Our land, the first garden of liberty's tree-- It has been, and shall be, the land of the free.

To live in hearts we leave behind is not to die.

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!

For there no yew nor cypress spread their glom But roses blossom'd each rustic tomb.

The proud, the cold untroubled heart of stone, that never mused on sorrow but its own.

What though my winged hours of bliss have been, Like angel visits, few and far between.

Never wedding, ever wooing, Still a lovelorn heart pursuing, Read you not the wrong you're doing In my cheek's pale hue? All my life with sorrow strewing; Wed or cease to woo.