Szózat

The Szózat (in English: Appeal or Summons) is considered as a second national anthem of Hungary, beside the Himnusz. Usually only its first two stanzas are sung at national celebrations. The official anthem is sung at the beginning of ceremonies, and Szózat is sung at the end.

It was written in 1836 by Mihály Vörösmarty, and was set to music in 1840 by Béni Egressy for the award of András Bartay, head of the national theatre. It was first performed at 10th May 1843, in the National Theatre. There was a long debate in that era whether Szózat or Himnusz would be chosen as the national anthem.

The title of Vörösmarty's work defines the situation: it is a speech, oration of a raconteur (the poet) to the Hungarian people. Although the Szózat of Vörösmarty touches similar thoughts as the poems of Ferenc Kölcsey, even as continuing his train of thought, its intonation is entirely different. Himnusz (Hymn) is a prayer, but Szózat acts rather like a speech, addressing the listener/reader by the narrator in the role of an orator. Furthermore, as a prayer, Himnusz becomes almost a begging for the last verse, while Szózat is much more uplifting, unfaltering, inspiring for patriotism and loyalty. However, it also reckons with the concerns of Himnusz, sees the death of the nation as a possibility: 'Or it will come, if it must come, The glorious death'. At the same time it finds possible the coming of a better era: 'There yet shall come … that better, fairer day'. It takes notice of the warning in Huszt: compares the present with the time to come. The poem deals with the past in three, with the future in six verses.

It was translated to English by Watson Kirkconnell, Canadian writer, academic.

Lyrics

Szózat Hazádnak rendületlenűl Légy híve, oh magyar; Bölcsőd az s majdan sírod is, Mely ápol s eltakar. A nagy világon e kivűl Nincsen számodra hely; Áldjon vagy verjen sors keze: Itt élned, halnod kell. Ez a föld, melyen annyiszor Apáid vére folyt; Ez, melyhez minden szent nevet Egy ezredév csatolt. Itt küzdtenek honért a hős Árpádnak hadai; Itt törtek össze rabigát Hunyadnak karjai. Szabadság! itten hordozák Véres zászlóidat, S elhulltanak legjobbjaink A hosszu harc alatt. És annyi balszerencse közt, Oly sok viszály után, Megfogyva bár, de törve nem, Él nemzet e hazán. S népek hazája, nagy világ! Hozzád bátran kiált: "Egy ezredévi szenvedés Kér éltet vagy halált!" Az nem lehet hogy annyi szív Hiába onta vért, S keservben annyi hű kebel Szakadt meg a honért. Az nem lehet, hogy ész, erő, És oly szent akarat Hiába sorvadozzanak Egy átoksúly alatt. Még jőni kell, még jőni fog Egy jobb kor, mely után Buzgó imádság epedez Százezrek ajakán. Vagy jőni fog, ha jőni kell, A nagyszerű halál, Hol a temetkezés fölött Egy ország vérben áll. S a sírt, hol nemzet sűlyed el, Népek veszik körűl, S az ember millióinak Szemében gyászköny űl. Légy híve rendületlenűl Hazádnak, oh magyar: Ez éltetőd, s ha elbukál, Hantjával ez takar. A nagy világon e kivűl Nincsen számodra hely; Áldjon vagy verjen sors keze: Itt élned, halnod kell. Written by Mihály Vörösmarty

Literal Translation To your homeland without fail Be faithful, O Hungarian! It is your cradle and will your grave be Which nurses, and will bury you. In the great world outside of here There is no place for you May fortune's hand bless or beat you Here you must live and die! This ground on which so many times Your fathers' blood flowed This, to which, every holy name One thousand years has coupled Here fought for home the hero Arpad's hosts Here broke apart the prisoner's yoke Hunyadi's arms Freedom! Here is carried Your bloody standard And our best were felled During the long war And through so much ill fortune After many feuds, Though depleted, but not broken The nation lives on this homeland. And home of the nations, great earth! Shouts bravely to you: "A thousand years of suffering demands life or death!" It cannot be, that so many hearts Uselessly spilled their blood And in vain, so many faithful hearts Were broken for the homeland. It cannot be that mind, might And so holy a will Would uselessly wither Under the weight of a curse; It still needs to come, it still will come A better age, for which Fervent prayer yearns On hundreds of thousands' lips. Or it will come, if it must come The glorious death Where above the funeral A nation wallows in blood And the grave, where the nation is lowering, Nations surround And in the millions of peoples' Eyes, a tear of mourning wells. Be faithful, without fail To your homeland, O Hungarian: This is your succor, and if you fall With its grave it covers you In the great world outside of here There is no place for you May fortune's hand bless or beat you Here you must live and die! Translated by Laszlo Korossy[1]

Lyrical Translation Oh, Magyar, keep immovably your native country's trust, for it has borne you, and at death will consecrate your dust! No other spot in all the world can touch your heart as home— let fortune bless or fortune curse, from hence you shall not roam! This is the country that your sires have shed their blood to claim; throughout a thousand years not one but adds a sacred name. 'Twas here brave Árpád's mighty sword ordained your land to be, and here the arms of Hunyad broke the chains of slavery. Here Freedom's blood-stained flag has waved above the Magyar head; and here in age-long struggles fell our best and noblest, dead. In spite of long calamity and centuries of strife, our strength, though weakened, is not spent; our country still has life. To you, O nations of the world, we call with passioned breath: "Should not a thousand years of pain bring liberty—or death?" It cannot be that all in vain so many hearts have bled, that haggard from heroic breasts so many souls have fled! It cannot be that mind and strength and consecrated will are wasted in a hopeless cause beneath a curse of ill! There yet shall come, if come there must, that better, fairer day for which a myriad thousand lips in fervent yearning pray. Or there shall come, if come there must, a death of fortitude; and round about our graves shall stand a nation washed in blood. Around the graves where we shall die a weeping world will come, and millions will in pity gaze upon the martyrs' tomb. Then, Magyar, keep unshakeably your native country's trust, for it has borne you and at death will consecrate your dust! No other spot in all the world can touch your heart as home; let fortune bless or fortune curse, from hence you shall not roam! Translated by Watson Kirkconnell