Our boasted virtue turned to scarlet shame
By the low, envious lust of party power;
While he upon the heights whence he had led,
Deserted and betrayed in victory's hour,
Still wears a victor's wreath on unbowed head.
The Nation gropes—his rule is at an end,
Immortal man of the transcendent mind,
Light-bearer of the world, the loving friend
Of little peoples, servant of mankind!
O land of mine! how long till you atone?