Hungarian Plains

Whence the influence strange, O ye Carpathian mountains,Wild romantic forests, where the fir trees, moving,Bring to me the sense of beauty and of grandeur,But no thoughts nor dreams of longing or of loving?

But the broad, flat plains, extended in the distance,Wide in their expanse, and level as the ocean;When on these I look, like an enfranchised eagle,All my soul is moved with magical emotion.

Bear me upwards then—high, high above earth's bosom,To the realms where roll the clouds in their careering,Let me at my feet behold the mighty Danube,Towards the laughing Theiss with steps majestic steering.

'Neath the Delibab, see the outstretched Kumania,Covered with its herds under the roof of heaven;How they track their course onward in steady silence,Towards the running stream to slack their thirsts at even.

Now I hear the rush, the galloping of the horses;Rattling of the hoofs I hear, and nostrils snorting;Cracking of the whips, and shouting of the Csikós;Laughs and merry song, and echoes of the sporting.

In the cottage meadows, rocked by gentle zephyrs,Roll the golden corn-waves o'er their crests ascending;Forests tower aloft, while hang on trees prolificFruits like rubies red, with leaves of emerald blending.

Hither come the flocks of wild geese from the marshes,When the dying light portends the evening's gloaming;Midst the reeds they hear the startled breezes rustling,And, alarmed, take flight towards the high heaven roaming.

On the Puszta's waste, close to a ruined cottage,With fallen chimney, stands the Csarda—lonely dwelling.There the Betyárs meet, from many markets gathered,There their songs are singing, there their tales are telling

In the Linden wood, adjacent to the Csárda,Built upon the sands of melon tinge, is nestedThe tower-falcon, screaming shrill, but neverIn his deep recess by truant lads molested.

Orphan-maiden-hair in those retreats is growing,And the thistles blue their spiky heads are waving,Sheltered at whose foot repose the scattered acorns,Which the dews of morn and dews of night are laving.

Far away where heaven the fettered earth has girded,Fruit trees, with their wealth, the distant landscape cover;While we dimly trace a pale and misty column—'Tis the village spire the green fields towering over.

All is charming—all—at least, to me 'tis charming;On the flat land born and bred—I well may love it;'Neath its sod let me repose in peace and silence,When my corpse is wrapt in funeral shroud above it.