A BATTLE-SHOUT for Hungary
Once more shall wake the day, —
A joyful summons to the brave,
To rally for the fray;
To gird her round, and, with their swords,
Make lightning on her way!

The shout that each bold Magyar heart
With war's fierce rapture fills,
The cry that in the traitor's veins
The coward current chills, —
Let it ring up from the valleys
And roll along the hills!

Let it sound amid the mountain land,
That mighty gathering cry, —
Go up from steep, and crag, and cliff,
Clear, terrible, and high,
Till the vultures and the eagles
Scream back their hoarse reply!

Like the mingling of all fearful sounds
Of vengeance and of woe, —
Like the rush of fire, the roar of floods,
When wintry tempests blow, —
Like the thunder of the avalanche,
It shall sweep against the foe!

God of the nations, Thou didst hear
Poor Hungary's patient prayer,
From the prison of her bondage
And the night of her despair,
When the groanings of her spirit
Were burdening all the air!

Thou didst flash upon her darkness
A great and sudden light;
Didst break her chains, and lead her forth,
And gird her for the fight
With the weapons of thine anger,
And the armour of thy might!

Once more be thy victorious strength
On mortal hearts outpoured;
Take Thou the blood-guilt from our strife,
And sanctify the sword
That strikes for Freedom! For the right,
Make bare thine arm, 0 Lord!

Bless Thou our banners, till their folds
On Freedom's ramparts wave,
And shade the patriot's holy rest;
O, strengthen, guide, and save
Our PROPHET-HERO to the end, —
God of the struggling brave!