Hymn

  O, my God, the Magyar bless
  With Thy plenty and good cheer!
  With Thine aid his just cause press,
  Where his foes to fight appear.
  Fate, who for so long did'st frown,
  Bring him happy times and ways;
  Atoning sorrow hath weighed down
  Sins of past and future days.

  By Thy help our fathers gained
  Kárpát's proud and sacred height;
  Here by Thee a home obtained
  Heirs of Bendegúz, the knight.
  Where'er Danube's waters flow
  And the streams of Tisza swell
  Árpád's children, Thou dost know,
  Flourished and did prosper well.

  For us let the golden grain
  Grow upon the fields of Kún,
  And let Nectar's silver rain
  Ripen grapes of Tokay soon.
  Thou our flags hast planted o'er
  Forts where once wild Turks held sway;
  Proud Vienna suffered sore
  From King Mátyás' dark array.

  But, alas! for our misdeed,
  Anger rose within Thy breast,
  And Thy lightnings Thou did'st speed
  From Thy thundering sky with zest.
  Now the Mongol arrow flew
  Over our devoted heads;
  Or the Turkish yoke we knew,
  Which a free-born nation dreads.

  O, how often has the voice
  Sounded of wild Osman's hordes,
  When in songs they did rejoice
  O'er our heroes' captured swords!
  Yea, how often rose Thy sons,
  My fair land, upon Thy sod,
  And Thou gavest to these sons,
  Tombs within the breast they trod!

  Though in caves pursued he lie,
  Even then he fears attacks.
  Coming forth the land to spy,
  Even a home he finds he lacks.
  Mountain, vale - go where he would,
  Grief and sorrow all the same -
  Underneath a sea of blood,
  While above a sea of flame.

  'Neath the fort, a ruin now,
  Joy and pleasure erst were found,
  Only groans and sighs, I trow,
  In its limits now abound.
  But no freedom's flowers return
  From the spilt blood of the dead,
  And the tears of slavery burn,
  Which the eyes of orphans shed.

  Pity, God, the Magyar, then,
  Long by waves of danger tossed;
  Help him by Thy strong hand when
  He on grief's sea may be lost.
  Fate, who for so long did'st frown,
  Bring him happy times and ways;
  Atoning sorrow hath weighed down
  All the sins of all his days.

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Original language version

http://oldpoetry.com/opoem/show/114036-Ferenc-Kolcsey-Himnusz