Each idle murmur of the people’s voice,
We should not longer tremble, that no more
This thought should haunt our souls—E’en now,
perchance,
He for whom thus your hearts are yearning—dies!
Ant. Oh! fearful thought—but vain and distant
now!
Each joy, my daughter, must be bought with grief.
Hast thou forgot the day when, proudly led
In triumph midst the noble and the brave,