Page:Poetry of the Magyars.djvu/139

Rh Rammed into earth and rotting, where a horseman

May tie his steed up. Then the broken kettle,

And the crack'd pot, still reeking with the odors,

Not fragrant, of the last long by-gone guests.

Its bearer looks suspicious, and the travellers

Rather lie down without, night-frozen, waiting

The morning, or fly hurrying by, impatient

To reach their journey's end, than tarry here.

But when the heaven is veil'd in threatening darkness,

And the fierce battle of the clouds begins,

And lightning, thundering, burst the furious storms,

And the winds rage, and down the torrents rush,

And all the plain becomes a sudden sea—

O, then we are less delicate—O, then

We seek not Farkas, nor Arany-Sas,

Vad-ember, Hét Elector, —satisfied

With something less than best. No quarrel then

With John the waiter, who has left the key

Behind him. No! a little room suffices,

And we judge not the architect. The love

Of gorgeous buildings is a vanity,

And it devours the land—till, ere too late,

They and the country totter. He who seeks

For peace and quiet, will condense his soul,

Narrow his circle, nor extend desire.

These marble church-high walls—these glass-clad pillars, Rh