III.

O God! whose all-powerful arm can o’erthrow The proudest of kingdoms, like huts built on sand, Avert from thy children these dark clouds of woe. Raise the hopes of the Poles; give them back their dear land.

Give back to old Poland her bright days of yore, To her fields and her cities the blessings of peace. Give plenty, give freedom, give joy as before; Oh! cease to chastise us and fill us with grace.