Classic Poem

When angry forces 'gainst each other rise,
And by blind rage the flame of war is stirred;
When 'mid the virulence of party cries
The voice of justice is no longer heard;
When every crime starts rampant to the skies,
And license at the very shrine will gird,
Cutting the cable which the State maintains—
Here is no matter for triumphant strains.

But when a pastoral and simple race,
Sufficient for itself, with no desires,
Hurls off the yoke it suffered in disgrace,
Which in its wrath Humanity admires,
And in its triumph wears a modest face—
This is immortal, and our song inspires.
Such a presentment to unfold be mine,
But what is worthy is already thine.