Visions of glory, spare my aching sight, / Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soul!

On some fond breast the parting soul relies,/ Some pious drops the closing eye requires; / E'en from the tomb the voice of Nature cries, / E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires.

Visions of glory, spare my aching sight.

It adds to the glory both of soul and body

Let there be many windows to your soul, that all the glory of the world may beautify it.

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!