Oh holy heart of the nations, oh fatherland!
   Forbearing all, like the silent Mother Earth,
      And utterly misjudged, even though strangers have
         Exploited you, taking the best from your depths.
 
From you they harvest the thought, the spirit,
   They gladly pick the grape cluster, but they scoff
      At you, ill-formed vine, that you
         Straggle about on the ground, swaying and wild.
 
You land of lofty, more solemn genius!
   You land of love! although I am already yours,
      Often I raged, weeping, that you always
         Witlessly deny your own soul.
 
Yet you cannot hide from me many beauties;
   Often I stood, letting my gaze wander over the lovely verdure,
      The broad garden high in your airy winds
         Upon the bright mountains, and [I] saw you.
 
Along your rivers I walked and thought you,
   While the nightingale upon the swaying willow
      Shyly sang its notes, and quietly upon
         Twilit depths the wave lingered.
 
And upon the shores I saw the cities blooming,
   The noble ones, where industry falls silent in the workshop,
      [I saw] knowledge, where your sun
         Gently lights the artist’s way to solemnity.
 
Do you know Minerva’s children? early on, they chose
   The olive tree as their favourite; do you know them?
      Still lives, still prevails the soul of Athens' people,
         The meditative [soul], quietly among humankind.
 
Even though Plato’s good garden no longer
   Flourishes along the old river, and an impoverished man
      Plows the ashes of heroes, and shyly the
         Night-bird mourns upon the pillar.
 
Oh holy wood! oh Attica! did He after all strike
   You too with his fearsome beam, so quickly,
      And did they hasten, they who enlivened you, the
         Flames, released, over to the aether?
 
But, as does the spring, genius wanders
   From land to land.  And we? is there even one
      Of our youths, who does not conceal
         A premonition, an enigma of the bosom?
 
Give thanks to German women! they have protected
   For us the friendly spirit of the images of the gods
      And daily lovely, clear Peace expiates
         Again the evil tangle.
 
Where are there now poets, whom the god gave [the ability],
   As he gave it to our old ones, to be joyful and pious,
      Where are wise ones like those of ours? the
         Cold and courageous ones, the incorruptible!
 
Now! be greeted in your nobility, my fatherland,
   With a new name, ripest fruit of the times!
      You the last and you the first of all
         Muses, Urania, I greet you!
 
You still tarry and are silent, pondering a joyful work
   That might speak of you, pondering a new image
      That is unique like you yourself, that is solely born
         Of love and is good, as you are --
 
Where is your Delos, where your Olympia,
   So that we may all find each other at the highest festival?--
      But how can the son divine what you, Immortal One, have
         Long prepared for those who are your own?