DAYS of my childhood, like a dream
Ye fleeted, to return no more.
Ah, happy days and free from care,
Ye brought but joy in passing o’er !

Then Science came, and on the world
He gazed with grave, observant looks ;
All things were analyzed and weighed,
And all my time was given to books.

When to full consciousness I woke,
My country’s woes weighed down my heart.
Apollo gave me then his lyre,
To bid my gloomy cares depart.

Alas ! that lyre beneath my touch
Sent forth a grave and tearful voice,
Sad as my soul; no single chord
Would breathe a note that said “ Rejoice !”

Ah, then at last I felt, I knew,
There never could be joy for me,
While speechless, sad, in alien hands,
My country languished to be free.

Apollo, take thy lyre again,
And let its voice, amid the groves,
Sound for some man who may in peace
Devote his life to her he loves!

To the arena I will go,
But not with lyre and flowery phrase;
I will protest and cry aloud,
And strive with darkness all my days.

What boots to-day a mournful lyre ?
To-day we need the sword of strife.
Upon the foeman sword and fire, —
Be that the watchword of my life !