缪斯，不善于虚情假意的赞美，不沾染奉承的艺术;他爱单纯，爱从心中吐出的热情;当感激和喜悦鼓舞着，久经练习的琴声重新响起，噢，上帝，你的出生的早晨:她织的不是华丽的花圈，而是用橡树的月桂树叶缠绕着你的摇篮。因为你的祖先不是躺在花坛上，在那里懒惰溶化，脾气吞噬了精神的全部能量。投掷飞镖，骑上汽车，阻止战争的洪流，从命运手中夺取一片下沉的土地:颤抖侵略者的高冠，从他手中夺去匕首，留下凄凉的印记:正是这一点，使这条辉煌的线与第一个名声相抗衡!一千年来，它闪耀着不减的火焰。我曾见过你那威武的父女们在光荣的事业中出现在最前面，那是勇敢的骄傲和典范。然而，他们的祖先纯粹出于对鲜血的欲望，出于野心的狂想，他们的胜利不过是为了拯救。缪斯欢欢喜喜地给他们送行，和平之谷也跟着;在那里，村庄欢快地向它的主重新唱起感激之歌。 Yon castle's glittering towers contain No pit of wo, nor clanking chain, Nor to the suppliant's wail resound: The open doors the needy bless, Th' unfriended hail their calm recess, And gladness smiles around. There, to the sympathetic heart, Life's best delights belong, To mitigate the mourner's smart, To guard the weak from wrong. Ye Sons of Luxury, be wise: Know, happiness for ever flies The cold and solitary breast; Then let the social instinct glow And learn to feel another's wo, And in his joy be bless'd. O yet, ere Pleasure plant her snare For unsuspecting youth; Ere Flattery her song prepare To check the voice of Truth; O may his country's guardian Power Attend the slumbering Infant's bower, And bright, inspiring dreams impart; To rouse th' hereditary fire, To kindle each sublime desire, Exalt, and warm the heart. Swift to reward a Parent's fears, A Parent's hopes to crown, Roll on in peace, ye blooming years, That rear him to renown; When in his finish'd form and face Admiring multitudes shall trace Each patrimonial charm combined, The courteous yet majestic mien, The liberal smile, the look serene, The great and gentle mind. Yet, though thou draw a nation's eyes, And win a nation's love, Let not thy towering mind despise The village and the grove. No slander there shall wound thy fame, No ruffian take his deadly aim. No rival weave the secret snare; For Innocence with angel smile Simplicity that knows no guile, And Love and Peace are there. When winds the mountain oak assail, And lay its glories waste, Content may slumber in the vale, Unconscious of the blast. Through scenes of tumult while we roam, The heart, alas! is ne'er at home, It hopes in time to roam no more; The mariner, not vainly brave, Combats the storm, and rides the wave, To rest at last on shore. Ye proud, ye selfish, ye severe, How vain your mask of state! The good alone have joy sincere, The good alone are great: Great, when, amid the vale of peace, They bid the plaint of sorrow cease, And hear the voice of artless praise; As when along the trophied plain Sublime they lead the victor train, While shouting nations gaze.