II. Did the land sleep?-the woodman's axe had ceas'd Its ringing notes upon the beech and plane; The grapes were gathered in; the vintage-feast Was clos'd upon the hills, the reaper's strain Hushed by the streams; the year was in its wane, The night in its mid-watch; it was a time E'en marked and hallowed unto Slumber's reign. But thoughts were stirring, restless and sublime, And o'er his white Alps mov'd the Spirit of the clime. III. For there, where snows, in crowning glory spread, And there, where Freedom, as in scornful play, Oh! who would dream that Tyranny could dare To lay her withering hand on God's bright works e’en there? IV. Yet thus it was amidst the fleet streams gushing And the fresh pastures, where the herd's sweet bell And hollow sounds that wake to Guilt's dull, stealthy tread. V. But in a land of happy shepherd-homes, With their bright hearth-fires, 'midst the twilight-glooms, VI. A sound went up-the wave's dark sleep was broken— On Uri's lake was heard a midnight oar Of man's brief course a troubled moment's token Th' eternal waters to their barriers bore; And then their gloom a flashing image wore VII. They stood in arms-the wolf-spear and the bow VIII. O'er their low pastoral valleys might the tide The snow-mass, full of death, while ages run IX. So were they roused-th' invading step had past Th' enduring and magnificent array Of sovereign Alps, that wing'd their eagles with the day? X. This might not long be borne-the tameless hills That He hath made man free!-and they whose dwelling Was in those ancient fastnesses, gave ear; The weight of sufferance from their hearts repelling, Oh! what hath earth more strong than the good peasantspear? XI. Sacred be Grütli's field!—their vigil keeping Through many a blue and starry summer-night, There, while the sons of happier lands were sleeping, Had those brave Switzers met; and in the sight Of the just God, who pours forth burning might To gird the oppress'd, had given their deep thoughts way, And brac'd their spirits for the patriot-fight, With lovely images of homes, that lay Bower'd 'midst the rustling pines, or by the torrent-spray. |