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The Mother of Matthias
- Syracuse University Press
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32 | Light within the Shade j á n o s a r a n y (1817 – 18 8 2) The Mother of Matthias Elsabeth Szilágyi Signs and seals her letter; Tenderly Spends on it Tears both sweet and bitter. To the high Town of Prague She has marked her letter: Good news sends To her son Under lock and fetter: ”Dearest child! From high Prague Let them not remove you; Ransom I Send for you, For I dearly love you. ”Silver, gold, Silver, gold, I will send to free you; In my heart Is your home Where I long to see you. ”Do not move, Do not stir, Orphan, O beware you! Who shall be já nos a r a n y | 33 Son to me If their plots ensnare you? ”Let this word Be conveyed To Matthias Hunyadi, To his own Very hand, But otherwise, nobody.” She has pressed In black wax Seals and appertainers; Leaning on Elbow rests Wait now her retainers. ”Who will bring With most speed To high Prague this paper? A hundred gold, A good bay horse, For his body’s labor.” ”I will go, I will go, Seven days shall speed me.” ”Seven years Shorter were So my soft heart bleed me.” ”I will go, I will go, Three days brings an answer.” ”Three whole months In my heart Were a shorter span, sir.” [35.172.193.238] Project MUSE (2024-03-28 11:52 GMT) 34 | Light within the Shade ”Lord above, Lord above, Give me wings a-burning, That I might Swifter fly Than a mother’s yearning.” And behold, And behold, Comes a great black raven; Hunyadi’s Shield and arms Bear its like engraven. Down it swooped, Down it dropped, From the storm’s black turning, And it plucked From her hand Those same words of warning. ”Quick, the bird . . . Take it back From the winds of heaven.” See them run, Bow and gun, Seek to shoot the raven. Birds well more Than five score Fall now to the catcher; Not a quill, Not a trace Of the letter-snatcher. Late that night Through the woods já nos a r a n y | 35 They pursued the matter: Midnight came, And a tap At the widow’s shutter. ”Who knocks there? What knocks there? It is the black raven! Can it bear The letter there, Or its like, engraven? ”Red, O red, Is its seal; Fine, fine is its folding: Blessed the hand And the pen That his hand was holding!” 1854 ...