And on Freedom's altar--ah, I fear--still, may slay thy hecatombs.

But Freedom turns away; she is sick with burnt blood of offerings.

Other rituals she loves; and like Oro, unseen herself, would be worshiped only by invisibles.

Of long drawn cavalcades, pompous processions, frenzied banners, mystic music, marching nations, she will none.

Oh, may thy peaceful Future, Franko, sanctify thy bloody Past.