The Poems of Felicia Hemans
And the fresh pastures where the herd’s sweet bell
Recall’d such life as Eastern patriarchs led;
_There_ peasant men their free thoughts might not tell
Save in the hour of shadows and of dread,
And hollow sounds that wake to Guilt’s dull stealthy tread.
V.
But in a land of happy shepherd homes,
On its green hills in quiet joy reclining,
With their bright hearth-fires, midst the twilight glooms,
From bowery lattice through the fir-woods shining--
A land of legends and wild songs, entwining
Their memory with all memories loved and blest--
In such a land there dwells a power, combining
The strength of many a calm but fearless breast;
And woe to him who breaks the Sabbath of its rest!
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
Of torch-fires streaming out o’er crag and wood,
And the wild falcon’s wing was heard to soar
In startled haste--and by that moonlight flood,
A band of patriot men on Grutli’s verdure stood.
VII.
They stood in arms: the wolf-spear and the bow
Had waged their war on things of mountain race;
Might not their swift stroke reach a mail-clad foe?
--Strong hands in harvest, daring feet in chase,
True hearts in fight, were gather’d on that place
Of secret council. Not for fame or spoil
So met those men in Heaven’s majestic face:
To guard free hearths they rose, the sons of toil,
The hunter of the rocks, the tiller of the soil.
VIII.
O’er their low pastoral valleys might the tide
Of years have flow’d, and still, from sire to son,
Their names and records on the green earth died,
As cottage lamps, expiring one by one
In the dim glades, when midnight hath begun
To hush all sound. But silent on its height,
The snow mass, full of death, while ages run
Their course, may slumber, bathed in rosy light,
Till some rash voice or step disturb its brooding might.
IX.
So were _they_ roused. Th’ invading step had pass’d
Their cabin thresholds, and the lowly door,
Which well had stood against the Fohnwind’s blast,[229]
Could bar Oppression from their home no more.
Why, what had _she_ to do where all things wore
Wild grandeur’s impress? In the storm’s free way,
How dared _she_ lift her pageant crest before
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
Have voices from the cave and cataract swelling,
Fraught with His name whose awful presence fills
Their deep lone places, and for ever telling
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,
They rose--the forester--the mountaineer--
Oh! what hath earth more strong than the good peasant spear?
XI.
Sacred be Grutli’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 braced their spirits for the patriot fight,
With lovely images of homes that lay
Bower’d midst the rustling pines, or by the torrent spray.
XII.
Now had endurance reach’d its bounds! They came
With courage set in each bright earnest eye,
The day, the signal, and the hour to name,
When they should gather on their hills to die,
Or shake the glaciers with their joyous cry
For the land’s freedom. ’Twas a scene combining
All glory in itself--the solemn sky,
The stars, the waves their soften’d light enshrining,
And man’s high soul supreme o’er mighty Nature shining.
XIII.
Calmly they stood, and with collected mien,
Breathing their souls in voices firm but low--
As if the spirit of the hour and scene,
With the woods’ whisper and the waves’ sweet flow,
Had temper’d in their thoughtful hearts the glow
Of all indignant feeling. To the breath
Of Dorian flute, and lyre-note soft and slow,
E’en thus of old, the Spartan from its sheath
Drew his devoted sword, and girt himself for death.
XIV.
And three, that seem’d as chieftains of the band,
Were gather’d in the midst on that lone shore
By Uri’s lake. A father of the land,[230]
One on his brow the silent record wore
Of many days, whose shadows had pass’d o’er
His path among the hills, and quench’d the dreams
Of youth with sorrow. Yet from memory’s lore
Still his life’s evening drew its loveliest gleams,
For he had walk’d with God, beside the mountain streams.
XV.
And his gray hairs, in happier times, might well
To their last pillow silently have gone,
As melts a wreath of snow. But who shall tell
How life may task the spirit? He was one
Who from its morn a freeman’s work had done,
And reap’d his harvest, and his vintage press’d,
Fearless of wrong; and now, at set of sun,
He bow’d not to his years, for on the breast
Of a still chainless land he deem’d it much to rest.
XVI.
But for such holy rest strong hands must toil,
Strong hearts endure! By that pale elder’s side,
Stood one that seem’d a monarch of the soil,
Serene and stately in his manhood’s pride--
Werner,[231] the brave and true! If men have died
Their hearths and shrines inviolate to keep,
He was a mate for such. The voice that cried
Within his breast, “Arise!” came still and deep
From his far home, that smiled e’en then in moonlight sleep.
XVII.
It was a home to die for! As it rose
Through its vine foliage, sending forth a sound
Of mirthful childhood, o’er the green repose
And laughing sunshine of the pastures round;
And he, whose life to that sweet spot was bound,
Raised unto Heaven a glad yet thoughtful eye,
And set his free step firmer on the ground,
When o’er his soul its melodies went by,
As, through some Alpine pass, a breeze of Italy.
XVIII.
But who was he that on his hunting-spear
Lean’d, with a prouder and more fiery bearing?
His was a brow for tyrant hearts to fear,
Within the shadow of its dark locks wearing
That which they may not tame--a soul declaring
War against earth’s oppressors. Midst that throng
Of other mould he seem’d, and loftier daring,
One whose blood swept high impulses along,
One that should pass, and leave a name for warlike song--
XIX.
A memory on the mountains!--one to stand,
When the hills echo’d with the deepening swell
Of hostile trumpets, foremost for the land,
And in some rock defile, or savage dell,
Array her peasant children to repel
Th’ invader, sending arrows for his chains!
Ay, one to fold around him, as he fell,
Her banner with a smile--for through his veins
The joy of danger flow’d, as torrents to the plains.
XX.
There was at times a wildness in the light
Of his quick-flashing eye; a something born
Of the free Alps, and beautifully bright,
And proud, and tameless, laughing fear to scorn!
It well might be!--Young Erni’s step had worn[232]
The mantling snows on their most regal steeps,
And track’d the lynx above the clouds of morn,
And follow’d where the flying chamois leaps
Across the dark blue rifts, th’ unfathom’d glacier deeps.
XXI.
He was a creature of the Alpine sky,
A being whose bright spirit had been fed
Midst the crown’d heights of joy and liberty,
And thoughts of power. He knew each path which led
To the rock’s treasure caves, whose crystal shed
Soft light o’er secret fountains. At the tone
Of his loud horn the Lammer-Geyer[233] had spread
A startled wing--for oft that peal had blown
Where the free cataract’s voice was wont to sound alone.
XXII.
His step had track’d the waste, his soul had stirr’d
The ancient solitudes--his voice had told
Of wrongs to call down heaven.[234] That tale was heard
In Hasli’s dales, and where the shepherds’ fold
Their flocks in dark ravine and craggy hold
On the bleak Oberland; and where the light
Of day’s last footsteps bathes in burning gold
Great Righi’s cliffs; and where Mount Pilate’s height
Casts o’er his glassy lake the darkness of his might.
XXIII.
Nor was it heard in vain. There all things press
High thoughts on man. The fearless hunter pass’d,
And, from the bosom of the wilderness,
There leapt a spirit and a power to cast
The weight of bondage down--and bright and fast,
As the clear waters, joyously and free,
Burst from the desert rock, it rush’d at last,
Through the far valleys; till the patriot three
Thus with their brethren stood, beside the Forest-Sea.[235]
XXIV.
They link’d their hands, they pledged their stainless faith
In the dread presence of attesting Heaven,
They bound their hearts to suffering and to death,
With the severe and solemn transport given
To bless such vows. How nobly man had striven,
How man _might_ strive, and vainly strive, they knew,
And call’d upon their God, whose arm had riven
The crest of many a tyrant, since He blew
The foaming sea-wave on, and Egypt’s might o’erthrew.
XXV.
They knelt, and rose in strength. The valleys lay
Still in their dimness, but the peaks which darted
Into the bright mid air, had caught from day
A flush of fire, when those true Switzers parted,
Each to his glen or forest, steadfast-hearted,
And full of hope. Not many suns had worn
Their setting glory, ere from slumber started
Ten thousand voices, of the mountains born--
So far was heard the blast of freedom’s echoing horn!
XXVI.
The ice-vaults trembled, when that peal came rending
The frozen stillness which around them hung;
From cliff to cliff the avalanche descending
Gave answer, till the sky’s blue hollow rung;
And the flame-signals through the midnight sprung
From the Surennen rocks, like banners streaming
To the far Seelisberg; whence light was flung
On Grutli’s field, till all the red lake gleaming
Shone out, a meteor-heaven in its wild splendour seeming.
XXVII.
And the winds toss’d each summit’s blazing crest,
As a host’s plumage; and the giant pines,
Fell’d where they waved o’er crag and eagle’s nest,
Heap’d up the flames. The clouds grew fiery signs,
As o’er a city’s burning towers and shrines,
Reddening the distance. Wine-cups, crown’d and bright,
In Werner’s dwelling flow’d; through leafless vines
From Walter’s hearth stream’d forth the festive light,
And Erni’s blind old sire gave thanks to heaven that night.
XXVIII.
Then on the silence of the snows there lay
A Sabbath’s quiet sunshine--and its bell
Fill’d the hush’d air awhile, with lonely sway;
For the stream’s voice was chain’d by winter’s spell,
The deep wood-sounds had ceased. But rock and dell
Rang forth, ere long, when strains of jubilee
Peal’d from the mountain churches, with a swell
Of praise to Him who stills the raging sea--
For now the strife was closed, the glorious Alps were free!
[228] Senn, the name given to a herdsman among the Swiss Alps.