VIII.
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.