Bid all awake and rise and for evermore lay their aches and pains aside,
To this end were they born, not slaves, fearing to live, nor living, fear to die.
98
And now my pen in honor here doth write, in praise of thee thou soul divine of love.
Thou art the conquerer of this sorrow pile of life, thou art the song, the singer and the dance.
Thou art the shade of all repose and peace; better thy smile than a triumphant wreath.
Better thy friendship than a monarch's wealth, stronger thy hand than all armed force.
Fountain Divine, thou life of all that's born, thou ruby of the wine, thou perfume of the morn.
Friend and light of the wintry path, the dew drop's sparkle, and the flame that burns.