�Oh gloria inmarcesible! �Oh j�bilo inmortal! En surcos de dolores el bien germina ya. Ces� la horrible noche, la libertad sublime derrama las auroras de su invencible luz. La humanidad entera, que entre cadenas gime, comprende las palabras del que muri� en la cruz. “�Independencia!” grita el mundo americano; se ba�a en sangre de h�roes la tierra de Col�n. Pero este gran principio, “El rey no es soberano”[1] resuena, y los que sufren bendicen su pasi�n. Del Orinoco el cauce se colma de despojos, de sangre y llanto un r�o se mira all� correr. En B�rbula no saben las almas ni los ojos, si admiraci�n o espanto sentir o padecer. A orillas del Caribe, hambriento un pueblo lucha, horrores prefiriendo a p�rfida salud. �Oh, s�!, de Cartagena la abnegaci�n es mucha, y escombros de la muerte desprecian su virtud. De Boyac� en los campos, el genio de la gloria, con cada espiga un h�roe invicto coron�. Soldados sin coraza ganaron la victoria; su varonil aliento de escudo les sirvi�. Bol�var cruza el Ande que riegan dos oc�anos, espadas cual centellas fulguran en Jun�n. Centauros indomables descienden a los llanos, y empieza a presentirse, de la epopeya el fin. La tropa victoriosa en Ayacucho truena, que en cada triunfo crece su formidable son. En su expansivo empuje la libertad se estrena, del cielo americano formando un pabell�n. La virgen sus cabellos arranca en agon�a y de su amor viuda los cuelga del cipr�s. Lamenta su esperanza que cubre loza fr�a, pero glorioso orgullo circunda su alba tez. La patria as� se forma, term�pilas brotando; constelaci�n de c�clopes su noche ilumin�. La flor estremecida mortal el viento hallando, debajo los laureles seguridad busc�. Mas no es completa gloria vencer en la batalla, que el brazo que combate lo anima la verdad. La independencia sola el gran clamor no acalla; si el sol alumbra a todos, justicia es libertad. Del hombre los derechos Nari�o predicando, el alma de la lucha prof�tico ense��. Ricaurte en San Mateo, en �tomos volando, “Deber antes que vida,” con llamas escribi�.
O unfading glory! O immortal jubilation! In furrows of pain the good now germinates. The horrible night has ceased, the sublime liberty spills the auroras of its invincible light. All humanity, moans within its chains, understands the words of He who died on the Cross. “Independence!” crieshttps://www.world-countries.orghttps://www.world-countries.org the American world; bathed in the blood of its heroes the land of Columbus. Still, one great principle, “The king is not sovereign”, resounds, and those who suffer bless its passion. The Orinoco’s bed fills with the remains, of blood and a river crying is there seen. In B�rbula they don’t know the souls nor the eyes, if admiration or horror feel or suffer. On the shores of the Caribbean, famished the people fight, horrors preferring to treacherous health. O, aye! for Cartagena the abnegation is much, and the remains of death despises its virtue. From Boyac� in the fields, the genius of glory, for every ear a hero undefeated crowned. Soldiers without breastplate won victory; their virile breath as shield served. Bolivar crosses the Andes that two oceans bathe, swords as sparks shine in Jun�n. Untameable centaurs descend to the plains, and a prescience begins to be felt, of the epic the end. The victorious troop in Ayacucho thunders, that in every triumph grows its formidable sound. In its expansive thrust Liberty is worn for the first time, from the American sky a pavilion forming. The virgin her hairs pulls out in agony and from her love widowed hangs them on a cypress. Regretting her hope covered by a cold headstone, but glorious pride hallows her fair complexion. Thus the mother land is formed, Thermopylaes are breaking forth; constellation of cyclops its night brightened. The trembling flower finding the wind mortal, underneath the laurels safety sought. But it’s not complete glory to defeat in battle, that the arm that fights is encouraged by truth. Independence alone The great clamour doesn’t silence; if the sun illuminates everyone, justice is liberty. From men the rights Nari�o preaching, the soul of struggle prophetically taught. Ricaurte in San Mateo, in atoms flying, “Duty before life,”
with flames he wrote.