As I gaze in silent wonderOn the countless stars of night,Looking down in mystic stillnessWith their soft and magic lightSeem they from my eyes retreatingWith their vast and bright array,Till they into endless distanceAlmost seem to fade away.And my thoughts are carried with themTo their far-off realms of light;Yet they seem retreating ever,Ever into endless night.Whither leads that silent army,With its noiseless tread and slow?And those glittering bands, who are they?Thus my thoughts essay to know.But my heart the secret tellethThat to thee, my God, they guide;That they are thy gleaming watchmen,Guarding round thy palace wide.Then, when shall those gates be openedTo receive my yearning soul,Where its home shall be for ever,While the countless ages roll?Thou alone, O God! canst know it:Till then doth my spirit pine.Father! keep thy child from falling,Till for ever I am thine.
As I gaze in silent wonderOn the countless stars of night,Looking down in mystic stillnessWith their soft and magic lightSeem they from my eyes retreatingWith their vast and bright array,Till they into endless distanceAlmost seem to fade away.And my thoughts are carried with themTo their far-off realms of light;Yet they seem retreating ever,Ever into endless night.Whither leads that silent army,With its noiseless tread and slow?And those glittering bands, who are they?Thus my thoughts essay to know.But my heart the secret tellethThat to thee, my God, they guide;That they are thy gleaming watchmen,Guarding round thy palace wide.Then, when shall those gates be openedTo receive my yearning soul,Where its home shall be for ever,While the countless ages roll?Thou alone, O God! canst know it:Till then doth my spirit pine.Father! keep thy child from falling,Till for ever I am thine.
As I gaze in silent wonderOn the countless stars of night,Looking down in mystic stillnessWith their soft and magic light
As I gaze in silent wonder
On the countless stars of night,
Looking down in mystic stillness
With their soft and magic light
Seem they from my eyes retreatingWith their vast and bright array,Till they into endless distanceAlmost seem to fade away.
Seem they from my eyes retreating
With their vast and bright array,
Till they into endless distance
Almost seem to fade away.
And my thoughts are carried with themTo their far-off realms of light;Yet they seem retreating ever,Ever into endless night.
And my thoughts are carried with them
To their far-off realms of light;
Yet they seem retreating ever,
Ever into endless night.
Whither leads that silent army,With its noiseless tread and slow?And those glittering bands, who are they?Thus my thoughts essay to know.
Whither leads that silent army,
With its noiseless tread and slow?
And those glittering bands, who are they?
Thus my thoughts essay to know.
But my heart the secret tellethThat to thee, my God, they guide;That they are thy gleaming watchmen,Guarding round thy palace wide.
But my heart the secret telleth
That to thee, my God, they guide;
That they are thy gleaming watchmen,
Guarding round thy palace wide.
Then, when shall those gates be openedTo receive my yearning soul,Where its home shall be for ever,While the countless ages roll?
Then, when shall those gates be opened
To receive my yearning soul,
Where its home shall be for ever,
While the countless ages roll?
Thou alone, O God! canst know it:Till then doth my spirit pine.Father! keep thy child from falling,Till for ever I am thine.
Thou alone, O God! canst know it:
Till then doth my spirit pine.
Father! keep thy child from falling,
Till for ever I am thine.
Brunnen, the “fort of Schwytz,” standing at that angle of the lake of Lucerne where it turns abruptly towards the very heart of the Alps, has always been a central halting-place for travellers; but since the erection of its large hotel the attraction has greatly increased. We found the Waldstätterhof full to overflowing, and rejoiced that, as usual, we had wisely ordered our rooms beforehand. Our surprise was great, as we threaded the mazes of thetable-d’hôteroom, to see Herr H—— come forward and greet us cordially. We expected, it is true, to meet him here, but not until the eve of the feast at Einsiedeln, whither he had promised to accompany us. An unforeseen event, however, had brought him up the lake sooner, and he therefore came on to Brunnen, in the hope of finding us. A few minutes sufficed to make him quit his place at the centre table and join us at a small one, where supper had been prepared for our party, and allow us to begin a description of our wanderings since we parted from him on the quay at Lucerne. Yes, “begin” is the proper word; for before long the harmony was marred by George, who, with his usual impetuosity, and in spite of Caroline’s warning frowns and Anna’s and my appealing looks, betrayed our disappointment at having missed the Hermitage at Ranft, and the reproaches we had heaped on Herr H——’s head for having mismanaged the programme in that particular. The cheery little man, whose eyes had just begun to glisten with delight, grew troubled.
“I amsosorry!” he exclaimed. “But the ladies were not so enthusiastic about Blessed Nicholas when I saw them. And as for you, Mr. George, I never could have dreamt you would have cared for the Hermit.”
“Oh! butheis a real historical character, you see, about whom there can be no doubt—very unlike your sun-god, your mythical hero, William Tell!” replied George.
“Take care! take care! young gentleman,” said Herr H——, laughing. “Remember you are now in Tell’s territory, and he may make you rue the consequences of deriding him! Don’t imagine, either, that your modern historical critics have left even Blessed Nicholas alone! Oh! dear, no.”
“But he is vouched for by documents,” retorted George.“No one can doubt them.”
“Your critics of this age would turn and twist and doubt anything,” said Herr H——. “They cannot deny his existence nor the main features of his life; yet some have gone so far as to pretend to doubt the most authentic fact in it—his presence at the Diet of Stanz—saying thatprobablyhe never went there, but only wrote a letter to the deputies. So much for their criticism and researches! After that specimen you need not wonder that I have no respect for them. But I am in an unusually patriotic mood to-day; for I havejust come from a meeting at Beckenried, on the opposite shore, in Unterwalden. It was that which brought me here before my appointment with you. It was a meeting of one of our Catholic societies in these cantons, which assembled to protest against the revision of the constitution contemplated next spring. Before separating it was suggested that they should call a larger one at the Rütli, to evoke the memories of the past and conform themselves to the pattern of our forefathers.”
“Why do you so much object to a revision?” inquired Mr. C——. “Surely reform must sometimes be necessary.”
“Sometimes, of course, but not at present, my dear sir. ‘Revision’ nowadays simply means radicalism and the suppression of our religion and our religious rights and privileges. It is a word which, for that reason alone, is at all times distasteful to these cantons. Moreover, it savors too much of French ideas and doctrines, thoroughly antagonistic to all our principles and feelings. Everything French is loathed in these parts, especially in Unterwalden, in spite of—or I should perhaps rather say in consequence of—all they suffered from that nation in 1798.”
“I can understand that,” said Mr. C——, “with the memory of the massacre in the church at Stanz always in their minds.”
“Well, yes; but that was only one act in the tragedy. The desolation they caused in that part of the country was fearful. Above all, their total want of religion at that period can never be forgotten.”
“As for myself,” remarked Mr. C——, “though not a Catholic, I confess that I should much rather rely on the upright instincts of this pious population than on the crooked teachings of our modern philosophers. I have always noticed in every great political crisis that the instincts of the pure and simple-minded have something of an inspiration about them; they go straight to the true principles where a Macchiavelli is often at fault.” Herr H—— completely agreed with him, and the conversation soon became a deep and serious discussion on the tendencies of modern politics in general, so that it was late that evening before our party separated.
The first sound that fell upon my ear next morning was the splashing of a steamer hard by. It had been so dark upon our arrival the night before that we had not altogether realized the close proximity of the hotel to the lake, and it was an unexpected pleasure to find my balcony almost directly over the water, like the stern gallery of a ship of war. A small steamer certainly was approaching from the upper end of the lake, with a time-honored old diligence in the bows and a few travellers, tired-looking and dust-stained, scattered on the deck, very unlike the brilliant throngs that pass to and fro during the late hours of the day. But this early morning performance was one of real business, and the magical words “Post” and “St. Gothard,” which stood out in large letters on the yellow panels of the diligence, told at once of more than mere pleasure-seeking. What joy or grief, happiness or despair, might not this old-fashioned vehicle be at this moment conveying to unknown thousands! It was an abrupt transition, too, to be thus brought from pastoral Sarnen and Sachslen into immediate contact with the mighty Alps. Oftheir grandeur, however, nothing could be seen; for, without rain or wind, a thick cloud lay low upon the lake, more like a large flat ceiling than aught else. Yet, for us, it had its own peculiar interest, being nothing more nor less than the great, heavy, soft mass which we had noticed hanging over the lake every morning when looking down from Kaltbad, whilst we, revelling in sunshine and brightness above, were pitying the poor inhabitants along the shore beneath. There was a kind of superiority, therefore, in knowing what it meant, and in feeling confident that it would not last long. And, as we expected, it did clear away whilst we sat at our little breakfast-table in the window, revealing in all its magnificence the glorious view from this point up the Bay of Uri, which we have elsewhere described. Huge mountains seemed to rise vertically up out of the green waters; verdant patches were dotted here and there on their rugged sides; and, overtopping all, shone the glacier of the Urirothstock, more dazzlingly white and transparent than we had ever yet beheld it.
“Now, ladies!” exclaimed Herr H——, “I hope you have your Schiller ready; for the Rütli is yonder, though you will see it better by and by.”
“Why, I thought you disapproved of Schiller,” retorted the irrepressibly argumentative George.
“To a certain degree, no doubt,” replied Herr H——. “But nothing can be finer than hisWilliam Tellas a whole. My quarrel with it is that the real William Tell would have fared much better were it not for this play, and especially for the opera. They have both made the subject so common—sobanale, as the French say—that the world has grown tired of it, and for this reason alone is predisposed to reject our hero. Besides, the real history of the Revolution is so fine that I prefer it in its simplicity. Schiller is certainly true to its spirit, but details are frequently different. For instance, the taking of the Castle of the Rossberg, which you passed on the lake of Alpnach: Schiller has converted that into a most sensational scene, whereas the true story is far more characteristic. That was the place where a young girl admitted her betrothed and his twelve Confederate friends by a rope-ladder at night, which enabled them to seize the castle and imprison the garrison “without shedding a drop of blood or injuring the property of the Habsburgs,” in exact conformity with their oath on the Rütli. You will often read of the loves of Jägeli and Ameli in Swiss poetry. They are great favorites, and, in my opinion, far more beautiful than the fictitious romance of Rudenz and Bertha. And so in many other cases. But every one does not object to Schiller as I do; for in 1859, when his centenary was celebrated in Germany, the Swiss held a festival here on the Rütli, and subsequently erected a tablet on that large natural pyramidal rock you see at the corner opposite. It is called the Wytenstein, and you can read the large gilt words with a glass. It is laconic enough, too; see: ‘To Frederick Schiller—The Singer of Tell—The Urcantone.’ The original cantons! Miss Caroline! let me congratulate you on being at last in the ‘Urschweiz’—the cradle of Switzerland,” continued Herr H——, as we sauntered out on the quay, pointing at the same time to some bad frescos of Swen and Suiter on awarehouse close by. Stauffacher, Fürst, and Van der Halden also figured on the walls—the presiding geniuses of this region. “Brunnen is in no way to be despised, I assure you, ladies; you are treading on venerated soil. This is the very spot that witnessed the foundation of the Confederacy, where the oath was taken by the representatives of Uri, Schwytz, and Unterwalden the day after the battle of Morgarten. They swore ‘to die, each for all and all for each’—the oath which made Switzerland renowned, and gave the name of ‘Ridsgenossen,’ or ‘oath-participators,’ to its inhabitants. The document is still kept in the archives at Schwytz, with another dated August 1, 1291. Aloys von Reding raised his standard against the French here in 1798; and he was quite right in beginning his resistance to them at Brunnen. It is full of memories to us Swiss, and is a most central point, as you may see, between all these cantons. The increase in the hotels tells what a favorite region it also is with tourists.”
On this point Mr. and Mrs. C——’s astonishment was unbounded. They had passed a fortnight at Brunnen in 1861, at a small inn with scanty accommodation, now replaced by the large and comfortable Waldstätterhof, situated in one of the most lovely spots imaginable, at the angle of the lake, one side fronting the Bay of Uri and the other looking up towards Mount Pilatus. Thepensionof Seelisberg existed on the heights opposite even then—only, however, as a small house, instead of the present extensive establishment, with its pretty woods and walks; but Axenstein and the second large hotel now building near it, with the splendid road leading up to them, had not been thought of. The only communication by land between Schwytz and Fluelen, in those days, was a mule-path along the hills, precipitous and dangerous in many parts. The now famed Axenstrasse was not undertaken until 1862; and is said to have been suggested by the French war in Italy. With the old Swiss dread of the French still at heart, the Federal government took alarm at that first military undertaking on the part of Napoleon III., and, seeing the evil of having no communication between these cantons in case of attack, at once took the matter seriously in hand. This great engineering achievement was opened to the public in 1868. It looked most inviting to-day, and we quickly decided to make use of it by driving along it to Fluelen, and thence to Altorf, returning in the evening by the steamer. Some were anxious to visit the Rütli; but Mr. and Mrs. C—— had been there before, and knew that it was more than an hour’s expedition by boat, so that the two excursions on the same day would be quite impossible; consequently, we chose the longer one.
It was just ten o’clock when we started; Mrs. C——, Caroline, Herr H——, and myself in one carriage, with George on the box, the others following us in a second vehicle. We had not proceeded far when Herr H—— made us halt to look at the Rütli, on the shore right opposite. We distinctly saw that it was a small meadow, formed by earth fallen from above on a ledge of rock under the precipitous heights of Seelisberg, and now enclosed by some fine chestnut and walnut trees. Truly, it was a spot fitted for the famous scene. So unapproachable is it, except by water,that even that most enterprising race—Swiss hotel-keepers—have hitherto failed to destroy it. Some years ago, however, it narrowly escaped this fate; for Herr Müller, of Seelisberg, is said to have been on the point of building apensionon the great meadow. But no sooner did this become known than a national subscription was at once raised, the government purchased it, and now it has become inalienable national property for ever.
“You may well be proud of your country, Herr H——,” exclaimed Mr. C—— from the other carriage. “I always look on that tiny spot with deep reverence as the true cradle of freedom. Look at it well, George! It witnessed that wonderful oath by which these mountaineers bound themselves ‘to be faithful to each other, just and merciful to their oppressors’—the only known example of men—and these men peasants, too—binding themselves, in the excitement of revolt, not to take revenge on their oppressors.”
“Quite sublime!” ejaculated George.
“Well, it has borne good fruit,” returned Herr H—— in gleeful tones; “for here we are still free! Except on the one occasion of the French in ’98, no foreign troops have ever invaded this part of Switzerland since those days. Yes, there are three springs at the Rütli, supposed to have jutted forth where the three heroes stood; but I do not pledge my word for that,” he answered smilingly to Caroline, “nor for the legend which says that their spirits sleep in the rocky vale under Seelisberg, ready to come forth and lead the people in moments of danger.”
“I hope their slumbers may never be disturbed,” she replied; “but I wish some one would prevent these cattle from frightening the horses,” as a large drove swept past our carriages, making our steeds nervous. Splendid animals they were, with beautiful heads, straight backs, light limbs, and of a grayish mouse color.
“All of the celebrated Schwytz breed,” said Herr H——. “This part of the country is renowned for its cattle. Each of these probably cost from five to six hundred francs. The Italians take great advantage of this new road, and come in numbers to buy them at this season, when the cattle are returning from the mountains. These are going across the St. Gothard to Lombardy. Those of Einsiedeln are still considered the best. Do you remember, Miss Caroline, that the first mention of German authority in this land was occasioned by a dispute between the shepherds of Schwytz and the abbots of Einsiedeln about their pasturage—the emperor having given a grant of land to the abbey, while the Schwytzers had never heard of his existence even, and refused to obey his majesty’s orders?”
“Ah! what historical animals: that quite reconciles me to them,” she answered, as we drove on again amongst a group that seemed very uneasy under their new masters, whose sweet language George averred had no power over them.
Who can describe the exquisite beauty of our drive?—winding in and out, sometimes through a tunnel; at others along the edge of the high precipice from which a low parapet alone separated us; at another passing through the village of Sisikon, which years ago suffered severely from a fragment of rock fallen from the Frohnalp above. Time flew rapidly, and one hourand a half had glided by, without our perceiving it, when we drew up before the beautiful little inn of “Tell’s Platte.”
“But there is no Platform here,” cried George. “We are hundreds of feet above the lake. The critics are right, Herr H——, decidedly right! I knew it from the beginning. How can you deny it?”
“Wait, my young friend! Don’t be so impatient. Just come into the inn first—I should like you to see the lovely view from it; and then we can look for the Platform.” Saying which, he led us upstairs, on through thesalonto its balcony on the first floor. This is one of the smaller inns of that olden type which boast the enthusiastic attachment of regular customers, and display with pride that old institution—the “strangers’ book”—which has completely vanished from the monster hotels. It lay open on the table as we passed, and every one instinctively stopped to examine it.
“The dear old books!” exclaimed Mrs. C——. “How they used to amuse me in Switzerland! I have missed them so much this time. Their running fire of notes, their polyglot verses—a sort of album and scrap-book combined, full, too, of praise or abuse of the last hotel, as the humor might be.”
“Yes,” said Mr. C——, “I shall never forget the preface to one—an imprecation on whoever might be tempted to let his pen go beyond bounds. I learned it by rote:
“May the mountain spirits disturb his slumbers;May his limbs be weary, and his feet sore;May the innkeepers give him tough mutton andSour wine, and charge him for it as though he wereLord Sir John, M.P.!”
“May the mountain spirits disturb his slumbers;May his limbs be weary, and his feet sore;May the innkeepers give him tough mutton andSour wine, and charge him for it as though he wereLord Sir John, M.P.!”
“May the mountain spirits disturb his slumbers;May his limbs be weary, and his feet sore;May the innkeepers give him tough mutton andSour wine, and charge him for it as though he wereLord Sir John, M.P.!”
“May the mountain spirits disturb his slumbers;
May his limbs be weary, and his feet sore;
May the innkeepers give him tough mutton and
Sour wine, and charge him for it as though he were
Lord Sir John, M.P.!”
“How very amusing!—a perfect gem in its way,” cried Anna. “Lord Sir John, M.P., must have been the model of large-pursed Britons in his time.” Here, however, everything seemed to becouleur de rose. The book’s only fault was its monotony of praise. Two sisters keep the hotel, and “nowhere,” said its devoted friends, “could one find better fare, better attendance, and greater happiness than at Tell’s Platform.” The testimony of a young couple confessedly on their bridal tour had no weight. We know how, at that moment, a barren rock transforms itself into a paradise for them; but three maiden ladies had passed six weeks of unalloyed enjoyment here once upon a time, and had returned often since; English clergymen and their families found no words of praise too strong; while German students and professors indulged in rhapsodical language not to be equalled out of fatherland.
Duchesses, princesses, and Lords Sir John, M.P., were alone wanting amongst the present guests. “But they come,” said Herr H——, “by the mid-day steamers, dine and rest here awhile, and return in the evenings to the larger hotels in other places.”
And standing on the balcony of thesalon, facing all the grand mountains, with the green lake beneath, it truly seemed a spot made for brides and bridegrooms, for love and friendship. So absorbed were we in admiration of the enchanting view that we did not at first notice two little maidens sitting at the far end. They were pretty children, of nine and thirteen, daughters of an English family stopping here, and their countenances brightened as they heard our exclamation of delight; for Tell’s Platte was to them a paradise. Like true Britons, however, they said nothing until George and Caroline commenceddisputing about the scenery. Comment then was irresistible. “No,” said the youngest, “that is the Isenthal,” pointing to a valley beneath the hills opposite; “and that the Urirothstock, with its glacier above, and the Gütschen. Those straight walls of rock below are the Teufel’s-Münster.”
“Don’t you remember where Schiller says:
‘The blast, rebounding from the Devil’s Minster,Has driven them back on the great Axenberg’?
‘The blast, rebounding from the Devil’s Minster,Has driven them back on the great Axenberg’?
‘The blast, rebounding from the Devil’s Minster,Has driven them back on the great Axenberg’?
‘The blast, rebounding from the Devil’s Minster,
Has driven them back on the great Axenberg’?
That is it, and this here is the Axenberg,” said Emily, the elder girl.
“But I see no Platform here,” remarked George with mischief in his eye, as he quickly detected the young girl’s faith in the hero.
“It would be impossible to see it,” she rejoined, “as it is three hundred feet below this house.”
“But we can show you the way, if you will come,” continued the younger child, taking George’s hand, who, partly from surprise and partly amusement, allowed himself to be led like a lamb across the road and through the garden to the pathway winding down the cliff, followed by us, under guidance of the elder sister, Emily.
“Yes,” the children answered, “they had spent the last two years in France and Germany.” And certainly they spoke both languages like natives. Emily was even translatingWilliam Tellinto English blank verse. “Heigho!” sighed Mr. C——, “for this precocious age.” But the lake of the Forest Cantons was dearer to them than all else. They had climbed one thousand feet up the side of the Frohnalpstock that very morning with their father; knew every peak and valley, far and near, with all their legends and histories; even theranz des vachesand the differences between them—the shepherds’ calls to the cows and the goats. Annie, our smaller friend, entertained George with all their varieties, as she tripped daintily along, like a little fairy, with her tiny alpenstock. Very different was she from continental children, who rarely, if ever, take interest in either pastoral or literary matters. She knew the way to the platform well; for did she not go up and down it many times a day? A difficult descent it was, too—almost perpendicular—notwithstanding the well-kept pathway; but not dangerous until we reached the bottom, when each one in turn had to jump on to a jutting piece of rock, in order to get round the corner into the chapel. Most truly it stands on a small ledge, with no inch of room for aught but the small building raised over it. The water close up to the shore is said to be eight hundred feet deep, and it made one shudder to hear Herr H——’s story of an artist who a few years ago fell into the lake while sketching on the cliffs above. Poor man! forgetful of the precipice, he had thoughtlessly stepped back a few steps to look at his painting, fell over, and was never seen again. His easel and painting alone remained to give pathetic warning to other rash spirits.
The chapel, open on the side next the water, is covered with faded frescos of Tell’s history, which our little friends quaintly described; and it contains, besides, an altar and a small pulpit. Here Mass is said once a year on the Friday after the Ascension, when all the people of the neighborhood come hither, and from their boats, grouped outside, hear Mass and the sermon preached to them from the railing in front. This was thefeast which my Weggis guide so much desired to see. It is unique in every particular, and Herr H—— was eloquent on the beauty and impressiveness of the scene, at which he had once been present, and which it was easy to understand amidst these magnificent surroundings. Nor is it a common gathering of peasants, but a solemn celebration, to which the authorities of Uri come in state with the standard of Uri—the renowned Uri ox—floating at the bows. As may be supposed, the sermon is always national, touching on all those points of faith, honor, and dignity which constitute true patriotism. Mr. C—— had Murray’s guide-book in his hand, and would not allow us to say another word until he read aloud Sir James Macintosh’s remarks on this portion of the lake, which there occur as follows:
“The combination of what is grandest in nature with whatever is pure and sublime in human conduct affected me in this passage (along the lake) more powerfully than any scene which I had ever seen. Perhaps neither Greece nor Rome would have had such power over me. They are dead. The present inhabitants are a new race, who regard with little or no feeling the memorials of former ages. This is, perhaps, the only place on the globe where deeds of pure virtue, ancient enough to be venerable, are consecrated by the religion of the people, and continue to command interest and reverence. No local superstition so beautiful and so moral anywhere exists. The inhabitants of Thermopylæ or Marathon know no more of these famous spots than that they are so many square feet of earth. England is too extensive a country to make Runnymede an object of national affection. In countries of industry and wealth the stream of events sweeps away these old remembrances. The solitude of the Alps is a sanctuary destined for the monuments of ancient virtue; Grütli and Tell’s chapel are as much reverenced by the Alpine peasants as Mecca by a devout Mussulman; and the deputies of the three ancient cantons met, so late as the year 1715, to renew their allegiance and their oaths of eternal union.”
“The combination of what is grandest in nature with whatever is pure and sublime in human conduct affected me in this passage (along the lake) more powerfully than any scene which I had ever seen. Perhaps neither Greece nor Rome would have had such power over me. They are dead. The present inhabitants are a new race, who regard with little or no feeling the memorials of former ages. This is, perhaps, the only place on the globe where deeds of pure virtue, ancient enough to be venerable, are consecrated by the religion of the people, and continue to command interest and reverence. No local superstition so beautiful and so moral anywhere exists. The inhabitants of Thermopylæ or Marathon know no more of these famous spots than that they are so many square feet of earth. England is too extensive a country to make Runnymede an object of national affection. In countries of industry and wealth the stream of events sweeps away these old remembrances. The solitude of the Alps is a sanctuary destined for the monuments of ancient virtue; Grütli and Tell’s chapel are as much reverenced by the Alpine peasants as Mecca by a devout Mussulman; and the deputies of the three ancient cantons met, so late as the year 1715, to renew their allegiance and their oaths of eternal union.”
“All very well,” said George, “if there really had been a Tell; but this seems to me a body without a soul. Why, this very chapel is in the Italian style, and never could have been founded by the one hundred and twenty contemporaries who are said to have known Tell and to have been present at its consecration.”
“I never heard that any one insisted on this being the original building,” said Herr H——. “It is probably an improvement on it; but it was not the fashion in those times—for people were not then incredulous—to put up tablets recording changes and renovations, as nowadays at Kaltbad and Klösterle, for instance. But speaking dispassionately, Mr. George, it seems to me quite impossible that the introduction of any legend from Denmark or elsewhere could have taken such strong hold of a people like these mountaineers without some solid foundation, especially here, where every inhabitant is known to the other, and the same families have lived on in the same spots for centuries. Why is it not just as likely that the same sort of event should have occurred in more than one place? And as to its not being mentioned in the local documents, that is not conclusive either; for we all know how careless in these respects were the men of the middle ages, above all in a rude mountain canton of this kind. Transmission by word of mouth and by religious celebrations is much more in character with those times. I go heart and hand with your own Buckle,who places so much reliance on local traditions. The main argument used against the truth of the story is, you know, that it was first related in detail by an old chronicler called Ægidius Tschudi, a couple of hundred years after the event. But I see nothing singular in that; for most probably he merely committed to writing, with all the freshness of simplicity, the story which, for the previous two hundred years, had been in the hearts and on the lips of the peasants of this region. No invention of any writer could have founded chapels or have become ingrained in the hearts of the locality itself in the manner this story has done. It was never doubted until the end of the last century, when a Prof. Freudenberger, of Bern, wrote a pamphlet entitledWilliam Tell: a Danish Fable.”
“Yes,” broke in little Emily, latest translator of Schiller, and who had been listening attentively to our discussion, “and the people of the forest cantons were so indignant that the authorities of Uri had the pamphlet burned by the common hangman, and then they solemnly proclaimed its author an outlaw.”
“I told you, Mr. George, that you were on dangerous ground here,” said Herr H——, laughing.
“I must make him kiss this earth before he leaves,” said Mrs. C——, “as I read lately of a mother making her little son do when passing here early in this century, regarding it as a spot sacred to liberty. She little thought a sceptic like you would so soon follow.”
“Well! I amalmostconverted,” he answered, smiling, “but I wish Miss Emily would tell us the story of Tell’s jumping on shore here,” trying to draw out the enthusiastic little prodigy.
“Oh! don’t you remember that magnificent passage in Schiller where, after the scene of shooting at the apple, Gessler asked Tell why he put the second arrow into his quiver, and then, promising to spare his life if he revealed its object, evades his promise the instant he hears that it was destined to kill him if Tell had struck his son instead of the apple? He then ordered him to be bound and taken on board his vessel at Fluelen. The boat had no sooner left Fluelen than one of those sudden storms sprang up so common hereabouts. There was one two days ago. Annie and I tried to come down here, but it was impossible—the wind and waves were so high we could not venture, so we sat on the pathway and read out Schiller. Oh! he is a great genius. He never was in Switzerland. Yes! just fancy that; and yet he describes everything to perfection. Well! Tell was as good a pilot as a marksman, and Gessler, in his fright, again promised to take off his fetters if he would steer the vessel safely. He did, but steered them straight towards this ledge of rock, sprang out upon it, climbed up the cliff, and, rushing through the country, arrived at the Hohle-Gasse near Küssnacht before the tyrant had reached it.”
“Schiller decidedly has his merit, it must be confessed, when he can get such ardent admirers as these pretty children,” said Herr H—— when we bade farewell to our dear little friends.
“Yes,” answered the incorrigible George from the box seat, “poetry, poetry!—an excellent mode of transmitting traditions, making them indelible on young minds; but I am so far converted, Herr H——,” continued he, laughing, “that I amsorry the doubts were ever raised about the Tell history. It is in wonderful keeping with the place and people, and it will be a great pity iftheygive it up. ‘Se non è vero, è ben trovato,’[12]at least.”
Hence onwards to Fluelen is the finest portion of the Axenstrasse, and the opening views of the valley of the Reuss and the Bristenstock, through the arches of the galleries or tunnels, every minute increased in beauty. Several of us got out the better to enjoy them, sending the carriages on ahead. The Schwytz cattle had quite escaped our memories, when suddenly a bell sounded round a sharp angle of the road and a large drove instantly followed.
A panic seized us ladies. The cliff rose vertically on the inner side, without allowing us the possibility of a clamber, and in our fright, before the gentlemen could prevent us, we leaped over a low railing, which there served as a parapet, on to a ledge of rock, a few yards square, rising straight up from the lake hundreds of feet below. All recollection of their historical interest vanished from our minds; for, as the cattle danced along, they looked as scared and wild as ourselves, and it was not until they had passed without noticing us, and that their dark-eyed masters had spoken some soft Italian words to us, that we fully realized the extent of our imprudence. Had any one of these animals jumped up over the railing, as we afterwards heard they have sometimes done, who can say what might not have happened? Fortunately, no harm ensued beyond a flutter of nerves, which betrayed itself by Anna’s turning round to a set of handsome goats that soon followed the cattle, crying out to them in her own peculiar German: “Nix kommen! nix kommen!”
Fluelen has nothing to show beyond the picturesqueness of a village situated in such scenery and a collection of lumbering diligences and countless carriages, awaiting the hourly arrival of the steamers from Lucerne. The knell of these old diligences, however, has tolled, for the St. Gothard Railway tunnel has been commenced near Arnsty, and though it may require years to finish it, its “opening day” will surely come. Half an hour’s drive up the lovely valley brought us to Altorf, at the foot of the Grünwald, which, in accord with its name, is clothed with a virgin forest, now called the “Bann forest,” because so useful is it in protecting the town from avalanches and landslips that the Uri government never permits it to be touched. Altorf, like so many of the capitals in these forest cantons, has a small population, 2,700 inhabitants only, but it has many good houses, for it was burnt down in 1799 and rebuilt in a better manner. Tell’s story forms its chief interest, and certainly did so in our eyes. We rushed at once to the square, where one fountain is said to mark the spot where Tell took aim, and another that upon which his boy stood. Tradition says that the latter one replaced the lime-tree against which the son leant, portions of which existed until 1567. A paltry plaster statue of the hero is in the same square, but the most remarkable relic of antiquity is an old tower close by, which Herr H—— assured us is proved by documents to have been built before 1307, the date of Tell’s history.Had the young friends we left at “Tell’s Platform” accompanied us hither, Emily might have quoted Schiller to us at length. But George, having recently bought a Tauchnitz edition of Freeman’sGrowth of the English Constitution, which opens with a fine description of the annual elections of this canton, he earnestly pleaded a prolongation of our drive to the spot where this takes place, three miles further inland. Accordingly, after ordering dinner to be ready on our return at a hotel which was filled with Tell pictures, and an excellent one of the festival at the Platform, we left the town and proceeded up the valley. Soon we crossed a stream, the same, Herr H—— told us, in which Tell is said to have been drowned while endeavoring to save a child who had fallen into it. He also pointed out to us Bürglen, his home, and an old tower believed to have been his house, attached to which there is now a small ivy-clad chapel. It stands at the opening of the Schächen valley, celebrated to this day for its fine race of men—likewise corresponding in this respect with the old tradition. But more modern interest attaches to this valley, for it was along its craggy sides and precipices that Suwarow’s army made its way across the Kinzig-Kulm to the Muotta. The whole of this region was the scene of fearful fighting—first between the French and the Austrians, who were assisted by the natives of Uri, in 1799, and then, a month later, between the Russians coming up from Lombardy and the French.
“That was the age of real fighting,” said Herr H——, “hand-to-hand fighting, withoutmitrailleusesor long ranges. But the misery it brought this quarter was not recovered from for years after. Altorf was burnt down at that time, and everything laid waste. The memory of the trouble lingers about here even yet. What wonder! Certainly, in all Europe no more difficult fighting ground could have been found. In the end, the French General Lecourbe was all but cut off, for he had destroyed every boat on the lake; in those days a most serious matter, as neither steamers nor Axenstrasse existed. When he therefore wished to pursue the Russians, who by going up this Schächen valley intended to join their own corps, supposed to be at Zürich, he too was obliged to make a bold manœuvre. And then it was that he led his army by torchlight along the dangerous mule-path on the Axenberg! Sad and dreadful times they were for these poor cantons.”
Herr H—— showed us Attinghausen, the birth-place of Walter Fürst, and the ruins of a castle near, which is the locality of a fine scene in Schiller, but the last owner of which died in 1357, and is known to have been buried in his helmet and spurs. Shortly after, about three miles from Altorf, we reached the noted field, and George, opening Freeman, read us the following passage aloud:
“Year by year, on certain spots among the dales and the mountain-sides of Switzerland, the traveller who is daring enough to wander out of beaten tracks and to make his journey at unusual seasons, may look on a sight such as no other corner of the earth can any longer set before him. He may there gaze and feel, what none can feel but those who have seen with their own eyes, what none can feel in its fulness more than once in a lifetime—the thrill of looking for the first time face to face on freedom in its purest and most ancient form. He is there in a land where the oldest institutions of our race—institutions whichmay be traced up to the earliest times of which history or legend gives us any glimmering—still live on in their primeval freshness. He is in a land where an immemorial freedom, a freedom only less eternal than the rocks that guard it, puts to shame the boasted antiquity of kingly dynasties, which, by its side, seem but as innovations of yesterday. There, year by year, on some bright morning of the springtide, the sovereign people, not entrusting its rights to a few of its own number, but discharging them itself in the majesty of its corporate person, meets, in the open market-place or in the green meadow at the mountain’s foot, to frame the laws to which it yields obedience as its own work, to choose the rulers whom it can afford to greet with reverence as drawing their commission from itself. Such a sight there are but few Englishmen who have seen; to be among these few I reckon among the highest privileges of my life. Let me ask you to follow me in spirit to the very home and birth-place of freedom, to the land where we need not myth and fable to add aught to the fresh and gladdening feeling with which we for the first time tread the soil and drink in the air of the immemorial democracy of Uri. It is one of the opening days of May; it is the morning of Sunday; for men there deem that the better the day the better the deed; they deem that the Creator cannot be more truly honored than in using in his fear and in his presence the highest of the gifts which he has bestowed on man. But deem not that, because the day of Christian worship is chosen for the great yearly assembly of a Christian commonwealth, the more directly sacred duties of the day are forgotten. Before we, in our luxurious island, have lifted ourselves from our beds, the men of the mountains, Catholics and Protestants alike, have already paid the morning’s worship in God’s temple. They have heard the Mass of the priest or they have listened to the sermon of the pastor, before some of us have awakened to the fact that the morn of the holy day has come. And when I saw men thronging the crowded church, or kneeling, for want of space within, on the bare ground beside the open door, when I saw them marching thence to do the highest duties of men and citizens, I could hardly forbear thinking of the saying of Holy Writ, that ‘where the spirit of the Lord is, there is liberty.’ From the market-place of Altorf, the little capital of the canton, the procession makes its way to the place of meeting at Bözlingen. First marches the little army of the canton, an army whose weapons never can be used save to drive back an invader from their land. Over their heads floats the banner, the bull’s-head of Uri, the ensign which led men to victory on the fields of Sempach and Morgarten. And before them all, on the shoulders of men clad in a garb of ages past, are borne the famous horns, the spoils of the wild bull of ancient days, the very horns whose blast struck such dread into the fearless heart of Charles of Burgundy. Then, with their lictors before them, come the magistrates of the commonwealth on horseback, the chief-magistrate, the Landamman, with his sword by his side. The people follow the chiefs whom they have chosen to the place of meeting, a circle in a green meadow, with a pine forest rising above their heads, and a mighty spur of the mountain range facing them on the other side of the valley. The multitude of freemen take their seats around the chief ruler of the commonwealth, whose term of office comes that day to an end. The assembly opens; a short space is given to prayer—silent prayer offered up by each man in the temple of God’s own rearing. Then comes the business of the day. If changes in the law are demanded, they are then laid before the vote of the assembly, in which each citizen of full age has an equal vote and an equal right of speech. The yearly magistrates have now discharged all their duties; their term of office is at an end; the trust that has been placed in their hands falls back into the hands of those by whom it was given—into the hands of the sovereign people. The chief of the commonwealth, now such no longer, leaves his seat of office, and takes his place as a simple citizen in the ranks of his fellows. It rests with the free-will of the assembly to call him back to his chair of office, or to set another there in his stead. Men who have neither looked into the history of the past, nor yet troubled themselves to learn what happens year by year in their own age, are fond of declaiming against the caprice and ingratitude of the people, and of telling us that under a democratic government neither men nor measures can remain for an hourunchanged. The witness alike of the present and of the past is an answer to baseless theories like these. The spirit which made democratic Athens year by year bestow her highest offices on the patrician Pericles and the reactionary Phocion, still lives in the democracies of Switzerland, alike in the Landesgemeinde of Uri and in the Federal Assembly at Bern. The ministers of kings, whether despotic or constitutional, may vainly envy the sure tenure of office which falls to the lot of those who are chosen to rule by the voice of the people. Alike in the whole confederation and in the single canton, re-election is the rule; the rejection of the outgoing magistrate is the rare exception. The Landamman of Uri, whom his countrymen have raised to the seat of honor, and who has done nothing to lose their confidence, need not fear that when he has gone to the place of meeting in the pomp of office, his place in the march homeward will be transferred to another against his will.”
“Year by year, on certain spots among the dales and the mountain-sides of Switzerland, the traveller who is daring enough to wander out of beaten tracks and to make his journey at unusual seasons, may look on a sight such as no other corner of the earth can any longer set before him. He may there gaze and feel, what none can feel but those who have seen with their own eyes, what none can feel in its fulness more than once in a lifetime—the thrill of looking for the first time face to face on freedom in its purest and most ancient form. He is there in a land where the oldest institutions of our race—institutions whichmay be traced up to the earliest times of which history or legend gives us any glimmering—still live on in their primeval freshness. He is in a land where an immemorial freedom, a freedom only less eternal than the rocks that guard it, puts to shame the boasted antiquity of kingly dynasties, which, by its side, seem but as innovations of yesterday. There, year by year, on some bright morning of the springtide, the sovereign people, not entrusting its rights to a few of its own number, but discharging them itself in the majesty of its corporate person, meets, in the open market-place or in the green meadow at the mountain’s foot, to frame the laws to which it yields obedience as its own work, to choose the rulers whom it can afford to greet with reverence as drawing their commission from itself. Such a sight there are but few Englishmen who have seen; to be among these few I reckon among the highest privileges of my life. Let me ask you to follow me in spirit to the very home and birth-place of freedom, to the land where we need not myth and fable to add aught to the fresh and gladdening feeling with which we for the first time tread the soil and drink in the air of the immemorial democracy of Uri. It is one of the opening days of May; it is the morning of Sunday; for men there deem that the better the day the better the deed; they deem that the Creator cannot be more truly honored than in using in his fear and in his presence the highest of the gifts which he has bestowed on man. But deem not that, because the day of Christian worship is chosen for the great yearly assembly of a Christian commonwealth, the more directly sacred duties of the day are forgotten. Before we, in our luxurious island, have lifted ourselves from our beds, the men of the mountains, Catholics and Protestants alike, have already paid the morning’s worship in God’s temple. They have heard the Mass of the priest or they have listened to the sermon of the pastor, before some of us have awakened to the fact that the morn of the holy day has come. And when I saw men thronging the crowded church, or kneeling, for want of space within, on the bare ground beside the open door, when I saw them marching thence to do the highest duties of men and citizens, I could hardly forbear thinking of the saying of Holy Writ, that ‘where the spirit of the Lord is, there is liberty.’ From the market-place of Altorf, the little capital of the canton, the procession makes its way to the place of meeting at Bözlingen. First marches the little army of the canton, an army whose weapons never can be used save to drive back an invader from their land. Over their heads floats the banner, the bull’s-head of Uri, the ensign which led men to victory on the fields of Sempach and Morgarten. And before them all, on the shoulders of men clad in a garb of ages past, are borne the famous horns, the spoils of the wild bull of ancient days, the very horns whose blast struck such dread into the fearless heart of Charles of Burgundy. Then, with their lictors before them, come the magistrates of the commonwealth on horseback, the chief-magistrate, the Landamman, with his sword by his side. The people follow the chiefs whom they have chosen to the place of meeting, a circle in a green meadow, with a pine forest rising above their heads, and a mighty spur of the mountain range facing them on the other side of the valley. The multitude of freemen take their seats around the chief ruler of the commonwealth, whose term of office comes that day to an end. The assembly opens; a short space is given to prayer—silent prayer offered up by each man in the temple of God’s own rearing. Then comes the business of the day. If changes in the law are demanded, they are then laid before the vote of the assembly, in which each citizen of full age has an equal vote and an equal right of speech. The yearly magistrates have now discharged all their duties; their term of office is at an end; the trust that has been placed in their hands falls back into the hands of those by whom it was given—into the hands of the sovereign people. The chief of the commonwealth, now such no longer, leaves his seat of office, and takes his place as a simple citizen in the ranks of his fellows. It rests with the free-will of the assembly to call him back to his chair of office, or to set another there in his stead. Men who have neither looked into the history of the past, nor yet troubled themselves to learn what happens year by year in their own age, are fond of declaiming against the caprice and ingratitude of the people, and of telling us that under a democratic government neither men nor measures can remain for an hourunchanged. The witness alike of the present and of the past is an answer to baseless theories like these. The spirit which made democratic Athens year by year bestow her highest offices on the patrician Pericles and the reactionary Phocion, still lives in the democracies of Switzerland, alike in the Landesgemeinde of Uri and in the Federal Assembly at Bern. The ministers of kings, whether despotic or constitutional, may vainly envy the sure tenure of office which falls to the lot of those who are chosen to rule by the voice of the people. Alike in the whole confederation and in the single canton, re-election is the rule; the rejection of the outgoing magistrate is the rare exception. The Landamman of Uri, whom his countrymen have raised to the seat of honor, and who has done nothing to lose their confidence, need not fear that when he has gone to the place of meeting in the pomp of office, his place in the march homeward will be transferred to another against his will.”
The grand forms of the Windgälle, the Bristenstock, and the other mighty mountains, surrounded us as we stood in deep silence on this high green meadow, profoundly impressed by this eloquent tribute to a devout and liberty-loving people, all the more remarkable as coming from a Protestant writer. There was little to add to it, for Herr H——’s experience could only confirm it in every point. Dinner had to be got through rapidly on our return to Altorf, as we wished to catch the steamer leaving Fluelen at five o’clock. Like all these vessels, it touched at the landing-place beside Tell’s Platform, whence our young friends of the morning, who had been watching for our return, waved us a greeting. Thence we sat on deck, tracing Lecourbe’s mule-path march of torch-light memory along the Axenberg precipices, and finally reached the Waldstätterhof at Brunnen in time to see the sun sink behind Mont Pilatus, and leave the varied outlines clearly defined against a deep-red sky.
O Mary, Mother Mary! our tears are flowing fast,For mighty Rome, S. Philip’s home, is desolate and waste:There are wild beasts in her palaces, far fiercer and more boldThan those that licked the martyrs’ feet in heathen days of old.O Mary, Mother Mary! that dear city was thine own,And brightly once a thousand lamps before thine altars shone;At the corners of the streets thy Child’s sweet face and thineCharmed evil out of many hearts and darkness out of mine.By Peter’s cross and Paul’s sharp sword, dear Mother Mary, pray!By the dungeon deep where thy S. Luke in weary durance lay;And by the church thou know’st so well, beside the Latin Gate,For love of John, dear Mother, stay the hapless city’s fate.For the exiled Pontiffs sake, our Father and our Lord,O Mother! bid the angel sheathe his keen avenging sword;For the Vicar of thy Son, poor exile though he be,Is busied with thy honornowby that sweet southern sea.Oh! by the joy thou hadst in Rome, when every street and squareBurned with the fire of holy love that Philip kindled there,And by that throbbing heart of his, which thou didst keep at Rome,Let not the spoiler waste dear Father Philip’s Home!Oh! by the dread basilicas, the pilgrim’s gates to heaven,By all the shrines and relics God to Christian Rome hath given,By the countless Ave Marias that have rung from out its towers,By Peter’s threshold, Mother! save this pilgrim land of ours.By all the words of peace and power that from S. Peter’s chairHave stilled the angry world so oft, this glorious city spare!By the lowliness of Him whose gentle-hearted swayA thousand lands are blessing now, dear Mother Mary, pray.By the pageants bright, whose golden light hath flashed through street and square,And by the long processions that have borne thy Jesus there;By the glories of the saints; by the honors that were thine;By all the worship God hath got from many a blazing shrine;By all heroic deeds of saints that Rome hath ever seen;By all the times her multitudes have crowned thee for their queen;By all the glory God hath gained from out that wondrous place,O Mary, Mother Mary! pray thy strongest prayer for grace.O Mary, Mother Mary! thou wilt pray for Philip’s Home,Thou wilt turn the heart of him who turned S. Peter back to Rome.Oh! thou wilt pray thy prayer, and the battle will be won,And the Saviour’s sinless Mother save the city of her Son.
O Mary, Mother Mary! our tears are flowing fast,For mighty Rome, S. Philip’s home, is desolate and waste:There are wild beasts in her palaces, far fiercer and more boldThan those that licked the martyrs’ feet in heathen days of old.O Mary, Mother Mary! that dear city was thine own,And brightly once a thousand lamps before thine altars shone;At the corners of the streets thy Child’s sweet face and thineCharmed evil out of many hearts and darkness out of mine.By Peter’s cross and Paul’s sharp sword, dear Mother Mary, pray!By the dungeon deep where thy S. Luke in weary durance lay;And by the church thou know’st so well, beside the Latin Gate,For love of John, dear Mother, stay the hapless city’s fate.For the exiled Pontiffs sake, our Father and our Lord,O Mother! bid the angel sheathe his keen avenging sword;For the Vicar of thy Son, poor exile though he be,Is busied with thy honornowby that sweet southern sea.Oh! by the joy thou hadst in Rome, when every street and squareBurned with the fire of holy love that Philip kindled there,And by that throbbing heart of his, which thou didst keep at Rome,Let not the spoiler waste dear Father Philip’s Home!Oh! by the dread basilicas, the pilgrim’s gates to heaven,By all the shrines and relics God to Christian Rome hath given,By the countless Ave Marias that have rung from out its towers,By Peter’s threshold, Mother! save this pilgrim land of ours.By all the words of peace and power that from S. Peter’s chairHave stilled the angry world so oft, this glorious city spare!By the lowliness of Him whose gentle-hearted swayA thousand lands are blessing now, dear Mother Mary, pray.By the pageants bright, whose golden light hath flashed through street and square,And by the long processions that have borne thy Jesus there;By the glories of the saints; by the honors that were thine;By all the worship God hath got from many a blazing shrine;By all heroic deeds of saints that Rome hath ever seen;By all the times her multitudes have crowned thee for their queen;By all the glory God hath gained from out that wondrous place,O Mary, Mother Mary! pray thy strongest prayer for grace.O Mary, Mother Mary! thou wilt pray for Philip’s Home,Thou wilt turn the heart of him who turned S. Peter back to Rome.Oh! thou wilt pray thy prayer, and the battle will be won,And the Saviour’s sinless Mother save the city of her Son.
O Mary, Mother Mary! our tears are flowing fast,For mighty Rome, S. Philip’s home, is desolate and waste:There are wild beasts in her palaces, far fiercer and more boldThan those that licked the martyrs’ feet in heathen days of old.
O Mary, Mother Mary! our tears are flowing fast,
For mighty Rome, S. Philip’s home, is desolate and waste:
There are wild beasts in her palaces, far fiercer and more bold
Than those that licked the martyrs’ feet in heathen days of old.
O Mary, Mother Mary! that dear city was thine own,And brightly once a thousand lamps before thine altars shone;At the corners of the streets thy Child’s sweet face and thineCharmed evil out of many hearts and darkness out of mine.
O Mary, Mother Mary! that dear city was thine own,
And brightly once a thousand lamps before thine altars shone;
At the corners of the streets thy Child’s sweet face and thine
Charmed evil out of many hearts and darkness out of mine.
By Peter’s cross and Paul’s sharp sword, dear Mother Mary, pray!By the dungeon deep where thy S. Luke in weary durance lay;And by the church thou know’st so well, beside the Latin Gate,For love of John, dear Mother, stay the hapless city’s fate.
By Peter’s cross and Paul’s sharp sword, dear Mother Mary, pray!
By the dungeon deep where thy S. Luke in weary durance lay;
And by the church thou know’st so well, beside the Latin Gate,
For love of John, dear Mother, stay the hapless city’s fate.
For the exiled Pontiffs sake, our Father and our Lord,O Mother! bid the angel sheathe his keen avenging sword;For the Vicar of thy Son, poor exile though he be,Is busied with thy honornowby that sweet southern sea.
For the exiled Pontiffs sake, our Father and our Lord,
O Mother! bid the angel sheathe his keen avenging sword;
For the Vicar of thy Son, poor exile though he be,
Is busied with thy honornowby that sweet southern sea.
Oh! by the joy thou hadst in Rome, when every street and squareBurned with the fire of holy love that Philip kindled there,And by that throbbing heart of his, which thou didst keep at Rome,Let not the spoiler waste dear Father Philip’s Home!
Oh! by the joy thou hadst in Rome, when every street and square
Burned with the fire of holy love that Philip kindled there,
And by that throbbing heart of his, which thou didst keep at Rome,
Let not the spoiler waste dear Father Philip’s Home!
Oh! by the dread basilicas, the pilgrim’s gates to heaven,By all the shrines and relics God to Christian Rome hath given,By the countless Ave Marias that have rung from out its towers,By Peter’s threshold, Mother! save this pilgrim land of ours.
Oh! by the dread basilicas, the pilgrim’s gates to heaven,
By all the shrines and relics God to Christian Rome hath given,
By the countless Ave Marias that have rung from out its towers,
By Peter’s threshold, Mother! save this pilgrim land of ours.
By all the words of peace and power that from S. Peter’s chairHave stilled the angry world so oft, this glorious city spare!By the lowliness of Him whose gentle-hearted swayA thousand lands are blessing now, dear Mother Mary, pray.
By all the words of peace and power that from S. Peter’s chair
Have stilled the angry world so oft, this glorious city spare!
By the lowliness of Him whose gentle-hearted sway
A thousand lands are blessing now, dear Mother Mary, pray.
By the pageants bright, whose golden light hath flashed through street and square,And by the long processions that have borne thy Jesus there;By the glories of the saints; by the honors that were thine;By all the worship God hath got from many a blazing shrine;
By the pageants bright, whose golden light hath flashed through street and square,
And by the long processions that have borne thy Jesus there;
By the glories of the saints; by the honors that were thine;
By all the worship God hath got from many a blazing shrine;
By all heroic deeds of saints that Rome hath ever seen;By all the times her multitudes have crowned thee for their queen;By all the glory God hath gained from out that wondrous place,O Mary, Mother Mary! pray thy strongest prayer for grace.
By all heroic deeds of saints that Rome hath ever seen;
By all the times her multitudes have crowned thee for their queen;
By all the glory God hath gained from out that wondrous place,
O Mary, Mother Mary! pray thy strongest prayer for grace.
O Mary, Mother Mary! thou wilt pray for Philip’s Home,Thou wilt turn the heart of him who turned S. Peter back to Rome.Oh! thou wilt pray thy prayer, and the battle will be won,And the Saviour’s sinless Mother save the city of her Son.
O Mary, Mother Mary! thou wilt pray for Philip’s Home,
Thou wilt turn the heart of him who turned S. Peter back to Rome.
Oh! thou wilt pray thy prayer, and the battle will be won,
And the Saviour’s sinless Mother save the city of her Son.