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A hymn of joy is rising from creation;

Bright the azure of the glorious summer sky;

But human hearts weep sore in lamentation,

For the Brothers are led forth to die.

Aye, guard them with your cannon and your lances—

So of old came martyrs to the stake;

Aye, guard them—see the people's flashing glances,

For those noble two are dying for their sake.

Yet none spring forth their bonds to sever

Ah! methinks, had I been there,

I'd have dared a thousand deaths ere ever

The sword should touch their hair.

It falls!—there is a shriek of lamentation

From the weeping crowd around;

They're stilled—the noblest hearts within the nation—

The noblest heads lie bleeding on the ground.

Years have passed since that fatal scene of dying,

Yet, lifelike to this day,

In their coffins still those severed heads are lying,

Kept by angels from decay.

Oh! they preach to us, those still and pallid features—

Those pale lips yet implore us, from their graves,

To strive for our birthright as God's creatures,