For a boding clash, and a clanging tramp, The peasant heard the sound, As he sat beside his hearth; And the song and the dance were hush'd around, The chieftain shook in his banner'd hall, And the warder shrank from the castle wall, Woe, woe, to the stranger, then; For the waken'd pride of an injured land From the plumed chief to the pilgrim band; Proud beings tell that hour, With the young and passing fair, And the flame went up from dome and tower, The avenger's arm was there! The stranger priest at the altar stood, And clasp'd his beads in prayer, But the holy shrine grew dim with blood; The avenger found him there! Woe, woe, to the sons of Gaul; On ruin'd temple and mouldering pile, Ay, the sunshine sweetly smiled, And the man of blood that day might read, How ill his dark and midnight deed Became the light of heaven. 35. THE BATTLE OF MORGARTEN. MRS. HEMANS. [Felicia Dorothea Hemans was born at Liverpool, Sept. 25, 1793, but was removed with her family before she had attained the age of seven to Gwrych, in Derbyshire. In this romantic region she wrote some very creditable verse while yet in her twelfth year. In 1809 the family removed to St. Asaph, in Flintshire, and in 1812 her "Domestic Affections and other Poems" were published. In the summer of this year she was married to Captain Hemans, who, in 1818, left her with five children, "to try the effect of a southern climate," but his wife never saw him again, there can be little doubt that it was this painful separation which tinged much of her subsequent compositions with that melancholy feeling that rendered it so touching, and occasionally, so monotonously pathetic. She may claim to be the first English writer who made the poetry of the home affections adapted to the purposes of song; she beautified and purified musical ballad literature, and had hundreds of imitators -the best proof of the originality of her genius. She died at Dublin, May 16, 1835.] THE wine-month shone in its golden prime, But a deeper sound, through the Switzer's clime, A sound, through vaulted cave, Like the hollow swell of a rushing wave; And a trumpet, pealing wild and far, And through the forest-glooms And the winds were tossing knightly plumes, In Hasli's wilds there was gleaming steel, And the Schreckhorn's rocks, with a savage peal, Up 'midst the Righi snows The stormy march was heard, With the charger's tramp, whence fire-sparks rose, But a band, the noblest band of all, They came with heavy chains, For the race despised so longBut amidst his Alp-domains, The herdsman's arm is strong! The sun was reddening the clouds of morn Where the mountain people stood, There was stillness, as of night, When storms at distance brood. There was stillness, as of deep dead night, While the Switzers gazed on the gathering might On wound those columns bright Between the lake and wood, But they look'd not to the misty height The pass was fill'd with their serried power, And their steps had sounds like a thunder-shower There were prince and crested knight, When a shout arose from the misty height And the mighty rocks came bounding down, With a joyous whirl from the summit thrown- They came like lauwine hurl'd From Alp to Alp in play, When the echoes shout through the And the pines are borne away. snowy world The fir-woods crash'd on the mountain-side, With a sudden charge, on the flower and pride Like hunters of the deer, They storm'd the narrow dell, And first in the shock, with Uri's spear, There was tumult in the crowded strait, With their pikes and massy clubs they brake And the war-horse dash'd to the reddening lake The field- but not of sheaves- Strewn o'er it thick as the birch-wood leaves, Oh! the sun in heaven fierce havoc view'd, And the leader of the war With a hurrying step on the wilds afar, But the sons of the land which the freeman tills, 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, 36. THE ROPEWALK. IN that building long and low At the end, an open door; And the whirring of a wheel, As the spinners to the end Gleam the long threads in the sun; Two fair maidens in a swing, Then a booth of mountebanks, And a weary look of care. Then a homestead among farms, Then an old man in a tower, While the rope coils round and round Like a serpent at his feet, And again, in swift retreat, Nearly lifts him from the ground. Then within a prison-yard, Faces fixed, and stern, and hard, Laughter and indecent mirth; Ah! it is the gallows-tree! Breath of Christian charity, Blow, and sweep it from the earth! Then a schoolboy, with his kite Gleaming in a sky of light, And an eager upward look; Steeds pursued through lane and field; Fowlers with their snares concealed; And an angler by a brook. |