When hostile elements with rage resound,
And fury blindly fans war's lurid flame,—
When in the strife of party quarrel drowned,
The voice of justice no regard can claim,—
When crime is free, and impious hands are found
The sacred to pollute, devoid of shame,
And loose the anchor which the state maintains,—
No subject there we find for joyous strains.

But when a nation, that its flocks still feeds
With calm content, nor other's wealth desires
Throws off the cruel yoke 'neath which it bleeds,
Yet, e'en in wrath, humanity admires,—
And, e'en in triumph, moderation heeds,—
That is immortal, and our song requires.
To show thee such an image now is mine;
Thou knowest it well, for all that's great is thine!