Nature travails in blood for generations
To compose the harmony of his personality. 940
When our handful of earth has reached the zenith,
That champion will come forth from this dust!
There sleeps amidst the ashes of To-day
The flame of a world-consuming morrow.
Our bud enfolds a garden of roses, 945
Our eyes are bright with to-morrow’s dawn.
Appear, O rider of Destiny!
Appear, O light of the dark realm of Change!