The myriads clap their hands,
Sons of the soil now desolate and bare,
And their glad voices rise upon the morning air.
It comes, long-wished-for, comes,
The tamed and friendly flood,
While blatant arms and rattling drums
Sway to the peaceful conquest their unwonted mood.
And you, O ancient peaks,
Cold-glancing in the early sun!
This crowd, in every murmur, speaks