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From Indus to the river by which pale Warsaw bleeds—
Souls are wakening—hands are arming—God is blessing noble deeds.
IV.
Bravely done, ye Roman Eagles, ye are fluttering at last;
Spread your broad wings brave and proudly, as in old times, to the blast;
Never furl them—never flag, till with the Austrian's slaughter,
Ye crimson the full tide of the Danube's rolling water.
Who will falter now? Who'll stand like a trembling coward dumb!
Plaudite! Freedom stands again on the Janiculum! From the Tiber to the Adige her vatic words are waking, Italy! fair Italy! arise the dawn is breaking!
V.
The Russian breathed on Poland, and she changed to a Zahara;
The jewels of her ancient crown adorn the Czar's tiara.
Her princes, and her nobles, tread the land with footsteps weary,
And her people cry to Heaven with ceaseless Miserere. On her pale brow, thorn crownèd, ye may read her shame and loss; See, foreign rule has branded there the fatal Thanatos. But her agony and bloody sweat the Lord from Heaven will see, And a resurrection morn heal the wounds of Calvary.