While our trumpets through the fields shall blare so loudly
That never from that day forth shall the clang of copper and bronze
Be thought sonorous.
Tête-d'or: In the midst of the Earth there is a field
And he who, from spurs to crest
Wreathes himself with the fumiter and bluets that flower there,
—By the plains and the amphitheatre of mountains,
By the seas, by the swollen rivers and by the murmuring forests,
Shall be hailed as King, Father,
Stem of Justice, Throne of Thrift!