he hangman!
In this land of pleasure, oh! be not dismayed;--
Now is the time, brown daughters of Hungary,
To dance to the measure of true hearts betrayed!

And then, these melancholy words calling up the memory of disaster, all
would revive before Andras Zilah's eyes--the days of mourning and the
days of glory; the exploits of Bem; the victories of Dembiski; the
Austrian flags taken at Goedolloe; the assaults of Buda; the defence of
Comorn; Austria, dejected and defeated, imploring the aid of Russia;
Hungary, beaten by the force of numbers, yet resisting Paskiewich as she
had resisted Haynau, and appealing to Europe and the world in the name of
the eternal law of nations, which the vanquished invoke, but which is
never listened to by the countries where the lion is tearing his prey.
And again, Zilah would remember the heroic fatherland struck down at
Temesvar; the remnants of an armed people in refuge at Arad; and Klapka
still holding out in the island of Comorn at the moment when Georgei had
surrendered. Then, again, the obscure deaths of his comrades; the agonies
in the ditches and in the depths of the woods; the last despairing cries
of a conquered people overwhelmed by numbers:

Dance, dance, daughters of Hungary!

All this bloody past, enveloped as in a crimson cloud, but glorious with
its gleams of hope and its flashes of victory, the Prince would revive
with old Varhely, in the corner of whose eye at intervals a tear would
glisten.

They both saw again the last days of Comorn, with the Danube at the foot
of the walls, and the leaves of the trees whirling in the September wind,
and dispersed like the Hungarians themselves; and the shells falling upon
the ramparts; and the last hours of the siege; and the years of mournful
sadness and exile; their companions decimated, imprisoned, led to the
gallows or the stake; the frightful silence and ruin falling like a
winding-sheet over Hungary; the houses deserted, the fields laid waste,
and the country, fertile yesterday, covered now with those Muscovite
thistles, which were unknown in Hungary before the year of massacre, and
the seeds of which the Cossack horses had imported in their thick manes
and tails.

Beloved Hungary, whose sons, disdaining the universe, used proudly to
boast: "Have we not all that man needs? Banat, which gives us wheat;
Tisza, wine; the mountain, gold and salt. Our country is sufficient for
her children!" And this coun