O,
the sight entrancing,
when morning's beam is glancing,
Orphans are reigned with helm and blade,
And plumes in the game in dancing,
When hearts are all high beating,
And the trumpet's voice repeating,
That song whose breath may lead to death,
But never to retreating.
Then if a cloud comes over,
The brow of Syro-Nava,
Think,
tis the shade my victory made,
Whose wings ride o'er us hover.
O,
the sight entrancing,
when morning's beam is glancing,
Orphans are reigned with helm and blade,
And plumes in the game in dancing.
Yet tis not Helm or Feather,
For us young despot weather,
His plumed bands could bring Such hands and hearts as ours together.
He prompts to those who need him,
Adorned but man with freedom,
That crowd he braves,
the gaudiest slaves,
That crawl where monarchs lead them.
The sword may pierce the beaver,
Stone walls in time may sever,
Tis mine alone,
while steel and stone,
That keeps men free for ever.
O,
the sight entrancing,
when morning's beam is glancing,
Orphans are reigned with helm and blade,
And plumes in the game in dancing.