MY ASPIRATION, TRANSLATED FROM PETÔFI

, By Sir Tollemache Sinclair.

If God thus spoke, and if He said to me :

« My son, I promise thee by this my speech,

e The death which thou shalt choose thine end shall be »,

For this death then I'd gracious God beseech.

May it be autumn, autumn ripe and mild, Amongst the sere leaves may the bright sun shine, Amongst the boughs, singing its song so wild. May one bird stay behind from spring divine.

And as on Nature all, and e'en on men, Death seems quite imperceptibly to glide. So may it gently come on me, and then Oh ! may I see it when it's by my side.

And 'mongst the dying leaves, and like the birds, So may I sing my last song, I beseech, With tune enchanting, which to Heaven in words And to the depths of all hearts may soon reach.

And when I've ended my short song of joy, Ah ! let one dear kiss close these lips of mine. From thee, oh ! beauteous fair-haired maid so coy, Of earthly joys 'tis thou art most divine.

But if kind God delayed that boon I found. For this quite different death I'd ask Him then. May it be spring, for spring's for war renowned. When wounds like roses deck the breasts of men.

And in soul-stirring tunes, oh! sound your best,

Ye trumpets, nightingales of war's grand art.

There may I also be and on my breast

May Death's red flowers of blood spring from my heart.

And when I sink down from my steed in death, May a kiss reach my lips and my pale brow, Thy kiss, oh I noble Freedom, thy dear breath. Of heavenly beings the most glorious thou I

This translation was published in the « Pester Lloyd » of Hungary with editorial praise. What adds to the charm of this beautiful poem is that Petofi died in battle as he had wished, fighting for the liberties of his country.

LARVES BT SOURIRES