Qui fratelli, e non vili tiranni Della Patria fan mite governo; Prence e schiavo l’ammiran, né scherno Del prezioso suo bene si fa.
La funesta membranza d’un Giuda Che rubar ci provò libertade, Viva sempre nell’alme contrade Quale storia d’orrendo squallor.
Di Marino la povera rupe Salva, o Cielo, da’ fieri perigli; E noi fidi, diletti suoi figli Emulando le gloria n’andrem.
Of blood does not smoke soaking These stones of our Titan Here brothers and not vile Tirants of the Fatherland make a peaceful government Princes and slaves admire it and neither mockery of its precious good is done
The baleful memory of a Judah who tried to steal us freedom let it live in the roads of our souls as a story of horrendous misery
Of Marinus, the poor cliff Save, oh heavens, from brave perils and us, his beloved sons emulating his glory we shall go.