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And wove that best and dearest band, The instinctive love of Fatherland.

Thousand active hands bestir ;
In cheerful league each other aid,
And, in fiery movement, are
All the powers of Art display'd.
Man and Master calmly rest,
Holy Freedom their reliance ;
Each in his own place is blest,
To the scorner bids defiance.
Toil should be the Burgher's pride,
Success, of Industry the prize ;
The King by pomp is dignified,
Us our labor dignifies.

Gentle Concord !
Kindly Peace !
Ah! tarry, tarry,
Friendly over this our town!
Never may the day appear,
When the hordes of rugged war
Riot thro’ this tranquil valley ;
When the heavens,
Whence the Evening's blushes mild
Lovely beam,

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Shall, with conflagration wild
Of towns and hamlets, frightful gleam.

Now the mould we may destroy,
It hath answered its intent ;
Let us feast both heart and eye
On our task's accomplishment.

Swing the hammer, swing !

Till the mantle spring !
Ere the bell rise from below,
Must the frame to pieces go.

The Master may break up the frame With prudent hand at fitting hour ; But woe! whene’er, in brooks of flame, Itself shall free the glowing ore, Blind-raging, with the crash of thunder, It springs in air the bursten house ; And, as from hell-jaws wide asunder, Blazing destruction forth it spews. Where rude and senseless powers prevail There form and shape will ever fail ; To free themselves when nations strive, The common weal can never thrive.

Woe! when in cities' womb hath lain
The fuel heaped by slow degrees,

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The People, shattering their chain,
At self-relief doth madly seize.
Then at the ropes doth Uproar pull,
Till, hallow'd but to peaceful chimes,
The bell with hideous clang doth howl,
The signal to revolt and crimes.

Freedom ! Equality!" they call
The fearful Burgher grasps his arms;
The streets are fill'd, the market-hall-
On all sides prowl the murderous swarms.
Women into hyænas start;
Disgustingly with horror jest ;
With panther-teeth their victims' heart
They tear, yet quivering, from the breast.
Nought holy is there more; all ties
Of pious Shame are rent in twain ;
The Bad of the Good the place supplies,
And freely all the Vices reign.
To wake the lion is perilous ;
Destructive is the tiger's tooth;
But fearfullest of fears to rouse
Is Man in his delirious wrath.
Woe's them, who Heaven's torch of light
Unto the ever-blind would trust;
It lights not him ; can but ignite,
And lands and cities burns to dust.

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