of Mohács (1526), written in dystichs, Kisfaludy is frequently more than clever; in that ode he soars to the sublime. His “_Eprészleány_” (“Girl Gleaning Strawberries”) is a charming idyll. CHAPTER XXI. The work of Kisfaludy was great. He charmed his readers, and thus awakened an interest in Hungarian Literature in circles that had hitherto been callous to the intellectual revival of their country. His vocation, however, was limited. The Hungarians, by nature grave and given to ponderous sentiments, needed, for a full awakening of their literary life, more than the perfume of flowers. The rhythmic thunder of the war-clarion; the majesty of the organ was needed. And the right man came. The man, in whose sublime poems was heard the turmoil of the old glorious wars, the symphony of love and patriotism, in tones of unprecedented beauty. That man was Michael Vörösmarty (1800-1855). His life was devoted entirely to the pursuit of literature, and in his soul there was only one grand thought: to become Hungary’s troubadour, to kindle the holy light of patriotism on the altar, and with the aid of the muses. In this he was successful beyond all his predecessors. His were some of the rarest qualities, the union of which goes to make the great poet. In beauty and truly Magyar rhythm of language he was and largely still is unsurpassed. His diction is, like his country, full of the majesty of vast mountains, and the loveliness of flower-clad meadows sloping down to melodious rivers. Without being a reckless innovator of words, his works read at the first appearance as if written in a new language. As when the student of Hellenic antiquity, after years spent with engravings of old Greek art, comes for the first time to see one of the still extant remains of that art itself: so felt the contemporaries of Vörösmarty when the glorious hexameters of his epic, “_Zalán futása_” first struck their ears. There was at last, not only this or that instrument of the orchestra of Hungarian language; there was heard, not only the wails of the ’cello of Kölcsey; the musical cascades of the clarinet of Charles Kisfaludy; the wafting chords of the harp of Berzsenyi; or the gossamer oboe of Csokonai: there was heard the unison and harmonious struggle of all the instruments of the great idiom. Like the composers of the immortal symphonies, Vörösmarty wielded the resources of the Magyar language, intensifying the effect of each instrument by the parallel or counter-quires of the other instruments. In his love-songs you hear not only the notes of the melody, but also, as in the songs of his Austrian contemporary, Schubert, the undercurrents of the melody in the accompaniment. The wealth of poetic figures in Vörösmarty is surprising; yet a chaste moderation tempers all undue exuberance. He is powerful, not violent; imposing, not fierce. He writes mostly Largos; but there are very few _longeurs_ in them. The quick pulsation of the drama does