Page images
PDF
EPUB

344

Song of the Battle of Morgarten.

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
Flashed helmets to the day;

And the winds were tossing knightly plumes,
Like the larch-boughs in their play.

In Hasli's wilds there was gleaming steel
As the host of the Austrian passed;
And the Schreckhorn's 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 blazoned 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 entered 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.

Song of the Battle of Morgarten.

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 looked not to the misty height
Where the mountain-people stood.

The pass was filled with their serried power,
All helmed and mail-arrayed,

And their steps had sounds like a thunder-shower
In the rustling forest-shade.

There were prince and crested knight,
Hemmed 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 hurled

From Alp to Alp in play,

345

When the echoes shout through the snowy world,
And the pines are borne away.

The fir-woods crashed on the mountain-side,
And the Switzers rushed from high,

With a sudden charge, on the flower and pride
Of the Austrian chivalry:

Like hunters of the deer,

They stormed the narrow dell;

And first in the shock, with Uri's spear,

Was the arm of William Tell.

346

Song of the Battle of Morgarten.

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 dashed 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 viewed
When the Austrian turned to fly,
And the brave, in the trampling multitude,
Had a fearful death to die!

And the leader of the war

At eve unhelmed was seen,

With a hurrying step on the wilds asar,
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 burdened 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.

[blocks in formation]

[Juana, mother of the Emperor Charles V., upon the death of her husband, Philip the Handsome of Austria, who had treated her with uniform neglect, had his body laid upon a bed of state, in a magnificent dress; and being possessed with the idea that it would revive, watched it for a length of time, incessantly waiting for the moment of returning life.]

THE

It is but dust thou look'st upon. This love,
This wild and passionate idolatry,

What doth it in the shadow of the grave?
Gather it back within thy lonely heart,
So must it ever end: too much we give
Unto the things that perish.

'HE night-wind shook the tapestry round an ancient palace-room,

And torches, as it rose and fell, waved through the gorgeous

gloom,

And o'er a shadowy regal couch threw fitful gleams and red, Where a woman with long raven hair sat watching by the

dead.

Pale shone the features of the dead, yet glorious still to see, Like a hunter or a chief struck down while his heart and step were free:

No shroud he wore, no robe of death, but there majestic lay, Proudly and sadly glittering in royalty's array.

But she that with the dark hair watched by the cold slumberer's side,

On her wan cheek no beauty dwelt, and in her garb no

pride;

[blocks in formation]

Only her full impassioned eyes, as o'er that clay she bent, A wildness and a tenderness in strange resplendence blent.

And as the swift thoughts crossed her soul, like shadows of a cloud,

Amidst the silent room of death the dreamer spoke aloud: She spoke to him that could not hear, and cried, “Thou yet wilt wake,

And learn my watchings and my tears, beloved one! for thy sake.

66

They told me this was death, but well I knew it could

not be;

Fairest and stateliest of the earth! who spoke of death for

thee?

They would have wrapped the funeral shroud thy gallant form around,

But I forbade and there thou art, a monarch, robed and crowned!

"With all thy bright locks gleaming still, their coronal

beneath,

And thy brow so proudly beautiful-who said that this was

death?

Silence hath been upon thy lips, and stillness round thee

long,

But the hopeful spirit in my breast is all undimmed and strong.

"I know thou hast not loved me yet; I am not fair like

thee,

The very glance of whose clear eye threw round a light of

glee!

« PreviousContinue »