Károly Kisfaludy: MOHÁCS FIELD

(The fatal battle of Mohács Field was fought on August 29th, 1526, when the Hungarians, commanded by the brave but reckless Pál átomori, Archbishop of Kalocsa, werre defeated by the Turks under Solyman II. Louis II., the young King of Hungary, while fleeing from the field, was drowned in a swollen stream, where his horse stumbled and fell. The Turkish Dominion in Hungary lasted for two hundred years after this disastrous battle.)

Oh, field of mourning red and lone, oh, grave

Of our dead greatness, with a heavy sigh

I greet thee! Harsh decay has trailed her wing

Across the earth wherein our heroes lie.

The fierce, exultant lightning blazed forth here

Upon the lifeless bodies of the slain:

Scarred and forsaken is their sepulchre

Deep int he dark breast of this fatal plain.

Tomori, thou proud leader, oh wherefore

Didst thou desert the Archbishop’s sacred chair?

For thee our best and bravest children died,

Beneath thy banners fell the young and fair.

The flames of battle filled the quivering sky

And, led by thee, unnumbered heroes fell.

Too narrow for thy pride was Hungary,

Yet see how narrow is thine earthy cell!

Mute is the trumpet, and with hungry rust

The steel is red. Rest, conquered Captain, rest –

Fortune cannot torment thy weary dust,

Thou hast found peace, of all God’s gifts th ebest.

Oh, many a heart warm with bright hopes and joys,

This direful havoe hath struck cold and still,

Even as a swift tempest oft destroys

The noblest saplings of the wooded hill.

Lo! here lies one renowned for hero-deeds –

His lifeless limbs are trampled int he mire,

His fair locks stiffen as his forehead bleeds,

His soul departs as smoke wafts out of fire.

Beside the road his anxious lady stands

Watching and longing her true knight to see:

When a leaf stirs, with trembling lips and hands

She turns, believing that it must be he.

A chaplet of fair blossoms she has bound

To crown his brows withal, - but ah, in vain:

The fading wreath falls slowly to the ground

When she is told he will not come again.

Oh, Mohács, fatal field of woe and death,

Her heart was cleft even as his that day,

When dire defeat from honour scourged the breath.

Beside her grave there shall keep watch alway,

Fidelity’s mute angel. Oh, alas,

How many warriors worthy to have known

Centuries of achievement here are laid,

Bereft of splendour, and with not a stone

To mark their place of rest, with valiant arm

The patriot fights for liberty, he rides

Through ghastly scenes of carnage, wild alarm

Makes his tired horse fret as he spurs its sides.

Then, as inert its master sways and falls,

The charger gallops on, with flowing mane,

Nostrils dilated, eyes like fiery balls,

And riderless it plunger o’er the slain.

Then, as before the castle gate it stops,

The empty saddle tells the fatal tale:

Heart-broken the young widow pines and drops,

Smitten to earth by sorrow’s lightning pale.

The house, once home of peace and simple joys,

Now stands a gaping ruin to the sky;

The sovereign oak that braved so many storms

Now int he mire a mighty wreck doth lie.

How many warriors have died even so,

How few the fruits of fame and glory reap!

For in defeat their star must quench its glow

And in a nemeless pit their ashes sleep.

The darkness of oblivion blurs their praise,

For by their dust the piping shepherd strolls;

He knows not o’es whose bones his flock may graze,

And yet the shadow of heroic souls

Inspires him, and his song is a lament.

The traveller pauses ont he fatal field:

The throb of sorrow in his heart is pent

To think how man to cruel fate must yield.

With downcast eyes and heavy heart he comes,

Musing on destiny’s unstable pride,

While a pale mist creeps through the evening gold

The river from our curious eyes to hide.

There, ont hat spot, Louis, our ill-starred King,

Struggled beneath his horse’s armoured weight,

In vain, with weary arm now brandishing

His blunted sword-none aves him from his fate.

The marshy bank gapes for its royal prey

Whose golden armour now is blurred with mud,

His bruiséd limbs are flecked with scum and spray,

And now he sinks into the hungry flood.

Thus didst thou perish, gallant King, and so

To die is bitter – for thou wast but young!

With thee the star of Hungary sank low,

For thee laments by countless lips were sung.

May peace still hover o’er thy place of rest,

Thou who hast died within that sombre hour

When envious factions tore their mother’s breast,

And losing unity, lost us our power.

For so the chain that to the soul can pierce

Was forged; - yet, land of saddest memory,

Not alien hands dealt all those onslaughts fierec

But those of thine own children, Hungary!

Oh, home of hopeless care, mother of grief,

Behold, this field commemorates thy woe!

Beneath the harsh hand of the Moslem chief

How soon was Buda’s ancient pride laid low.

Under the rule of Solyman this land

Lost all its’ glory and its’ old-time strength,

While from our towers, like a mocking hand,

The crescent standard flung its boastful length.

Begone, ye gloomy visions, for anew,

After long years, the sun for us arose:

Buda still stands, - there are Hungarians true

Who yet shall triumph o er their country’s foes.

Inspired by patriotism le tus see

Rich promise int he future half-concealed,

And thou, great Golgotha, vast cemetery,

A garden fair shalt blossom – Mohács Field!

*

KÁROLY KISFALUDY  (1788-1830), younger brother of Sándor, the poet, was born at Tét, and educated at a military school.  While still a youth he fought against the French, and quitted the army at the age of 23. His mother having die din giving him birth, Kisfaludy’s father regarded him with absolute aversion, and the poor boy was forced to wander through Germany and Italy, seeking to make himself a career as a painter. Finally, in despair, he returned home, and found shelter int he house of a kindly cobbler. After many disappointments, he at last found the road to fame. One of his plays was given with great success at Pest, and he was thus enabled to pursue his favourite study of history, and also that to pursue his favourite study of history, and also that of Shakespeare and Schiller. Having exchanged the palette for the pen, he continued to write dramas, at first histories, but later comedies. Though a versatile writer, „Mohács Field” alone of his works is well known, and will be long remembered. His chief merit is his artistic treatment of purely Hungarian themes-a style he made popular. Hard work and suffering contributed to his death int he prime of life.

Forrás: MAGYAR POEMS. SELECTED AND TRANSLATED FROM THE HUNGARIAN WITH BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES. BY NORA DE VÁLLYI AND DOROTHY M. STUART. – LONDON, E. MARLBOROUGH AND CO., 1911.