Choir for eight voices
Soprano solo
Tenor solo
Bass solo
Trumpet I + II + III
Bassdrum
Travers flute I + II
Oboe I + II (Oboe d`amore I + II)
Violin I + II
Viola
Bassoon
Basso continuo

Praise now thy blessings, O fortunate Saxon,
For God the throne of thy King hath upheld.
O happy land,
Thanks give to heaven and kiss now the hand
Which makes thy fortune each day ever greater
And all thy townsmen to safety hath brought.




How could we then, O mightiest August,
The undisguised emotions
Of this our rev'rence, love and fealty
To thee but with the greatest joy
Before thy feet here offer?
Doth not through thy paternal hand
Upon our land
Now heaven's gracious blessing
In streams of bounty flow?
And if our hopes run not amiss,
Shall we now soon to our relief
Within thy grace, within thy nature
Thy mighty father's form and his great deeds be reading.

True, Augustus' name defieth,
From the noble gods descended,
All force of mortality.
And the townsmen of the province,
Subjects of such virtuous princes,
Live now in the golden age.

What else hath thee, Sarmatia, persuaded
That thou to fill thy royal throne
This Saxon-born Piast,
The great Augustus' worthy son,
Before all others gave thy preference?
Not just the fame of lustrous fathers,
Not just his lands' great might,
No! Rather, his own virtue's rays
Drew all of thine own loyal subjects
And all thy varied peoples' minds
To him alone.
This more than his clan's fame and brilliant legacy
Brought them before his feet with praise.
True, spite and jealousy,
Which, sadly, often gold of crowns will
Much less than even lead or iron honor,
Are yet enraged at thee, O mighty ruler,
And lay upon thy health their curse!
But soon their curse will be transformed to blessing,
And all their rage
Is truly much too meager
Such fortune, founded on a rock,
To weaken in the slightest.

Bluster on, presumptuous mob,
Now within thy very bowels!
Bathe at will thine impious arm,
Full of wrath,
In thy guiltless brothers' blood,
To our horror, to thy sorrow!
For the bane
And the fury of thine envy
Thee more than Augustus strike.

Oh yes!
God is to us yet with his help nearby
And shields Augustus' throne.
Through him hath all the northern region
In its own choice of king now found contentment.
Will not the Baltic soon,
The mouth of Vistula now won,
Augustus' realm
As well
And all his armor know?
And doth he not let that same town,
Which hath so long been set against his pow'r,
More of his grace than of his wrath have knowledge?
This proves that he in this finds joy:
His loyal subjects' breast
Through kindness more than force to conquer.

That through the weapons enkindled by passion
Foes oft are punished
Brings to many praise and fame;
But that the wicked with good be requited
Is but for heroes,
Is Augustus' proper claim.

Tenor: Grant though, O cherished sovereign father, this,
That now our Muses' band
That day which thee such pleasure hath afforded,
On which one year ago
Sarmatia to be its king did choose thee,
Within their innocent repose
May honor and in song pay homage.
Bass: At just the time
When all around us lightning cracks,
Yea, when the might of France
(Indeed so many times already muffled),
On southern side and northern,
Doth pose our fatherland with sword and fire its threat,
Still can this town so happy be,
Great patron god of these our lindens,
Thee, but thee not alone,
Thy wife as well, the country's sunshine,
Her loyal subjects' joy and comfort,
In its embrace to find now.
Soprano: How could amidst so much prosperity
The Pindus not content and happy be?
Soprano, Tenor, Bass: Heaven, let to spite's distress,
Under such divine defense
The good fortune of our era
In a thousand branches flower!

Founder of empires and ruler of kingdoms,
Strengthen the throne which Augustus doth hold.
Enrich his house
With never ceasing prosperity blest,
Let us reside now in peace in those countries
Which he with justice and grace doth protect.