A thought torments me: 'tis that I may die
Among my pillows, fading like a bloom
Whose root the canker gnaws, or wasting slow
Like a pale candle in an empty room.
Oh, God, it is to Thee my fervent prayer
Thou wilt from such a death thy servant spare!
Let me be as a tree by lightning riven
Or by a storm torn up, in nature's ire;
A rock from mountain-crest to valley driven
By an earth-shaking thunderbolt of fire;
When, of their thraldom tired, the nations rise,
And the red standard boldly is unfurlerd
Above the battlefield, with this device,
These blessed words, "Freedom for all the world!"
When with bright eyes and checks by ardour flushed,
They throng unto the conflict triumphing,
When tyranny is overthrown and crushed.
When cast and west victorious echoes ring—
Then let me die!
Death's pangs let me feel
As my last words fly
On the clash of steel;
When the trumpets call
And the cannon thunder,
Then may I fall
And my corse lie under
The hoofs of the steeds
That to victory dash
When the conquered bleeds
And the squadrons crash.
Then, when the solemn day of mourning comes,
Let them take up my scattered bones with care,
And to the sound of dirge and muffled drums,
'Mid drooping flags, let them my ashes bear
Unto the grave where all those heroes lie
Who fought for thee, O Holy Liberty!
Sándor Petőfi.