than dew—and never has slept on man's bosom.
Five good battle steeds of the strongest, swiftest, and youngest,
Saddled, with gold and with riches caparison'd, cheerfully give I.
This—yes, and more, will I give to the fortunate hero who wins her."
Swift did Bönger's son, the stately one, Arbocz, answer:
"Victory-crown'd Ozūl! I give thee all thanks and all honor;
Great is thy favor to me—to me, last and least of thy heroes—
Offering thy Zeje. Forgive my rejection in vain from the maiden
Strive I to tear my heart; my heart she hath steadfastly fetter'd.
Noble thy gifts, I own; thy presents well worthy of princes;
Yet, could thy battle steeds fly as swift as the swift winds of heaven—
Were the trappings of gold pluck'd forth from the stars of the concave,
Dazzling and glorious—in vain were they weigh'd in exchange for the maiden.
If ever dishearten'd in battle thou find me, produce her—my courage
Will wake and be worthy of thee." Thus Arbocz. Then answer'd the hero,
"True, thou art proud; but thy pride shall enkindle no hatred towards thee:
Still, if thou long for the strife, being far more imprudent than valiant,
Know that my arm shall o'erwhelm thee, and give the fair maid to my servant."
"Never!" cried Arbocz—and, stinging with passion, he started and seized his
Sword, while his rage brought blood to his eye-balls, glaring with fury.
Ozūl withdrew with the youths. And such were the pleasant discussions
Gathering the people together. By Ernyei's trump-call assembled,
Solomon's armies came in might with the troops of the monarch,
Géza was there, and the mighty one, Laszló: in furious disorder
Pour'd they, a river resistless, o'er Bihār's all desolate borders.
Arbocz grew calm at last, though vexation was rife within him:
Spreading round him a mantle light, o'er his shield the striped skin of the tiger,
Then he dried the tears of the maiden with gentle endearment;
Low at her feet he sat, pouring words of love and of comfort.
Once did the maiden ope her pure and rose-tinged lips, which
Breathed such beautiful tones, that the very breezes caught them:
"Hero! thou wert begot by a strong and generous father;
Born of a joyous mother at morning's loveliest dawning.
Thou, thou didst grieve me not; thou lettedst not others grieve me;
Soothing the prisoner's pang, and easing the chains of bondage.
So, when I utter prayer, and sink at the Deity's footstool,
All thy fondest hopes shall mingle with my petitions.
Thee would I preserve in the bloody perils of battle;
Thee, from the edge of the sword. Let thy destiny keep thee from peril.
Hither, O hither, approach not. The lioness rearing her cubs, the
Dragon that wastes the south, are milder when raging in fury
Than the herd of the three-crown'd hill, than the fruitful sons of Hunnia.
He rushes—they all arise—the youth are gather'd together;
Love's very wreaths forgot in that fearful hour of danger.
Power, powerful though it be, by a mightier power is vanquish'd:
Aggression but calls up more terrible aggression.
Prince of the battle-axe—he, the dreadful and terrible smiter,
Laszló—he only—he goes with his army to fight and to conquest.
Arbocz, behold! Well I know the troops of Ozūl came to ravage.
Perchance thou dost curse me—-while I fain would find thee a shelter of safety.
Fly! fly! I tell thee—aye, fly as far as thou canst—lest the mountain
Cserhalom swallow thee up with the hosts of the overthrown foemen,
Crush'd, blown away in the dust, by Solomon's far-spreading army.
Come, rather lead me to dwell in the far distant hall of my father:
He, white-hair'd old man, tears his hair in his sadness and sorrow.
Come—when he sees us approach, he'll thank thee with tears—O believe me!
Thank thee with tears—who restorest his daughter—and cheerfully give thee
All that thou wilt to redeem me. Thy path is before thee all darkness:
Stumbles thy war-steed there it is cover'd with heaps of the dying:
Birds of prey hover o'er. When the night and its clouds are approaching,
Enemies gird thee round. Who is here?" thou inquirest. No answer.
Look on Ozūl, for the moon shines bright on his blood-cover'd forehead.
Nay! thou wilt save the child, the child of the snowy-hair'd hero;
Or wilt thou haste to the field, to the sorrow-clad field of thy brethren?"
Arbocz with gloomy heart to the words of the prisoner listen'd;
Still he repressed the storm of his easily-waken'd anger,
Look'd on the maiden's face and answer'd her—" Lovely Etēlke!
Dreams, vain dreams, are these words never made heroes tremble:
Men, with murderous weapons, alone do this. But a maiden's
Menace!—Nay! Roses close their beautiful lips till the morning
Warms their bosom anew with the light and joy of the sun-shine;
Dews on the leaflets shake, and the winds of the valley blow gently;
Then unveil they their charms, then fling they their smiles around them:
So, if thou hide thy head in the clouds, the gloom is but transient;
Dark for an instant thine eyes, by those beautiful eye-brows o'ershaded;
Soon do they shine, as the rainbow the south-seeking sun paints so gaily.
Sad art thou, maiden, and anxious—yet sportive and smiling thou seemest;
Lovelier far, and thy cheeks are more beautiful, hiding thy sorrow.
List, and I'll tell thee why Arbocz elected thee:—Maiden!
Never again shall we reach the cherish'd abode of thy comrades.
Joyful they sit in the porch, while they hear the old song of the battle;
Pledging some distant companion—not knowing how idly they pledge him
The death-glass—and he whom they pledge is departed for ever. We hasten
On, on; and in faith all your heroes may cut through the far slower south-wind—
Follow the shadows that flit in the frown-curtain'd regions of darkness,
Stretching in giant stride, like ghosts that grow-huger in distance.
Truly, they never shall reach us; and great is their fortune and favor,
Spared by our darts, which might bring them the message of death. But I'll bring thee
Home to some isle of the ocean, that smiles in the beams of the morning;
Sweetest the song of the nightingale, greenest the leaves of the forest,
Softest the sounds of the winds, and brightest the azure of heaven:
Apples of exquisite taste hang there on the ground-kissing branches.
Thee shall no bird overtake—faint and feeble the flight of the eagle;
Tracking our course, shall he droop on his whirling and wearisome pinions.
Tiresome the way for man; not one of a thousand can pass it.
Even the man thou didst name, the man of the battle-axe, dreadful
Laszló—aye, cleanse he thy land for his followers—know, he shall perish,
Perish—and all the wave's monsters shall feed on the wrecks of his armies.
He—when his armour of brightness invites the great fish of the ocean,
Moving glibly on, while the soak'd and wandering members
Fall in his man-devouring maw—shall die. Dost grieve thou art helpless?
Nothing thy pride can do 'gainst power. Far better the transports
Love will give in the grasp of an age of youthful vigor.
Scorn not bliss that asks thy welcoming, but dispose thee,
Maid, for love—my hand—my hand of faith do I proffer.
Say, wilt be the slave, or rather the sovereign, of Arbocz?"
Craftily thus he spoke, and bade her forget her country—
Bade her make him alone the care and love of her bosom.
Silly one! O'er the plain the armies of bronze are shining;
Dust in clouds upsoars, and crowds of heroes are coming.
"Talpra vitéz!" exclaim'd Ozūl in his haughtiest bidding;
"Talpra vitéz!" around Cserhalom's borders was echoed.
Shouts and cries were heard where the Kunians march'd with their weapons.
Arbocz trembled then—looking round with fright and terror,
Like a sleeping man who is roused by the rumbling of thunder:
So he stood—and the dreams of his folly and lust were scatter'd;
Other thoughts were his than the thoughts of the fair Etēlke.
Horrors came o'er his soul, like waves on the ocean troubled.
Soon did the armorist come—he came with his lance and charger.
Frighten'd, the lovely maid had hasten'd to meet him; yet pleasure,
Pleasure was in her soul, though tears in her eye—tears of gladness:
Yet she wept—she wept; while, tossing his head in disquiet,
Arbocz wander'd round, made hoarse by the longing for combat:
All his gentleness gone, he utter' d these words of impatience:
"Weeping, forsooth!—yet these, all these, to their death-bed are hast'ning.
Weep—thou shalt weep no more. Expect me delighted from battle."
Said, and he sprung on his steed, and he rush'd 'midst the thick of the squadrons.

Hark! for the trump is loud, and the combatant weapons are clashing;
Volumes of dust, shouts and cries, ascend from the crush of the warriors—
Tones of confusion and moans, and the manifold accents of passion.
Over the rest, Ozūl, on his chestnut war-steed advancing,
Speeds through the ranks, and lets loose destruction's terrible ploughshare—
Curses begetting rage, and devilish purpose of murder.
Soon the voice of joy is heard. On the top of Cserhalom's mountain,
Lo! a valiant band, their arms in the high heavens shaking.
'Midst a terrible crowd is Etēlke—the feeble young flowret:
Hope, with its sorrow-mix'd fear, and joy, in her spirit are struggling.
Hard-hearted warriors surround her, wherever she turns for protection:
Bending on trembling knee, she invokes the heavenly Ruler.
Say, shall she perish ? In vain the question breaks forth from her spirit.
Hear her, O Heaven! in her bitterness—hear her: she prays for her country.
Heaven! thou hast heard her prayer—her country shall no man wrest from her.