The legendary Halindir elevated my reading of this brilliant song and created something hauntingly cosmic, yet strikingly sublunary.
When there’s nothing left but the fire in my chest and the air that fills my lungs
I’ll hold my tears and trade my years for a glimpse at kingdom come
On the other side of misery there’s a world we long to see
The strife we share will take us there to relief and sovereignty
Oh by God we’ll have our home again, by God we’ll have our home
By blood or sweat we’ll get there yet
By God we’ll have a home
In our own towns we’re foreigners now, our names are spat and cursed
The headline smack of another attack, not the last and not the worst
Oh my fathers they look down on me, I wonder what they feel
To see their noble sons driven down beneath a cowards heel
Oh by God we’ll have our home again, by God we’ll have our home
By blood or sweat we’ll get there yet
By God we’ll have a home
The way is dark, the road is lost, my eyes they strain to see
I struggle forth to find a friend to light the way for me
Oh brothers can you hear my voice or am I all alone
If there’s no fire to guide my way, then I will start my own
Oh by God we’ll have our home again, by God we’ll have our home
By blood or sweat we’ll get there yet
By God we’ll have a home
Oh by God we’ll have our home again, by God we’ll have our home
By blood or sweat we’ll get there yet
By God we’ll have a home
Tyrtaeus’ Spartan Song of War – Read by Nullus – Featuring “Warfare” by Volk Dissident
Tyrtaeus was a Spartan elegiac poet who wrote during the 7th century B.C. He is known for writing about military and political themes encouraging Spartans to support the state and fight the Messenians. Tyrtaeus wrote intense lyrical elegies to illicit emotion and a call to action.
During this era, Sparta transitioned into its commonly known militaristic austere society. AlongsideLycurgan social and legal reforms, the poetry of Tyrtaeus significantly influenced Spartan social transformation and national identity.
In his book, Studies in Greek Philosophy: The Pre-socratics, Gregory Vlastos discusses Tyrtaeus in the following manner:
“As for Tyrtaeus, he was surely trying to exalt in Sparta (as Solon did in Athens) the “common good of the polis” as against the private ambitions of the nobles and their families. Certainly the Sparta of Tyrtaeus was no democracy. But neither did Tyrtaeus speak as an “aristocrat”; he was a spokesman for the cohesive nationalism of the new Sparta of Lycurgus reforms”
Far away from sunny rills,
Far away from golden broom,
Far away from any town
Whither merchants travel down—
In a hollow of the hills
In impenetrable gloom
Sit the old forgotten kings
Unto whom no poet sings,
Unto whom none makes bequest,
Unto whom no kingdoms rest,——
Only wayward shreds of dreams,
And the sound of ancient streams,
And the shock of ancient strife
On the further shore of life.
When our days are done, shall we
Enter their pale company?
O, sing me a song of the wild west wind,
And his great sea-harrying flail,
Of hardy mariners, copper skinned,
That fly with a bursting sail.
They see the clouds of crispèd white
That shadow the distant hills,
And filled are they with a strange delight
As shaking away old ills.
O, give me a boat that is sure and stark,
And swift as a slinger’s stone,
With a sail of canvas bronzèd dark,
And I will go out alone:
Nor fear nor sorrow my soul shall keep
When around me lies the sea,
And I will return with the night, and sleep
In the wind’s wild harmony.
Laurának
Hová merűlt el szép szemed világa?
Mi az, mit kétes távolban keres?
Talán a múlt idők setét virága,
Min a csalódás könnye rengedez?
Tán a jövőnek holdas fátyolában
Ijesztő képek réme jár feléd,
S nem bízhatol sorsodnak jóslatában,
Mert egyszer azt csalúton kereséd?
Nézd a világot: annyi milliója,
S köztük valódi boldog oly kevés.
Ábrándozás az élet megrontója,
Mely, kancsalúl, festett egekbe néz.
Mi az, mi embert boldoggá tehetne?
Kincs? hír? gyönyör? Legyen bár mint özön,
A telhetetlen elmerülhet benne,
S nem fogja tudni, hogy van szívöröm.
Kinek virág kell, nem hord rózsaberket;
A látni vágyó napba nem tekint;
Kéjt veszt, ki sok kéjt szórakozva kerget:
Csak a szerénynek nem hoz vágya kínt.
Ki szívben jó, ki lélekben nemes volt,
Ki életszomját el nem égeté,
Kit gőg, mohó vágy s fény el nem varázsolt,
Földön honát csak olyan lelheté.
Ne nézz, ne nézz hát vágyaid távolába:
Egész világ nem a mi birtokunk;
Amennyit a szív felfoghat magába,
Sajátunknak csak annyit mondhatunk.
Múlt és jövő nagy tenger egy kebelnek,
Megférhetetlen oly kicsin tanyán;
Hullámin holt fény s ködvárak lebegnek,
Zajától felréműl a szívmagány.
Ha van mihez bizhatnod a jelenben,
Ha van mit érezz, gondolj és szeress,
Maradj az élvvel kínáló közelben,
S tán szebb, de csalfább távolt ne keress,
A birhatót ne add el álompénzen,
Melyet kezedbe hasztalan szorítsz:
Várt üdvöd kincse bánat ára lészen,
Ha kart hizelgő ábrándokra nyitsz.
Hozd, oh hozd vissza szép szemed világát;
Úgy térjen az meg, mint elszállt madár,
Mely visszajő, ha meglelé zöld ágát,
Egész erdő viránya csalja bár.
Maradj közöttünk ifju szemeiddel,
Barátod arcán hozd fel a derűt:
Ha napja lettél, szép delét ne vedd el,
Ne adj helyette bánatot, könyűt.
To the Daydreamer – Translation by H.H. Hart and Watson Kirkconnell
To Laura
Where has the lustre of your eyes descended?
What do they seek in murky depths of space?
Shedding tears for an ecstasy that ended,
or the dark rose that fled without a trace?
Do apparitions on the future's veil
draw nigh with fearful pictures of dismay?
Do you distrust your fate, all wan and pale,
because you once were lost upon the way?
Look at the world and see how very few
among its millions do not weep and sigh -
daydreaming ruins life with lying view
it gazes, cross-eyed, at a painted sky.'
For what can give a man true happiness?
Fame? Treasure? Beauty? Pour these out in flood,
and greedy men will drown in their excess
with joy of spirit never understood.
He who needs roses does not wear a bower;
to stare into the sun means not to see;
he who seeks pleasure only, finds it sour;
for only temperance brings no agony.
They who are good and noble in their soul
who do not hunger in mouth-watering dearth,
whom pride and greedy fancy can't control,
Only they find a home upon this earth.
Don't look, then, to the distance dreams have shown
for the whole earth is never our estate;
only as much as we can call our own
will the wise heart accept and cultivate.
The past and future are a sea too wide
for the small farmstead of single breast;
fog-forts and dead lights flicker o'er its tide;
the lonely heart grows pale at its unrest.
If faithful gifts your present hour bestrew
with feeling, thought and love your true existence,
remain with life and what it offers you
and do not seek the fair but doubtful distance!
Don't sell serenity for coin of dreams
that will lie useless in your cozened hand -
regret will be the sum of all your schemes
if you frequent that day-dream wonderland.
Bring back, bring back your eyes' most lovely light!
Let it return now like a homing bird
that seeks its own olive branch in its flight
that branch to all sorrowful sighs preferred.
Remain among us with your youthful eyes!
Shine forth in brightness on your friend's true face!
Become his sun, high noon in all his skies,
untouched by tears in radiance and grace!
Ich denke dein, wenn mir der Sonne Schimmer
Vom Meere strahlt;
Ich denke dein, wenn sich des Mondes Flimmer
In Quellen malt.
Ich sehe dich, wenn auf dem fernen Wege
Der Staub sich hebt;
In tiefer Nacht, wenn auf dem schmalen Stege
Der Wandrer bebt.
Ich höre dich, wenn dort mit dumpfem Rauschen
Die Welle steigt.
Im stillen Haine geh ich oft zu lauschen,
Wenn alles schweigt.
Ich bin bei dir, du seist auch noch so ferne.
Du bist mir nah!
Die Sonne sinkt, bald leuchten mir die Sterne.
O wärst du da!
Nearness of the Beloved – Translation by A.Z. Foreman
I think of you when sunlight on the ocean
Glimmers at noon;
I think of you when shimmers in the river
Mirror the moon.
I see you in the rise of dust that covers
The distant ridge,
In each deep midnight where the wanderer quivers
On the high bridge,
I hear you in the low and muffled rustle
Of rolling seas.
I often go to quiet groves and listen
To things at peace.
I am with you. However far you are,
I know you’re near!
Oh what I'd give, as sun gives way to star,
To have you here.
In verity I’d sing my lady’s praise,
With rose and lily-flower her face compare:
Like to the morning star her beauty’s rays,
Like to a saint in heaven, ah, wond’rous fair!
Green shades are like her and the breeze as well,
All hues, all blossoms, flushed and pale, beside
Silver and gold and rare stones’ lustrous spell;
Even Love himself in her is glorified.
She goes her way so gentle and so sweet,
Pride falls in whomsoever she doth meet,
Worthless the heart which scorneth such delight!
Ungentle folk may not endure her sight,
And a still greater virtue I aver:
No man thinks ill hath he but looked on her.
Io voglio del ver la mia donna laudare
Ed asembrarli la rosa e lo giglio:
più che stella diana splende e pare,
e ciò ch’è lassù bello a lei somiglio.
Verde river’ a lei rasembro a l’are,
tutti color di fior’, giano e vermiglio,
oro ed azzurro e ricche gioi per dare:
medesmo Amor per lei rafina meglio.
Passa per via adorna, e sì gentile
ch’abassa orgoglio a cui dona salute,
e fa ‘l de nostra fé se non la crede:
e no ‘lle po’ apressare om che sia vile;
ancor ve dirò c’ha maggior vertute:
null’om po’ mal pensar fin che la vede.
For just a single night send all of them out here:
The discord fomenters, who heroes would appear.
For just a single night:
Those who loudly proclaim that we will not forget,
When the death machine makes music above our head;
When suddenly there springs unseen seed from the mist,
And killing lead-swallows in all directions twist.
For just a single night send all of them out here:
Those who look for splinters when beams are breaking clear.
For just a single night:
When grenades start to howl with a deafening sound,
And were its stomach’s slit, so groans the bloodstained ground.
When exploding bullets light up the dark night sky
And Vistula’s waters red by fresh blood are dyed.
For just a single night send all of them out here:
Every penny-pinching usurer, financier.
For just a single night:
When in glowing midst of grenade-crater bright
A man twirls like a leaf – what an awful sight! –
By the time he crumbles, collapses on the ground
Of that soldier just a black skeleton is found.
For just a single night send all of them out here:
The skeptic faithless ones, and every profiteer.
For just a single night:
When hell’s great blazing mouth opens in ghastly glee,
And blood flows on the ground, and blood flows from the trees,
When tents whine in the wind as though they were alive
And dying soldiers sigh: My son… my darling wife…
For just a single night send all of them out here:
Those with long, barking tongues, patriots in the rear.
For just a single night:
When suddenly some stars with blinding light appear,
Let them see their faces in the San River clear,
Which steaming, rolling, churns red Magyar blood and gore,
That with tears, they may shriek, crying, „My God, no more!”
Send all of them out here for just a single night,
That they might curse and swear, and rail with all their might.
For just a single night:
How they’d crowd together, shivering, terrified,
How they would all grovel, and „mea culpa” cry,
How they would tear their shirts, how their breasts they would beat,
How they would howl, shouting, „Christ, what more do you need?”
Christ, what more do you need! Brothers, what shall I give
In payment for the blood, only let me, me live!
How they all would swear;
And whom they never knew, in overweening pride,
How they would call on God, and on Christ crucified:
Against my Magyar kin never more will I deal!
- For just a single night send all of them out here.
Csak egy éjszakára . . . – The original Hungarian poem
Csak egy éjszakára küldjétek el őket;
A pártoskodókat, a vitézkedőket.
Csak egy éjszakára:
Akik fent hirdetik, hogy – mi nem felejtünk,
Mikor a halálgép muzsikál felettünk;
Mikor láthatatlan magja kél a ködnek,
S gyilkos ólom-fecskék szanaszét röpködnek,
Csak egy éjszakára küldjétek el őket;
Gerendatöréskor szálka-keresőket.
Csak egy éjszakára:
Mikor siketitőn bőgni kezd a gránát
S úgy nyög a véres föld, mintha gyomrát vágnák,
Robbanó golyónak mikor fénye támad
S véres vize kicsap a vén Visztulának.
Csak egy éjszakára küldjétek el őket.
Az uzsoragarast fogukhoz verőket.
Csak egy éjszakára:
Mikor gránát-vulkán izzó közepén
Ugy forog a férfi, mint a falevél;
S mire földre omlik, ó iszonyu omlás, –
Szép piros vitézből csak fekete csontváz.
Csak egy éjszakára küldjétek el őket:
A hitetleneket s az üzérkedőket.
Csak egy éjszakára:
Mikor a pokolnak égő torka tárul,
S vér csurog a földön, vér csurog a fáról
Mikor a rongy sátor nyöszörög a szélben
S haló honvéd sóhajt: fiam… feleségem…
Csak egy éjszakára küldjétek el őket:
Hosszú csahos nyelvvel hazaszeretőket.
Csak egy éjszakára:
Vakitó csillagnak mikor támad fénye,
Lássák meg arcuk a San-folyó tükrébe,
Amikor magyar vért gőzölve hömpölyget,
Hogy sirva sikoltsák: Istenem, ne többet.
Küldjétek el őket csak egy éjszakára,
Hogy emlékezzenek az anyjuk kinjára.
Csak egy éjszakára:
Hogy bujnának össze megrémülve, fázva;
Hogy fetrengne mind-mind, hogy meakulpázna;
Hogy tépné az ingét, hogy verné a mellét,
Hogy kiáltná bőgve: Krisztusom, mi kell még!
Krisztusom, mi kell még! Véreim, mit adjak
Árjáért a vérnek, csak én megmaradjak!
Hogy esküdne mind-mind,
S hitetlen gőgjében, akit sosem ismert,
Hogy hivná a Krisztust, hogy hivná az Istent:
Magyar vérem ellen soha-soha többet!
– Csak egy éjszakára küldjétek el őket.
Once before, fanfares tore to blood my impatient heart
So, like a rearing horse that bit its mouth apart
Then, the march of drumbeats drove the storm along the ways,
And most wonderful music of the earth sent us bullet sprays.
Then, suddenly, life stood still. Paths led between old trees.
Rooms beckoned. It was sweet, to stay awhile and be at ease,
The body from reality released as from dusty armour freed,
To lie voluptuously in the feather down of soft dreams' bed.
But one morning through mist air the echo of signals rolled
Hard, sharp, a singing sword-thrust. As if fingers of light in the dark took hold.
It was as when trumpets' blare through dawn bivouacs sound,
Sleepers spring to action, camp is broken, horses paw the ground.
I was lined in ranks that pushed into the dawn, fire over helmet and saddle
Forwards, in the eyes and in the blood, with stiff-held reins, the battle.
At day's end, perhaps, paeans for us would play,
Perhaps under the dead somewhere stretched out we lay.
Yet before the stir to arms and before to earth we sink
Full and gleaming our eyes would of the world and sunlight drink.
Already once have trumpets calling ripped my restless heart to bloody shreds,
That it, uprearing like a steed, might tear its teeth enraged on bridling girths.
Then drumbeat called us to attack on every front,
And bullets raining down for us was earth’s most glorious sound.
Then, of a sudden, life stood silent. Paths pointed us through woods of ancient trees.
Chambers enticed. And sweet it was to linger and lose oneself,
To free the body from the world’s imprisoning chains as though from dust-drenched armour,
To sink ecstatic down amid soft quilts of dreaming hours.
But came a morning when the bugles sounded, rolled their signals through the mist-filled air,
Metallic, sharp, and hissing like a striking sword. It was as when in darkness sudden lights beam out.
It was as when across the tents at dawn the trumpets rattle out their blasts,
The sleeping soldiers start up, strike their tents and saddle up their horses.
I was railed in by ranks, which pushed forth into morning, fire over helm and hand-guard,
Onwards, in eye and blood the conflict, reins held forwards.
Perhaps at evening victory marches would console us with their touch,
Perhaps we would lie stretched out somewhere under corpses.
But before our seizure and before our sinking down
Our eyes ablaze would drink till satiate with world and sun.
Einmal schon haben Fanfaren mein ungeduldiges Herz blutig gerissen,
Daß es, aufsteigend wie ein Pferd, sich wütend ins Gezäum verbissen.
Damals schlug Tambourmarsch den Sturm auf allen Wegen,
Und herrlichste Musik der Erde hieß uns Kugelregen.
Dann, plötzlich, stand Leben stille. Wege führten zwischen alten Bäumen.
Gemächer lockten. Es war süß, zu weilen und sich versäumen,
Von Wirklichkeit den Leib so wie von staubiger Rüstung zu entketten,
Wollüstig sich in Daunen weicher Traumstunden einzubetten.
Aber eines Morgens rollte durch Nebelluft das Echo von Signalen,
Hart, scharf, wie Schwerthieb pfeifend. Es war wie wenn im Dunkel plötzlich Lichter aufstrahlen.
Es war wie wenn durch Biwakfrühe Trompetenstöße klirren,
Die Schlafenden aufspringen und die Zelte abschlagen und die Pferde schirren.
Ich war in Reihen eingeschient, die in den Morgen stießen, Feuer über Helm und Bügel,
Vorwärts, in Blick und Blut die Schlacht, mit vorgehaltnem Zügel.
Vielleicht würden uns am Abend Siegesmärsche umstreichen,
Vielleicht lägen wir irgendwo ausgestreckt unter Leichen.
Aber vor dem Erraffen und vor dem Versinken
Würden unsre Augen sich an Welt und Sonne satt und glühend trinken.
