I Dream of Gory Days.
VÉRES NAPOKRÓL ÁLMODÁM.
I dream of dread and gory days,
Which come, this world to chaos casting,
While o’er its ruined works and ways,
The new world rises everlasting.
Could I but hear, could I but hear
The trumpet’s blare, to carnage calling!
I scarce can wait till on my ear
The summons sounds, to some appalling.
Then to the saddle quick I spring,
My mettled steed with joy bestriding,
And haste to join the noble ring
Of heroes, who to fight are riding.
And should a spear-thrust pierce my breast,
There will be one – a fair thought this is –
By whom my wound will then be dressed,
My pain assuaged by balmy kisses.
If taken captive I should be,
This one, my dungeon’s gloom adorning,
Will surely come to visit me
In radiance like the star of morning.
And should I die, and should I die
On scaffold, or mid cannons’rattle,
This one with tears will then be nigh
To wash away the blood of battle.