Beneath the heavy cuirass that is girded on my breast
I bear the wreath mysterious St. Peter’s hand hath blessed.
Upon the cannon rests my hand craving to lift the cross,
And 'neath Sardinian colors I bewail the blind world’s loss.
“Miserere, miserere,”
Seemed the weary voice outcrying,
“Spare thy heritage, O Saviour!
Hearken thou the prisoners’ sighing.
“O credulous Western people! cease shouting I am free.
My masters have no knowledge of the truth of liberty,