Light within the Shade: Eight Hundred Years of Hungarian Poetry

A Soldier’s Song

10 | Light within the Shade A Soldier’s Song In Laudem Confiniorem (To the melody of “Only Sorrow”) Knights-at-arms, tell me where there is a place more fair than the far fields of the Pale? When soft is the springtime, sweet the birds’ singtime, over the hill and the dale; All in heaven’s favor receive the sweet savor, dewdrop and meadow and vale. And the knight’s heart is stirred by the fire of the word that the haughty foe draws near, Pricked to more merit by the spur of his spirit, goes to his trial with good cheer; Wounded yet ready, though his brow be all bloody, seizes and slays without fear. Scarlet the guidons, bright heraldry gladdens on surcoat and standard below, In the vanguard he races, the field’s vast spaces courses, like wild winds that blow; Gaily caparisoned, bright helms all garrisoned, plumed in their beauty they go. On Saracen stallions they prance in battalions, hearing the blast of the horn, While those who stood guard when the night watch was hard, dismounted, rest in the dawn: In skirmish and night-fray unending well might they with watching be wearied and worn. For the fame, for good name, and for honor’s acclaim, they leave the world’s joys behind, Flower of humanity, pattern of chivalry, to all, the pure form of high mind; bá l i n t ba l a ssi | 11 And as falcons they soar over fields of grim war, unleashed to strike in the wind. When they see the bold foe, in joy they Hollo!, cracked lances fly end over end, And if things fall out ill in the field of the kill, rally without a command, And mired in much blood oftentimes they make good, drive their pursuit from the land. The great plains, the forest, the groves at their fairest, are their castle, so they deem; The ambush at woodways, the struggle, the hard days are their groves of academe; Their hunger in battle, the thirst, the hot rattle, pleasures to them well beseem. Their joy in their labor’s the blade of their sabers, the skull-splitting edge they try; And bloody and wounded, and many confounded in battle, silent they lie; And the beast’s maw full often, and the bird’s, is the coffin of those who in courage must die. Young knights of the marches, no shame ever smirches the glory that ever is yours, Whose fame and good name the world will acclaim to its farthest and noblest shores; As the fruit to the tree, may Providence be a blessing to you in the wars! 1589 ...