On bloodstained fields of battle, fast locked in madd'ning strife, Thy sons have dying blest thee, untouched by doubt or fear. No matter wreaths of laurel; no matter where our life Ebbs out, on scaffold, or in combat, or under torturer's knife. We welcome Death, if for our hearths, or for our country dear. I die while dawn's rich iris-hues are staining yet the sky, Heralds of the freer day still hidden from our view Behind the night's dark mantle. And should the morning nigh Need crimson, shed my heart's blood quickly, freely, let it dye The new-born light with th' glory of its ensanguined hue. My dreams when yet were ling'ring my childhood's careless years. My dreams, my hopes, when vigor pulsed in my youthful heart, Were that one day, gem of the East, thine eyes, undimmed with tears, Might darkly glow, that I might see unwrinkled, free from fears, Thy lofty brow wherefrom for aye all blushes should depart. Hail unto thee, dreams of my life! My dying soul doth cry All hail to thee! And ye I hail, my aspirations deep And ardent! Oh, how sweet it is to fall beneath thy sky, To die that thou mayst live, and, for thy welfare high, In thine enchanted bosom eternally to sleep! If on my grave, midst the thick grass, thou shouldst see spring one day A simple, humble flow'ret, Life victor over Death, Sweet symbol of my loving soul, ah, kiss the dew away. Approach to it thy gentle lips, that in my cold tomb I may Feel on my brow thy tender sigh, the soft warmth of thy breath. Let o'er my grave the placid moon shed its soft tranquil light; Let cool dawn's fleeting splendor shine on my resting place; Let the deep murmur of the wind caress it in the night; And if above my lonely cross it stay its restless flight, 'T will breathe a prayer of peace and chant a canticle of grace. Oh, let the rain rise pure to heav'n beneath the sun's hot rays And carry to the throne of God my loving, last request. Let friendly souls weep for my end, and in the after days, On evenings clear, when o'er my tomb some gentle being prays, Pray also thou, O Fatherland, for my eternal rest. Pray for all those who died alone, betrayed, in wretchedness. For those who suffered for thy sake torments and misery, For our poor, loving mothers' hearts, who weep in bitterness, For widows, tortured captives, orphans in deep distress, And pray for thy dear self that thou may'st finally be free. And when dark night enshrouds in gloom the silent cemetery, When but the lonely dead are left watching by the sea, Disturb not their repose, nor dispel the mystery, Perchance then shalt thou hear cithern or psaltery Well tuned, 'tis I, O my dear country, 'tis I singing to thee.