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Rise up from their thrones to fulfil their stern duty.

Woe to us, woe! the thunders have spoken,

The first of the mystical seals hath been broken.

Through the cleft thunder-cloud the weird coursers are rushing—

Their hoofs will strike deep in the hearts they are crushing;

And the crown'd and the proud of the old kingly races

Fall down at the vision, like stars from their places:

Oremus! Oremus! The pale earth is heark'ning; Already the spirit-steeds round us are dark'ning.

With crown and with bow, on his white steed immortal,

The Angel of Wrath passes first through the portal;

But faces grow paler, and hush'd is earth's laughter,

When on his pale steed comes the Plague Spirit after.

When on his pale steed comes the Plague Spirit after.

Oremus! Oremus! His poison-breath slayeth; The red will soon fade from each bright lip that prayeth.

Now, with nostrils dilated and thunder hoofs crashing,

On rushes the war-steed, his lurid eyes flashing;

There is blood on the track where his long mane is streaming,