Oh, had the Muses given to me the gift
Of burning speech, of clear and fiery song,
How mercilessly and how sternly then
Would I with infamy brand vice and wrong!

I would rouse all against the dark to strive,
Unfurl the banner bright of light and fire,
And with my glowing song the listening world
With longing for the truth I would inspire.

Oh, with what mighty laughter I would laugh!
What burning tears of sorrow I would shed!
To earth the holy, long-forgot Ideal
Should come again, arisen from the dead.

The world should waken, filled with fear, and quake,
Like to a culprit, conscience-struck within;
It should look back upon the guilty past,
And meekly wait the sentence for its sin.

In that dead silence reigning all around,
My fearless voice should thunder loud and clear,
Resound with indignation's sacred fire,
And ring with teardrops heartfelt and sincere.

Not unto me such power of speech is given;
My voice is weak to plead the cause of truth.
My soul indeed is ready for the strife,
But in me fails the energy of youth

Within my breast is but a barren sob,
Upon my lips, reproach that cannot save,
And in my heart the sad acknowledgment
That I am not a prophet, but a slave.