“And while I clamour in vain for them the immortals rise from their tombs, the great army of national spirits, planting a standard round which the millions of Hungarians should rally: a torch to guide them, a camp-fire to rest them, and the soft flames of the hearth to comfort them in the night of great deception.
“While our contemporaries fail to find a voice for our sufferings, Petöfi wanders among the ragged mutilated heroes who have returned:
“Oh shame, oh bitter shame! Once Clio’s records told
Of fame no fairer than thy fair name’s fame;
Now thou’rt despised, and those who would of old
Cringe at thy feet, dare strike thee free and bold
Full in the face, and cover thee with shame.
Whate’er my fate, whatever its decree,
I shall forbear and suffer for thy sake;
Though God’s most bitter curse should fall on me,