The Sun.
London, England, 1830-02-01 00:00:00

LITERATUII7.

ON. IS.;P.

POETRY OF THE MAGYARS.
A few months since a clever article. appeared
in either the Foreign Review or the Foreign
Quarterly—we cannot just now remember
which—on the subject of the Magyars, their
poetry, history, poliical situation, and general
literature. This article, we take it for granted,
was written by Dr. Bowring, who, simplifying
and otherwise improving that portion of it which
related to Magyar poetry, has presented it to us
in the new, and, -of course, considerably amended.
form of the present volume. And, indeed, the
subject well deserves the attention it has here
met with ; for, according to Dr. Bowring's ac-
count, the Magyars are a nation who abound in
the staple materials of poetry,—fancy, invention,
enthusiasm, and strong susceptibility to the ex-
ternal influences of nature. They are, it seems;
a branch of the great Hungarian tribe, as the
translator has shown, in his graceful prefatory
discourse ; but it is only of late years that poetry,
as an art, has been cultivated with any success
among them. Once sown, however, the seeds
seem to have shot up with astonishing vigour
and precocity ; numberless poets, some excellent,
but the majority respectable, now illumine Mag-
yar literature, which henceforward bids fair to
win a name among nations. Of the earliest
recorded poet of any note, we have the following
brief account :

‘' Zrinyi appeared at a period which several nations
are disposed to claim as the golden age of their literature.
He was born in the year in which Shak,peare and Cer-
vantes died—the proud ers of Italy, England, Spain, and
Portugal. Zrinyi is, however, the founder of the modern
poetry of the Magyars. In 1651, appeared his Zriniad,
an epic poem, the produce of those hours which military
and civil service left him in his busy existence. His
verses, consisting of four lines of twelve syllables, with a
common rhyme, have given a name to this peculiar stew.
Little can be said in fa/our of his language, style, or versi-
fication. They are careless and incorrect, and his battle
descriptions are_ tedious indeed. Yet are his conceptions
bold and strong. His portraits are well drawn, and his
groupings happy. His facility of writing led him astray;
yet, withal, he is undoubtedly far above any poet that had
preceded him, or any that followed, for a century at least.
In some of his shorter poems there is evidence of a playful
and busy fancy. He was the representative of a family of
great antiquity, and was the son of that Ilau of Croatia,
who was poisoned by Wallenstein in 1626. It has been
said that his sword had been stained with the Turkish
blood before he was ten years old ; and that, in other times,
crowds of Onnanlis rushed to see a hero, the beautiful,
tall, thin hero,' who had been so much the object of their
dread. There is an address of Soliman to the Grand
Vizier, in which he directs him not to desist from attack
until he has captured Zrinyi, 'the author of so much mis-
chief.' Zrinyi fought and won many battles, but was
killed by a wild boar on the 18th November, 1664. He
had been covered with honours from many of the powers
of Christendom, and was as distinguished for his learning
as for his courage. He spoke six languages, and was a
master of the literature of ancient and modetn times. The
first edition of his works appeared at Vienna, in 4to. , in
1651."

From this period down to the present prolific
one (among the Magyars as every where else),
scarce ten years seem to have passed without
producing at least half a dozen poets. At pre-
sent they appear to swarm in Hungary, like
Epics on the bookseller's shelves in Paternoster-
row. Luckily, however, their fame is less sta-
tionary. Dr. Bowring speaks highly of the
Magyar tongue ; he describes it as simple and
expressive, and observes, that he knows of no
language which presents such a variety of ele-
mentary stamina, and none which lends itself so
easily and gracefully to all the modifications
growing out of its simple principles. This is
high, and we doubt not, deserved commendation.
The infant poetry of all nations seems to
have but two subjects—love and war. In
process of time, a third is added—wine. But
here variety for a long time makes a pause, and
it is not. until the nation has become matter of
history—until it has produced statesmen and
orators, extended its connections, rubbed off a
part of its indigenous rust, and enriched its
native powers by combining, comparing, and
contrasting them with those of other nations ; it
is not until this is the case, that it takes a march
in fancy, and becomes a searcher after intellectual
variety. For many years the Magyar bards—
as we judge by the present translations—chaunted
little else but the praises of love, war, and wine.
Accordingly the volume before us abounds in
commendations of this very respectable triad ;
though we are glad to find that among the mo-
dern poets newer and more complex themes have
been introduced. Love, war, and wine among
the original Magyars are pretty nearly the same
as they are among the American or African sa-
vages, or the scalds of the north of Europe ; that
is to say (we quote the phraseology of honest
Dogberry), " exceeding tolerable, and not to
be endured." Hence they may readily be dis-
pensed with.
We observed just now that the modern Mag_
gars have greatly varied (thereby of course im-
proving) their former favourite poetic themes ; a
few specimens will convince the reader of the
truth of our assertions.
" SONG OF THE TURKISH YOUTH.
Miert panaszkodjam, Szerencse, ellened,
Ha bovied mindeanap en Oromemet ?
0 Fortune ! I fling no reproaches at thee,
For thou bast been gent'e and gen'rous to me ;
And nc'er would I echo the slanders unkind,
Which call thee unjust, or vindictive, or blind.

Thou look'st on my love with no menacing air,
But wouldst help me to win while I worship the fair;
And while joy piled on joy flings delight on my days,
Let thine be the glory, and thine be tilt praise.
The first vernal song, and the first vernal leaf,
And Nature's sweet childhood—so beauteous and brief;
And the nightingale's strain—and the rivulet's fall--
And the light brerse—are thine—music, beauty, and all.

And the summer, when cypresses shade me from heat,
And the acphyrs come freshen'd, to kiss soy retreat ;
Where the tent is above, and the wine-cup goes round,
And the flowers smile below—thou, 0 fortune ! art found.

From autumn's rich harvest thou hasterest to pour
Pomegranates and citrons—a limitless wore;
Or leadst to the chase, when I follow the prey—
The bird in its flight, or wild beast on its way.

When winter comes on, with its loud-rolling storms,
And the snow and the ice in their marvellous forms,
Am I wretched ? ono ! I hang over my fire,
And have mere than I want—aye ! and all I desire,
I have honour and fame, full enough for my lot;
And my gettings still add to the treasures I've got:
M horse is my glory—my sabre is true—
And 0, my sweet maid ! thou art faithfulness too.
0 Fortune ! thou wearest my fetters—art bound
In my bonds—and I look without terror around :
No evil will chance me—l feel that the chain
But binds thee more firmly to bless me again."

The above is very lively and-graceful in its
turn ofkught, and reads smoothly and sweetly
in an English dress. Francis Kazinczi's poem,
entitled " The Frogs," is a quaint rambling con-

wi-li cl,,Jrus which.- is the exact verbal
-.Ninscript or die Frogs in Aristophanes.
followig sonnet, " Her Image," indicates
considerable poetic retiitetnent. The reader will
:hank us fur transcribing it.

" lIER IMAGE.
Alidon az hajnal elveri ilmonat.
fa morning and I mdte—tie earliest vision
That beams upon me is thy face divine ;
Anti then my spirit floats in light elysian,
And bliss springs youthful from those smiles of thine.
"Tis she—'tis she !' I cry,—swift flow my veins,
I kiss the air, as if her breath had bl,ss'd it—
I how to earth, as if her feet had press'd it—
Yes ! she was here, and still her influence reigns.
Fair Representative ! the sweet infection
Of power is with thee—gentle, but supreme ;
Blending such dreams of hope and recollection—
And gilding with new glory every dream :
Look !—for the sun is up, and on thy facl
Throws all its lustre, light, and heavenly grace."

" The Cottager's Song" is a most rustic pic-
ture, full of natural and pleasing images ex-
pressed with appropriate simplicity. The idea,
" Winter puts on its white robes" (it should
have been his or her), though far from original,
is exceedingly picturesque and well expressed.

" COTTAGER'S SONG. •
Nem adott az Isten nekem nagy palotat.
No elegant palace God raised o'er my bead,
Rich tapestry gave not, nor silk to my bed ;
But a cottage of peace, and a rude, healthy life,
And, to crown my enjoyments, a brown, cheerful wife.
Together we earn the coarse bread which we eat,
And love makes it taste more delightfully sweet;
When our labours are ended, together we rest,
And each to the other's bare bosom is prest.
The sun rises up—and we rise, full of joy,
Full of strength, to the busy day's wonted employ.
Then the spring dawns in green, and the fields smile anew,
And every fresh flow'ret is dripping with dew;
And the song of the lark pours its melodies sweet,
Like a zephyr of freshness on summer's close beat.
Then comes the gay vintage—the red grapes we bear,
And alike of the labour and recompense share.
The winter puts on its white robes—we retire
At even—and bend o'er our own cottage fire.
My Sari turns round the gay spindle and sings,
And out of our happiness time makes its wings.
I have handicraft labours—and, happy the thought,
For this pay no taxes to Germans—nor ought..
'The sabbath comes round, and in holiday gear
I go to God's dwelling—then quietly steer
To the Kortsma, where, cheer'd by a wine-loving brother,
Vire-pledge a full glass, and we laugh with each other;
Get warm, and we call on the Gipsies to play.
I know of no care, roll the world as it may :
I nothing-am owed, and, to nobody owe—
Hurting none, none will hurt me—so smiling we go
On the rude path of life—when its labours arc past,
Death will find us both ready and cheerful at last."

In closing our notice we cannot refrain from
congratulating Dr. Bowring on the happy choice
of his subject, as well as on the spirit with which
he has executed it. His translations are elo-
quent, free, and poetic—we take it for granted
,
that they are faithful—and give a lively and
favourable notion of Magyar literature. That
they will be popular, we have not the shadow of
a doubt; and that they will create a desire in
the English mind to know more of Hungarian
poetry, we have as little.

GORTON'S GENERAL BIOGRAPHICAL DIC-

TIONAR Y.

We have just seen the appendix of this useful
work, which display: throughout traces of re-
search and industry. It is now completed, and
contains on the whole as valuable a body of
biographical information as any that we have in
the language. Publications of this nature can-
not be too warmly recommended ; they imply
the possession, on the part of the editors, of
unwearied diligence and extensive knowledge.

THE YOUNG WANDERER'S CAVE. 1930.
An interesting collection of child's stories—
simple and natural in their incidents, and told
with equal simplicity—by the author of that po-
pular little publication, " The Children's Fire-
side."