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

Hiában 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

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^{[note 1]} 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

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