This website is using cookies

We use cookies to ensure that we give you the best experience on our website. If you continue without changing your settings, we'll assume that you are happy to receive all cookies on this website. 

Moore, Thomas: Oh ne bántsd a költőt (Oh! Blame Not the Bard in Hungarian)

Portre of Moore, Thomas
Portre of Arany János

Back to the translator

Oh! Blame Not the Bard (English)

Oh! blame not the bard, if he fly to the bowers*
Where Pleasure lies, carelessly smiling at Fame;
He was born for much more, and in happier hours
His soul might have burn'd with a holier flame.
The string, that now languishes loose o'er the lyre,
Might have bent a proud bow to the warrior's dart;**
And the lip, which now breathes but the song of desire
Might have pour'd the full tide of a patriot's heart.

But alas for his country! -- her pride is gone by,
And that spirit is broken which never would bend;
O'er the ruin her children in secret must sigh,
For 'tis treason to love her, and death to defend.
Unprized are her sons, till they've learn'd to betray;
Undistinguish'd they live, if they shame not their sires;
And the torch, that would light them through dignity's way,
Must be caught from the pile where their country expires.

Then blame not the bard, if in pleasure's soft dream
He should try to forget what he never can heal:
Oh! give but a hope -- let a vista but gleam
Through the gloom of his country, and mark how he'll feel!
That instant, his heart at her shrine would lay down
Every passion it nursed, every bliss it adored;
While the myrtle, now idly entwined with his crown,
Like the wreath of Harmodius, should cover his sword.***

But though glory be gone, and though hope fade away,
Thy name, loved Erin, shall live in his songs;
Not even in the hour when his heart is most gay
Will he lose the remembrance of thee and thy wrongs.
The stranger shall hear thy lament on his plains;
The sign of thy harp shall be sent o'er the deep,
Till thy masters themselves, as they rivet thy chains,
Shall pause at the song of their captive, and weep!



* We may suppose this apology to have been uttered by one of those wandering bards, whom Spenser so severely, and perhaps truly, describes in his State of Ireland, and whose poems, he tells us, "were sprinkled with some pretty flowers of their natural device, which gave good grace and comeliness unto them, the which it is great pity to see abused to the gracing of wickedness and vice, which, with good usage, would serve to adorn and beautify virtue."

** It is conjectured by Wormius, that the name of Ireland is derived from Yr, the Runic for a bow, in the use of which weapon the Irish were once very expert. This derivation is certainly more creditable to us than the following: "So that Ireland, called the land of Ire, from the constant broils therein for 400 years, was now become the land of concord." - Lloyd's State Worthies, art. - The Lord Grundison.

*** See the Hymn, attributed to Alcæus, -- "I will carry my sword, hidden in myrtles, like Harmodius and Aristogiton," etc. - Notes from Irish Melodies.


Uploaded byJakus Laura 1.
PublisherDover Publications
Source of the quotationIrish Melodies
Publication date

Oh ne bántsd a költőt (Hungarian)


Oh ne bántsd a költőt, ha magányba fut, hol
Fekszik a gyönyör, a hírrel nem törődve;
Nagyra született ő, s lelke lángolási
Szentebbek volnának boldogabb időkbe'.
A húr, melly most lantján tágan lankad, tudna
Harczi dárda ellen íjt feszíteni,
És ajkán, a melly most vágyakat lehel csak,
Honfiszívek árja ömledezne ki.

De jaj hazájának!.... elmult büszkesége,
S melly volt hajthatatlan, megtört szelleme;
Romján csak titokban sóhajt népe, mert őt
Árulás szeretni s halál védnie.
Csak az árulónak van becse, csak annak.
A ki szégyenlője ősei nevének;
Az a fáklya vezet méltósághoz, a mely
A hazát-hamvasztó máglyán gyujtaték meg.

Hát ne bántsd a költőt, ha, mit nem gyógyíthat,
Kéjek közt akarja elfelejteni;
Oh csak egy reményt adj, csak egy fény ragyogjon
Honja éjén, s meglátd, mint fog érzeni!
És azonnal szíve minden szenvedélyt, mit
Táplált, s mindent, ami kedves, messze hajt,
S a babér, melly fejét hasztalan övedzi:
Mint Harmodiusnak, kardját födi majd.

De bár dicsőséged eltűnt s a remény is,
Neved, drága Erin, élni fog dalába',
Még az órában is, mellyben legvidámabb,
Emlékezni fog rád s sorsod viszályára.
Panaszod meghallj' az idegen, rónáin,
Tengeren túl küldi a lant sóhajod,
Maga zsarnokod is, míg lánczod szorítja,
Rabja dalán megáll majd és sírni fog.

Uploaded byJakus Laura 1.
PublisherRáth Mór
Source of the quotationArany János hátrahagyott versei
Publication date