Part 2 — MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

Whence art thou, flower? From holy ground, Where freedom’s foot hath been! Yet bugle-blast or trumpet-sound Ne’er shook that solemn scene. Flower of a noble field! thy birth Was not where spears have cross’d, And shiver’d helms have strewn the earth, Midst banners won and lost. But where the sunny hues and showers Unto thy cup were given, There met high hearts at midnight hours, Pure hands were raised to heaven; And vows were pledged that man should roam Through every Alpine dell Free as the wind, the torrent’s foam, The shaft of William Tell. And prayer, the full deep flow of prayer, Hallow’d the pastoral sod; And souls grew strong for battle there, Nerved with the peace of God. Before the Alps and stars they knelt, That calm devoted band, And rose, and made their spirits felt Through all the mountain-land. Then welcome, Grütli’s free-born flower! Even in thy pale decay There dwells a breath, a tone, a power, Which all high thoughts obey.

And was thy home, pale wither’d thing, Beneath the rich blue southern sky? Wert thou a nursling of the spring, The winds and suns of glorious Italy? Those suns in golden light e’en now Look o’er the poet’s lovely grave; Those winds are breathing soft, but thou Answering their whisper, there no more shalt wave. The flowers o’er Posilippo’s brow May cluster in their purple bloom, But on th’ o’ershadowing ilex-bough, Thy breezy place is void by Virgil’s tomb. Thy place is void; oh! none on earth, This crowded earth, may so remain, Save that which souls of loftiest birth Leave when they part, their brighter home to gain. Another leaf, ere now, hath sprung On the green stem which once was thine; When shall another strain be sung Like his whose dust hath made that spot a shrine?

Yes, it is ours!—the field is won, A dark and evil field! Lift from the ground my noble son, And bear him homewards on his bloody shield. Let me not hear your trumpets ring, Swell not the battle-horn! Thoughts far too sad those notes will bring, When to the grave my glorious flower is borne! Speak not of victory!—in the name There is too much of woe! Hush’d be the empty voice of Fame— Call me back his whose graceful head is low. Speak not of victory!—from my halls The sunny hour is gone! The ancient banner on my walls Must sink ere long; I had but him—but one! Within the dwelling of my sires The hearths will soon be cold, With me must die the beacon-fires That stream’d at midnight from the mountain-hold. And let them fade, since this must be, My lovely and my brave! Was thy bright blood pour’d forth for me? And is there but for stately youth a grave? Speak to me once again, my boy! Wilt thou not hear my call? Thou wert so full of life and joy, I had not dreamt of this—that thou couldst fall! Thy mother watches from the steep For thy returning plume; How shall I tell her that thy sleep Is of the silent house, th’ untimely tomb? Thou didst not seem as one to die, With all thy young renown! —Ye saw his falchion’s flash on high, In the mid-fight, when spears and crests went down! Slow be your march! the field is won! A dark and evil field! Lift from the ground my noble son, And bear him homewards on his bloody shield.

Rest on your battle-fields, ye brave! Let the pines murmur o’er your grave, Your dirge be in the moaning wave— We call you back no more! Oh! there was mourning when ye fell, In your own vales a deep-toned knell, An agony, a wild farewell— But that hath long been o’er. Rest with your still and solemn fame; The hills keep record of your name, And never can a touch of shame Darken the buried brow. But we on changeful days are cast, When bright names from their place fall fast; And ye that with your glory pass’d, We cannot mourn you now.

Son of the Ocean Isle! Where sleep your mighty dead? Show me what high and stately pile Is rear’d o’er Glory’s bed. Go, stranger! track the deep— Free, free the white sail spread! Wave may not foam, nor wild wind sweep, Where rest not England’s dead. On Egypt’s burning plains, By the pyramid o’ersway’d, With fearful power the noonday reigns, And the palm-trees yield no shade;— But let the angry sun From heaven look fiercely red, Unfelt by those whose task is done!— There slumber England’s dead. The hurricane hath might Along the Indian shore, And far by Ganges’ banks at night Is heard the tiger’s roar;— But let the sound roll on! It hath no tone of dread For those that from their toils are gone,— There slumber England’s dead. Loud rush the torrent-floods The Western wilds among, And free, in green Columbia’s woods, The hunter’s bow is strung;— But let the floods rush on! Let the arrow’s flight be sped! Why should they reck whose task is done?— There slumber England’s dead! The mountain storms rise high In the snowy Pyrenees, And toss the pine-boughs through the sky Like rose-leaves on the breeze;— But let the storm rage on! Let the fresh wreaths be shed! For the Roncesvalles’ field is won,— There slumber England’s dead. On the frozen deep’s repose ’Tis a dark and dreadful hour, When round the ship the ice-fields close, And the northern night-clouds lower;— But let the ice drift on! Let the cold-blue desert spread! Their course with mast and flag is done,— Even there sleep England’s dead. The warlike of the isles, The men of field and wave! Are not the rocks their funeral piles, The seas and shores their grave? Go, stranger! track the deep— Free, free the white sail spread! Wave may not foam, nor wild wind sweep, Where rest not England’s dead.

Where met our bards of old?—the glorious throng, They of the mountain and the battle-song? They met—oh! not in kingly hall or bower, But where wild Nature girt herself with power: They met where streams flash’d bright from rocky caves; They met where woods made moan o’er warriors’ graves, And where the torrent’s rainbow spray was cast, And where dark lakes were heaving to the blast, And midst the eternal cliffs, whose strength defied The crested Roman, in his hour of pride; And where the Carnedd,[251] on its lonely hill, Bore silent record of the mighty still; And where the Druid’s ancient Cromlech[252] frown’d, And the oaks breathed mysterious murmurs round. There throng’d th’ inspired of yore!—on plain or height, In the sun’s face, beneath the eye of light, And, baring unto heaven each noble head, Stood in the circle, where none else might tread. Well might their lays be lofty!—soaring thought From Nature’s presence tenfold grandeur caught: Well might bold freedom’s soul pervade the strains Which startled eagles from their lone domains, And, like a breeze in chainless triumph, went Up through the blue resounding firmament. Whence came the echoes to those numbers high? ’Twas from the battle-fields of days gone by, And from the tombs of heroes, laid to rest With their good swords, upon the mountain’s breast; And from the watch-towers on the heights of snow, Sever’d by cloud and storm from all below; And the turf-mounds,[253] once girt by ruddy spears, And the rock-altars of departed years. —Thence, deeply mingling with the torrent’s roar, The winds a thousand wild responses bore; And the green land, whose every vale and glen Doth shrine the memory of heroic men, On all her hills awakening to rejoice, Sent forth proud answers to her children’s voice. For us, not ours the festival to hold, Midst the stone circles hallow’d thus of old; Not where great Nature’s majesty and might First broke all glorious on our infant sight; Not near the tombs, where sleep our free and brave, Not by the mountain-llyn,[254] the ocean-wave, In these late days we meet—dark Mona’s shore, Eryri’s[255] cliffs resound with harps no more! But as the stream, (though time or art may turn The current, bursting from its cavern’d urn, From Alpine glens or ancient forest bowers, To bathe soft vales of pasture and of flowers,) Alike in rushing strength or sunny sleep, Holds on its course, to mingle with the deep; Thus, though our paths be changed, still warm and free, Land of the bard! our spirit flies to thee! To thee our thoughts, our hopes, our hearts belong, Our dreams are haunted by thy voice of song! Nor yield our souls one patriot-feeling less To the green memory of thy loveliness, Than theirs, whose harp-notes peal’d from every height, In the sun’s face, beneath the eye of light!

I come, I come! ye have call’d me long— I come o’er the mountains with light and song! Ye may trace my step o’er the wakening earth By the winds which tell of the violet’s birth, By the primrose-stars in the shadowy grass, By the green leaves opening as I pass. I have breathed on the South, and the chestnut flowers By thousands have burst from the forest-bowers, And the ancient graves and the fallen fanes Are veil’d with wreaths on Italian plains;— But it is not for me, in my hour of bloom, To speak of the ruin or the tomb! I have look’d on the hills of the stormy North, And the larch has hung all his tassels forth, The fisher is out on the sunny sea, And the reindeer bounds o’er the pastures free, And the pine has a hinge of softer green, And the moss looks bright where my foot hath been. I have sent through the wood-paths a glowing sigh, And call’d out each voice of the deep blue sky; From the night-bird’s lay through the starry time, In the groves of the soft Hesperian clime, To the swan’s wild note by the Iceland lakes, When the dark fir-branch into verdure breaks. From the streams and founts I have loosed the chain, They are sweeping on to the silvery main, They are flashing down from the mountain brows, They are flinging spray o’er the forest boughs, They are bursting fresh from their sparry caves, And the earth resounds with the joy of waves! Come forth, O ye children of gladness! come! Where the violets lie may be now your home. Ye of the rose-lip and dew-bright eye, And the bounding footstep, to meet me fly! With the lyre, and the wreath, and the joyous lay, Come forth to the sunshine—I may not stay. Away from the dwellings of care-worn men, The waters are sparkling in grove and glen! Away from the chamber and sullen hearth, The young leaves are dancing in breezy mirth! Their light stems thrill to the wild-wood strains, And youth is abroad in my green domains. But ye!—ye are changed since ye met me last! There is something bright from your features pass’d! There is that come over your brow and eye Which speaks of a world where the flowers must die! —Ye smile! but your smile hath a dimness yet: Oh! what have you look’d on since last we met? Ye are changed, ye are changed!—and I see not here All whom I saw in the vanish’d year! There were graceful heads, with their ringlets bright, Which toss’d in the breeze with a play of light; There were eyes in whose glistening laughter lay No faint remembrance of dull decay! There were steps that flew o’er the cowslip’s head, As if for a banquet all earth were spread; There were voices that rang through the sapphire sky, And had not a sound of mortality! Are they gone? is their mirth from the mountains pass’d? Ye have look’d on death since ye met me last! I know whence the shadow comes o’er you now— Ye have strewn the dust on the sunny brow! Ye have given the lovely to earth’s embrace— She hath taken the fairest of beauty’s race, With their laughing eyes and their festal crown: They are gone from amongst you in silence down! They are gone from amongst you, the young and fair, Ye have lost the gleam of their shining hair! But I know of a land where there falls no blight— I shall find them there, with their eyes of light! Where Death midst the blooms of the morn may dwell, I tarry no longer—farewell, farewell! The summer is coming, on soft winds borne— Ye may press the grape, ye may bind the corn! For me, I depart to a brighter shore— Ye are mark’d by care, ye are mine no more; I go where the loved who have left you dwell, And the flowers are not Death’s. Fare ye well, farewell!

‘Fond strange yearnings from the soul’s deep cell Gush for the faces we no more shall see,’

Fair wert thou in the dreams Of elder time, thou land of glorious flowers And summer winds and low-toned silvery streams, Dim with the shadows of thy laurel bowers, Where, as they pass’d, bright hours Left no faint sense of parting, such as clings To earthly love, and joy in loveliest things! Fair wert thou, with the light On thy blue hills and sleepy waters cast From purple skies ne’er deep’ning into night, Yet soft, as if each moment were their last Of glory, fading fast Along the mountains!—but thy golden day Was not as those that warn us of decay. And ever, through thy shades, A swell of deep Æolian sound went by From fountain-voices in their secret glades, And low reed-whispers, making sweet reply To summer’s breezy sigh, And young leaves trembling to the wind’s light breath, Which ne’er had touch’d them with a hue of death! And the transparent sky Rang as a dome, all thrilling to the strain Of harps that midst the woods made harmony, Solemn and sweet; yet troubling not the brain With dreams and yearnings vain, And dim remembrances, that still draw birth From the bewildering music of the earth. And who, with silent tread, Moved o’er the plains of waving asphodel? Call’d from the dim procession of the dead, Who midst the shadowy amaranth-bowers might dwell, And listen to the swell Of those majestic hymn-notes, and inhale The spirit wandering in the immortal gale? They of the sword, whose praise, With the bright wine, at nations’ feasts went round! They of the lyre, whose unforgotten lays Forth on the winds had sent their mighty sound, And in all regions found Their echoes midst the mountains!—and become In man’s deep heart as voices of his home! They of the daring thought! Daring and powerful, yet to dust allied— Whose flight through stars, and seas, and depths, had sought The soul’s far birthplace—but without a guide! Sages and seers, who died, And left the world their high mysterious dreams, born midst the olive woods by Grecian streams. But the most loved are they Of whom fame speaks not with her clarion voice, In regal halls! The shades o’erhang their way; The vale, with its deep fountains, is their choice, And gentle hearts rejoice Around their steps; till silently they die, As a stream shrinks from summer’s burning eye. And these—of whose abode, Midst her green valleys, earth retain’d no trace, Save a flower springing from their burial-sod, A shade of sadness on some kindred face, A dim and vacant place In some sweet home;—thou hadst no wreaths for these, Thou sunny land! with all thy deathless trees! The peasant at his door Might sink to die when vintage-feasts were spread, And songs on every wind! From thy bright shore No lovelier vision floated round his head— Thou wert for nobler dead! He heard the bounding steps which round him fell, And sigh’d to bid the festal sun farewell! The slave, whose very tears Were a forbidden luxury, and whose breast Kept the mute woes and burning thoughts of years, As embers in a burial-urn compress’d; He might not be thy guest! No gentle breathings from thy distant sky Came o’er his path, and whisper’d “Liberty!” Calm, on its leaf-strewn bier, Unlike a gift of Nature to Decay, Too rose-like still, too beautiful, too dear, The child at rest before the mother lay, E’en so to pass away, With its bright smile!—Elysium! what wert thou To her, who wept o’er that young slumb’rer’s brow? Thou hadst no home, green land! For the fair creature from her bosom gone, With life’s fresh flowers just opening in its hand, And all the lovely thoughts and dreams unknown, Which in its clear eye shone Like spring’s first wakening! but that light was past— Where went the dewdrop swept before the blast? Not where thy soft winds play’d, Not where thy waters lay in glassy sleep! Fade with thy bowers, thou Land of Visions, fade! From thee no voice came o’er the gloomy deep, And bade man cease to weep! Fade, with the amaranth plain, the myrtle grove, Which could not yield one hope to sorrowing love![257]

Thou shouldst be look’d on when the starlight falls Through the blue stillness of the summer air, Not by the torch-fire wavering on the walls— It hath too fitful and too wild a glare! And thou!—thy rest, the soft, the lovely, seems To ask light steps, that will not break its dreams. Flowers are upon thy brow; for so the dead Were crown’d of old, with pale spring-flowers like these: Sleep on thine eye hath sunk; yet softly shed As from the wing of some faint southern breeze: And the pine-boughs o’ershadow thee with gloom, Which of the grove seems breathing—not the tomb. They fear’d not death, whose calm and gracious thought Of the last hour hath settled thus in thee! They who thy wreath of pallid roses wrought, And laid thy head against the forest tree, As that of one, by music’s dreamy close, On the wood-violets lull’d to deep repose. They fear’d not death!—yet who shall say his touch Thus lightly falls on gentle things and fair? Doth he bestow, or will he leave so much Of tender beauty as thy features wear? Thou sleeper of the bower! on whose young eyes So still a night, a night of summer, lies! Had they seen aught like thee? Did some fair boy Thus, with his graceful hair, before them rest? —His graceful hair, no more to wave in joy, But drooping, as with heavy dews oppress’d; And his eye veil’d so softly by its fringe, And his lip faded to the white-rose tinge? Oh! happy, if to them the one dread hour Made known its lessons from a brow like thine! If all their knowledge of the spoiler’s power Came by a look so tranquilly divine! —Let him who thus hath seen the lovely part, Hold well that image to his thoughtful heart. But thou, fair slumberer! was there less of woe, Or love, or terror, in the days of old, That men pour’d out their gladd’ning spirit’s flow, Like sunshine, on the desolate and cold, And gave thy semblance to the shadowy king, Who for deep souls had then a deeper sting? In the dark bosom of the earth they laid Far more than we—for loftier faith is ours! Their gems were lost in ashes—yet they made The grave a place of beauty and of flowers, With fragrant wreaths, and summer boughs array’d, And lovely sculpture gleaming through the shade. Is it for us a darker gloom to shed O’er its dim precincts?—do we not intrust But for a time its chambers with our dead, And strew immortal seed upon the dust? Why should we dwell on that which lies beneath, When living light hath touch’d the brow of death?

And there they sleep!—the men who stood In arms before th’ exulting sun, And bathed their spears in Persian blood, And taught the earth how freedom might be won. They sleep!—th’ Olympic wreaths are dead, Th’ Athenian lyres are hush’d and gone; The Dorian voice of song is fled— Slumber, ye mighty! slumber deeply on. They sleep—and seems not all around As hallow’d unto glory’s tomb? Silence is on the battle-ground, The heavens are loaded with a breathless gloom. And stars are watching on their height, But dimly seen through mist and cloud; And still and solemn is the light Which folds the plain, as with a glimmering shroud. And thou, pale Night-queen! here thy beams Are not as those the shepherd loves, Nor look they down on shining streams, By Naiads haunted in their laurel groves. Thou seest no pastoral hamlet sleep, In shadowy quiet, midst its vines; No temple gleaming from the steep, Midst the gray olives or the mountain pines: But o’er a dim and boundless waste, Thy rays, e’en like a tomb-lamp’s, brood, Where man’s departed steps are traced But by his dust, amidst the solitude. And be it thus!—What slave shall tread O’er freedom’s ancient battle-plains? Let deserts wrap the glorious dead When their bright Land sits weeping o’er her chains. Here, where the Persian clarion rung, And where the Spartan sword flash’d high, And where the pæan strains were sung, From year to year swell’d on by liberty; Here should no voice, no sound, be heard, Until the bonds of Greece be riven, Save of the leader’s charging-word, Or the shrill trumpet, pealing up through heaven! Rest in your silent homes, ye brave! No vines festoon your lonely tree,[258] No harvest o’er your war-field wave, Till rushing winds proclaim—The land is free!

There have been bright and glorious pageants here, Where now gray stones and moss-grown columns lie; There have been words, which earth grew pale to hear, Breathed from the cavern’s misty chambers nigh: There have been voices through the sunny sky, And the pine-woods, their choral hymn-notes sending, And reeds and lyres, their Dorian melody With incense-clouds around the temple blending, And throngs with laurel-boughs before the altar bending. There have been treasures of the seas and isles Brought to the Day-god’s now-forsaken throne; Thunders have peal’d along the rock-defiles, When the far-echoing battle-horn made known That foes were on their way! The deep wind’s moan Hath chill’d th’ invader’s heart with secret fear; And from the Sibyl-grottoes, wild and lone, Storms have gone forth, which, in their fierce career, From his bold hand have struck the banner and the spear. The shrine hath sunk!—but thou unchanged art there! Mount of the voice and vision, robed with dreams! Unchanged—and rising through the radiant air, With thy dark waving pines, and flashing streams, And all thy founts of song! Their bright course teems With inspiration yet; and each dim haze, Or golden cloud which floats around thee, seems As with its mantle veiling from our gaze The mysteries of the past, the gods of elder days! Away, vain fantasies!—doth less of power Dwell round thy summit, or thy cliffs invest, Though, in deep stillness, now the ruin’s flower Wave o’er the pillars mouldering on thy breast? —Lift through the free blue heavens thine arrowy crest! Let the great rocks their solitude regain! No Delphian lyres now break thy noontide rest With their full chords:—but silent be the strain! Thou hast a mightier voice to speak th’ Eternal’s reign![259]

When are the lessons given That shake the startled earth? When wakes the foe While the friend sleeps? When falls the traitor’s blow? When are proud sceptres riven, High hopes o’erthrown?—It is when lands rejoice, When cities blaze and lift th’ exulting voice, And wave their banners to the kindling heaven! Fear ye the festal hour! When mirth o’erflows, then tremble!—’Twas a night Of gorgeous revel, wreaths, and dance, and light, When through the regal bower The trumpet peal’d ere yet the song was done, And there were shrieks in golden Babylon, And trampling armies, ruthless in their power. The marble shrines were crown’d: Young voices, through the blue Athenian sky, And Dorian reeds, made summer-melody, And censers waved around; And lyres were strung and bright libations pour’d! When through the streets flash’d out the avenging sword, Fearless and free, the sword with myrtles bound![260] Through Rome a triumph pass’d. Rich in her Sun-god’s mantling beams went by That long array of glorious pageantry, With shout and trumpet-blast. An empire’s gems their starry splendour shed O’er the proud march; a king in chains was led; A stately victor, crown’d and robed, came last.[261] And many a Dryad’s bower Had lent the laurels which, in waving play, Stirr’d the warm air, and glisten’d round his way As a quick-flashing shower. —O’er his own porch, meantime, the cypress hung, Through his fair halls a cry of anguish rung— Woe for the dead!—the father’s broken flower! A sound of lyre and song, In the still night, went floating o’er the Nile, Whose waves, by many an old mysterious pile, Swept with that voice along; And lamps were shining o’er the red wine’s foam Where a chief revell’d in a monarch’s dome, And fresh rose-garlands deck’d a glittering throng. ’Twas Antony that bade The joyous chords ring out! But strains arose Of wilder omen at the banquet’s close! Sounds, by no mortal made,[262] Shook Alexandria through her streets that night, And pass’d—and with another sunset’s light, The kingly Roman on his bier was laid. Bright midst its vineyards lay The fair Campanian city,[263] with its towers And temples gleaming through dark olive-bowers, Clear in the golden day; Joy was around it as the glowing sky, And crowds had fill’d its halls of revelry, And all the sunny air was music’s way. A cloud came o’er the face Of Italy’s rich heaven!—its crystal blue Was changed, and deepen’d to a wrathful hue Of night, o’ershadowing space As with the wings of death!—in all his power Vesuvius woke, and hurl’d the burning shower, And who could tell the buried city’s place? Such things have been of yore, In the gay regions where the citrons blow, And purple summers all their sleepy glow On the grape-clusters pour; And where the palms to spicy winds are waving, Along clear seas of melting sapphire, laving, As with a flow of light, their southern shore. Turn we to other climes!— Far in the Druid isle a feast was spread, Midst the rock-altars of the warrior dead;[264] And ancient battle-rhymes Were chanted to the harp; and yellow mead Went flowing round, and tales of martial deed And lofty songs of Britain’s elder time;— But ere the giant-fane Cast its broad shadows on the robe of even, Hush’d were the bards, and in the face of heaven, O’er that old burial-plain, Flash’d the keen Saxon dagger!—blood was streaming Where late the mead-cup to the sun was gleaming, And Britain’s hearths were heap’d that night in vain— For they return’d no more! They that went forth at morn, with reckless heart, In that fierce banquet’s mirth to bear their part: And on the rushy floor, And the bright spears and bucklers of the walls, The high wood-fires were blazing in their halls; But not for them—they slept—their feast was o’er! Fear ye the festal hour! Ay, tremble when the cup of joy o’erflows! Tame down the swelling heart! The bridal rose, And the rich myrtle’s flower, Have veil’d the sword! Red wines have sparkled fast From venom’d goblets, and soft breezes pass’d With fatal perfume through the revel’s bower. Twine the young glowing wreath! But pour not all your spirit in the song, Which through the sky’s deep azure floats along Like summer’s quickening breath! The ground is hollow in the path of mirth: Oh! far too daring seems the joy of earth, So darkly press’d and girdled in by death!

The wine-month[265] shone in its golden prime, And the red grapes clustering hung, But a deeper sound, through the Switzer’s clime, Than the vintage music, rung— A sound through vaulted cave, A sound through echoing glen, Like the hollow swell of a rushing wave; —’Twas the tread of steel-girt men. And a trumpet, pealing wild and far, Midst the ancient rocks was blown, Till the Alps replied to that voice of war With a thousand of their own. And through the forest-glooms Flash’d helmets to the day; And the winds were tossing knightly plumes, Like the larch-boughs in their play. In Hasli’s[266] wilds there was gleaming steel As the host of the Austrian pass’d; And the Schreckhorn’s[267] rocks, with a savage peal, Made mirth of his clarion’s blast. Up midst the Righi snows The stormy march was heard, With the charger’s tramp, whence fire-sparks rose, And the leader’s gathering-word. But a band, the noblest band of all, Through the rude Morgarten strait, With blazon’d streamers and lances tall, Moved onwards in princely state. They came with heavy chains For the race despised so long— But amidst his Alp-domains, The herdsman’s arm is strong! The sun was reddening the clouds of morn When they enter’d the rock-defile, And shrill as a joyous hunter’s horn Their bugles rang the while. But on the misty height Where the mountain-people stood, There was stillness as of night, When storms at distance brood. There was stillness as of deep, dead night, And a pause—but not of fear, While the Switzers gazed on the gathering might Of the hostile shield and spear. On wound those columns bright Between the lake and wood, But they look’d not to the misty height Where the mountain-people stood. The pass was fill’d with their serried power, All helm’d and mail-array’d, And their steps had sounds like a thunder-shower In the rustling forest-shade. There were prince and crested knight, Hemm’d in by cliff and flood, When a shout arose from the misty height Where the mountain-people stood. And the mighty rocks came bounding down Their startled foes among, With a joyous whirl from the summit thrown— Oh! the herdsman’s arm is strong!— They came like lauwine[268] hurl’d From Alp to Alp in play, When the echoes shout through the snowy world, And the pines are borne away. The fir-woods crash’d on the mountain-side, And the Switzers rush’d from high, With a sudden charge, on the flower and pride Of the Austrian chivalry: Like hunters of the deer, They storm’d the narrow dell; And first in the shock, with Uri’s spear, Was the arm of William Tell.[269] There was tumult in the crowded strait, And a cry of wild dismay; And many a warrior met his fate From a peasant’s hand that day! And the Empire’s banner then From its place of waving free, Went down before the shepherd-men, The men of the Forest-Sea. With their pikes and massy clubs they brake The cuirass and the shield, And the war-horse dash’d to the reddening lake From the reapers of the field! The field—but not of sheaves— Proud crests and pennons lay, Strewn o’er it thick as the birch-wood leaves In the autumn tempest’s way. Oh! the sun in heaven fierce havoc view’d When the Austrian turn’d to fly, And the brave, in the trampling multitude, Had a fearful death to die! And the leader of the war At eve unhelm’d was seen, With a hurrying step on the wilds afar, And a pale and troubled mien. But the sons of the land which the freeman tills Went back from the battle-toil, To their cabin homes midst the deep-green hills, All burden’d with royal spoil. There were songs and festal fires On the soaring Alps that night, When children sprang to greet their sires From the wild Morgarten fight