But sad as angels for the good man's sin, Weep to record, and blush to give it in.
Who hath not own'd, with rapture-smitten frame, The power of grace, the magic of a name.
One moment may with bliss repay Unnumbered hours of pain.
Our purpose is to grow up and become love
The prophet's mantle, ere his flight began, Dropt on the world--a sacred gift to man.
The combat deepens. On, ye brave, Who rush to glory or the grave! Wave, Munich! all thy banners wave, And charge with all thy chivalry!