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Translated by C. T. Brooks
WAYWORN and sad, a stranger-guest | |
| Came to a hall, with gay ones crowded: | |
| “Wine! wine! good host, thy very best!” | |
| He murmured low, with eyes o’erclouded. | |
| And down his jaded limbs he flung; | 5 |
| When suddenly his face flashed fire: | |
| “But, good mine host!” his voice now rung, | |
| “Hungarian wine! the true Tokayer!” | |
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| The vine’s red blood purls in the bowl; | |
| Inviting smiles the generous liquor; | 10 |
| But he, in bitterness of soul, | |
| Looks down upon the sparkling beaker. | |
| He stares into the golden flood, | |
| As if his joy therein, were sunken, | |
| And, boiling, glows his heated blood, | 15 |
| Ere yet a drop of wine is drunken. | |
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| For there he sees the pillaged town, | |
| Where many a home, at midnight, blazes; | |
| On blood-red fields looks wildly down, | |
| On ghastly Golgothas he gazes. | 20 |
| O’er desperate battles fought in vain, | |
| His eyes with bitter tears are filling; | |
| With wail of widows o’er the slain, | |
| With orphans’ cries his heart is thrilling. | |
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| He sees full many a sword swung high, | 25 |
| And hears the distant armor ringing, | |
| And heroes, sworn to do or die, | |
| With warrior’s joy to saddle springing; | |
| And then—and then dark treachery, | |
| And midnight’s gloomy hush descending, | 30 |
| And his dear Hungary, just free, | |
| Her neck to Russian fetters bending. | |
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| Then wildly throbs his woe-sick heart, | |
| And all his limbs convulsive quiver, | |
| He feels a sudden, piercing smart, | 35 |
| And tears pour down, a briny river. | |
| He quaffs the brimming cup, and cries: | |
| “Let all thy foes, just cause! take warning: | |
| Thou from thy grave one day shalt rise! | |
| Hope! hope! there comes a judgment morning!” | 40 |
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| Poor, harassed, hunted exile! thou | |
| Mayst well thy wine with tears be drinking; | |
| But should I once, as thou dost now, | |
| See, in strange lands, mine own wine blinking, | |
| Say, could I e’er, in gladsome mood, | 45 |
| Taste mine own Rhineland’s generous liquor? | |
| Would not a tear-drop, mid the flood, | |
| Still glisten in the bubbling beaker? | |
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