Why art thou come, man of despair and blood!To these green vales and streams, o'erhung with wood;These hills, where, far from life's discordant throng,The lonely goat-maid chaunts her matin song;This sylvan glen, where age in peace reclines,Soothed by the whisper of his native pines;Where, in the twilight of his closing days,Upon the glimmering lake he loves to gaze;And, like his life, sees on the shadowy flood,The still, sweet eve descending! Man of blood,10Break not his holy musings! InnocenceAnd peace these vales inhabit. Hie thee henceTo the waste wilderness, the mournful main,To caves where silence and deep stillness reign,Where God's eye only can the gloom pervade;And shroud thy visage in their dreariest shade!Or, if these scenes, so beauteous, may impartA momentary softness to thine heart,Let nature plead, plead for a guiltless land,Ere yet thou lift'st the desolating brand;20Ere yet thou bidst the peaceful echoes swell21With havoc's shouts and many a mingled yell!Pause yet a moment! By the beardOf him whose eyes to heaven are reared;By her who frantic lifts her helpless hand;By those poor little ones, that speechless stand;If thou hast nature in thee, oh relent,Nor crush the lowly shed of virtue and content!No golden shrines can tempt thy plunder here,No jealous castles their dark turrets rear.30Peeping at dawn among the mountain vines,The village pastor's simple mansion shinesBeneath the tower, the music of whose bellsSoft o'er the azure lake each Sabbath swells.No lighted halls that blaze till morn replyTo sounds of proud, voluptuous revelry;But one sweet pipe, by lingering lover played,Cheers the dim valley as the day-tints fade;Whilst, 'mid the rocks, the torrents, and the trees,Her little world, with pride, affection sees.40Survey the prospect well. Soldier! dost thou(Thy blood-red plumage waving o'er thy brow)Bid the poor villagers, who in the shedOf their forefathers eat their virtuous bread,To hard oppression bend the prostrate knee,Or learn benevolence and love from thee!And dost thou talk of freedom! Freedom hereLifted with death-denouncing frown her spear;Here joining her loud voice's solemn callTo the deep thunders of the waterfall,50She hailed her chosen home: these dark woods rangAs her bold war-song on the rocks she sang.At once a thousand banners to the airStreaming, a thousand falchions brandished bare,Proclaimed her sons' dread homage: We will die55Or live thy children, holiest Liberty!Oh think of this! Alas! the voice is vain;Poor injured land, thy brave, thy blameless train,Thy lovely landscapes, bursting bright around,Thy gleam that echoed every cheering sound,60Thy rocks that gleamed with many a high-hung cot,And Freedom's holy name, avail thee not!Then rise, insulted country! in despairLift thy brave arm so terrible, and swear,Swear thou wilt never sheathe the avenging steelTill thou hast made the fell invader feelHow vain the terrors of his glittering crest,How warm the flame that fires a patriot's breast!How nerved their arm, opposed to tenfold might,69Who for the dearest hopes, their homes, their offspring fight!And, hark! even now, methought stern Freedom called,From the wild shores of rocky Underwald!Rush like the mountain avalanche on thoseWho, foes to you, my sons, are Virtue's foes!Lo, where the legions of insulting FranceAlready on your ravaged plains advance;See your pale daughters, they for mercy plead;Behold your white-haired sires, they sink, they bleed!Oh! yet your patriot energies uniteTo quell the insolent oppressor's might!80Behold the scene where your forefathers brokeAnd sternly trampled on the Austrian yoke!Behold the spot where the undaunted bandFirst met, and, clasping each his brother's hand,Bade the Almighty hear their solemn vow,That never should their injured country bow,A slave! then lifted in the midnight airTheir spears, whilst the dun rocks echoed—We swear!Think that the dead behold you! He whose bow89Laid the grim tyrant of these valleys low,On yonder eminence yet seems to stand;To you he dimly wares his awful hand:Go forth, my sons, in each bold bosom swellThe injured spirit of another Tell!And rush, like yon huge avalanche, on thoseWho, foes to you, are Freedom's, Virtue's foes!So Freedom spake: she stood august and high;Like a pale meteor shone her troubled eye;She smote her shield, and, with indignant look,More awful her uplifted war-spear shook.100From many a wild and woodland solitude,O'erhung with snowy-silvered mountains rude;From glassy lakes, or where the brawling brookWells, sparkling, through some beech-embowered nook;From scattered chalets, decked with mantling vines,Above whose blue smoke wave the impending pines;From many a covert green, or gleaming rock,The bold defenders of their country flock!Upon a cliff, that at gray morning throwsIts shadow o'er the deep clear lake's repose,110Their gallant leader stands. Children, he cries,And one sad tear-drop gathers in his eyes,Their arms prevail! Helvetia mourns in vain!Bound by the ruthless victor's galling chain,We only 'mid these rocky ramparts findBrief shelter from the vultures of mankind;Hither they speed their desolating sway,They flap their bloody pinions o'er their prey;But we have hearts, my brethren, and we knowWhat to our country and our God we owe;120And we have arms, arms that may make them rue(Though rude our ramparts, our defenders few),The hour when they assailed this last retreat.123Feel we our hearts beat high, our pulses beat?Death calls us, yet, oh, lowly let us bend,And pray to Him who is the poor man's friend,That he would guard our orphans when we bleed,And shield them in the bitter hour of need!Now, soldier, let thy huge artillery roar,Thy marshalled columns flash along the shore,130Thy armed transports with long shadow rideTerrific o'er the lake's once tranquil tide,And thy loud trumpets bray, as in disdainOf the poor tenants of the snowy plain.They fear thee not, they are oppression's foes;Unscared, thy march of carnage they oppose;Though their fallen brethren have in vain withstood;Though yet thy sword be red with their best blood;Thy sword, thy steeds, thy legions, they defy,And death is couched within their flashing eye!140Age has new energies; in traces weakAn angry hectic rises on his cheek;And as his time-touched features kindling glow,Lead me, he cries, yet lead me to the foe!Stern manhood o'er his boy low murmuring bends,Then, as his deadly weapon he extends,Proudly exclaims, Freedom or death, my son!And thou, O God of justice, lead us on!Hark! with one shout they rush into the fight,The pale foe shrinks before their gathering might!150Fragments of rocks in wild despair they wield,And helms and shivered swords bestrew the field.The frantic mother, hushing every grief,Joins the dread scene, and to some plumed chiefAll pale with rage, with desperation wild,Cries, as she smites his heart: Hadst thou a child!Unequal strife! the scene of death is o'er;157Mother and child lie side by side in gore!When evening comes, through the lone cottage pane,No light looks cheerful in the darkening plain,No soothing sounds stray the dim hills along,No home-returning goat-herd trills the song;At intervals, wild accents of despair,Or shouts are heard, or dismal nightfires glare;But all is dark and silent near yon heapWhere the fallen heroes of the hamlet sleep;Save that, at times, a hollow groan is heard,Or melancholy cry of the night-bird;Save where some dog, amid the scene of death,Moans as he watches yet his master's breath;170Whilst with despair and love that seems to speak,He licks the blood that stagnates on his cheek.The morn looks through the hurrying clouds, the airSighs as it lifts, at times, the dead man's hair;Upon those slaughtered heaps the cold stars shine,And Freedom sighs: The triumph, Gaul, is thine!Now dawns the morn o'er vales with blood defiled,Where late affection's sweetest pictures smiled.O'er the still lake how sadly peals the bellThat sounds of every earthly hope the knell!180Pale on the crimsoned snow, without a home,The sad survivors of that death-storm roam;Their infants, outcast on the desert plain,Demand their mothers and their sires in vain;And when the red sun leaves the darkening sky,Amid those gory tracks sit down and sigh.Shores of Lucerne! where many a winding bayShone beauteous to the morn's returning ray;Where rosy tints upon the blue lake shone,And touched the rock with colours not their own;190Who now, with eyes that swim in tenderness,191Those scenes to every virtue dear shall bless!What pleasure now can the rich landscape yield,The sparkling cataract, the pendent field,'Mid hoar declivities, the sunny towerPeering o'er beeches that its roof embower,And cottage tops with light smoke trailing slowO'er the gray vapours looming far below!Who shall ascend proud Pilate's[189]height, and markThe motley clouds sail o'er the champagne dark,200Now breaking in fantastic forms, and nowDappling the distant promontory's brow?Then when the sun, that lights the scene, rides high,And far away the scattered volumes fly,Look up to the great God that rules the world,By whom proud empires from their seats are hurled,And feel a glow of holy gratitude,That here, 'mid hollow glens and mountains rude,Far from Ambition's march and Discord's yell,Content with Love and Happiness should dwell.210Who now along those banks shall, listening, strayWhen evening lights each inlet west away,And hear the solitary boatman's oarDip duly as he nears the shaded shore;Or catch the whispers of the waterfallThat through the ivied clefts swell musical?These scenes, these sounds, could many a joy impart,With sadness mixed. The wandering youth, whose heartWas sick with many sorrows, resting hereAt such an hour, forgot his starting tear;220He felt a pensive calm, sweeter than sleep,Steal gently o'er his aching breast; the deepAnd clear repose of the unruffled lake223His spirit seemed, unconscious, to partake;And still the water, as it whispered near,Or high woods, as they rustled, soothed his ear,Like the remembrance of a melodyHeard in his infant, happy years gone by.Now in his distant country, when, with tears,The tale of ruffian violence he hears;230Hears that the spot which smiled with lovely gleam,Like some sweet image of a tender dream,Upon his morning path, is drenched with gore,Its harmless tenants weltering on the shore;He will exclaim, whilst from his breast he drawsA deep, deep sigh, Avenge, O God, their cause!Who would not sigh for Switzerland! What heartThat ever bore in human woes a part;That ever felt affection's genuine flame;That ever leaped at injured Freedom's name;240Would not for her dark foes feel honest hate,And swell with indignation at her fate!If thus her lot of sorrow have impressedGrief and resentment on a stranger's breast,How must he hear the cruel tale of death,He who in these sad vales first drew his breath!'Tis his perhaps in distant climes to roam,Far from the shelter of his early home;Yet still, as fancy paints the spot, he seesHis father's cottage, and the mountain trees;250Again by the wild streams he seems to rove;He hears the voice of her who won his love,His heart's first love; for her he prunes the vine,Whose clustering leaves the rustic porch entwine;The mountain's van together they ascend;They see Alps piled on Alps far on extend;They mark the casual sunshine light the mass,257Or vernal showers along the valley pass;Whilst tinging the dark rocks, more lovely glowThe braided colours of heaven's humid bow.But now the maid he loved, with whom all dayHe used in summer o'er the hills to stray,The faithful maid he loved—oh! cold despair,Freeze his warm life-blood; and that thrilling air,Which erst he sang, when, all alive to joy,He carolled on the Alps, a shepherd boy,Let him not hear it now, lest tears quick start,And madness harrow up his broken heart!How touching was the simple strain! The tearOf memory started when it met the ear;270And he whose front was rough with many a scar,Whose bold heart bounded at the trump of war,Stood all dissolved in sadness at its tone,Remembering him of pleasant seasons gone.Perhaps full many a heavy hour had passed,Since in its native nooks he heard it last;And when again its well-known music thrilled,A thousand thronging recollections filledHis soul, that, sick with longing, homeward roved;Remote from scenes which most on earth he loved,280Cast on a world tempestuous, bleak, and wide,More ardent for his once-loved hills he sighed;And sighed again to think how it might fareWith sisters, brothers, friends, and parents there;For be its music and its name forgot,The desert is his home, and those he loved are not!
Why art thou come, man of despair and blood!To these green vales and streams, o'erhung with wood;These hills, where, far from life's discordant throng,The lonely goat-maid chaunts her matin song;This sylvan glen, where age in peace reclines,Soothed by the whisper of his native pines;Where, in the twilight of his closing days,Upon the glimmering lake he loves to gaze;And, like his life, sees on the shadowy flood,The still, sweet eve descending! Man of blood,10Break not his holy musings! InnocenceAnd peace these vales inhabit. Hie thee henceTo the waste wilderness, the mournful main,To caves where silence and deep stillness reign,Where God's eye only can the gloom pervade;And shroud thy visage in their dreariest shade!Or, if these scenes, so beauteous, may impartA momentary softness to thine heart,Let nature plead, plead for a guiltless land,Ere yet thou lift'st the desolating brand;20Ere yet thou bidst the peaceful echoes swell21With havoc's shouts and many a mingled yell!Pause yet a moment! By the beardOf him whose eyes to heaven are reared;By her who frantic lifts her helpless hand;By those poor little ones, that speechless stand;If thou hast nature in thee, oh relent,Nor crush the lowly shed of virtue and content!No golden shrines can tempt thy plunder here,No jealous castles their dark turrets rear.30Peeping at dawn among the mountain vines,The village pastor's simple mansion shinesBeneath the tower, the music of whose bellsSoft o'er the azure lake each Sabbath swells.No lighted halls that blaze till morn replyTo sounds of proud, voluptuous revelry;But one sweet pipe, by lingering lover played,Cheers the dim valley as the day-tints fade;Whilst, 'mid the rocks, the torrents, and the trees,Her little world, with pride, affection sees.40Survey the prospect well. Soldier! dost thou(Thy blood-red plumage waving o'er thy brow)Bid the poor villagers, who in the shedOf their forefathers eat their virtuous bread,To hard oppression bend the prostrate knee,Or learn benevolence and love from thee!And dost thou talk of freedom! Freedom hereLifted with death-denouncing frown her spear;Here joining her loud voice's solemn callTo the deep thunders of the waterfall,50She hailed her chosen home: these dark woods rangAs her bold war-song on the rocks she sang.At once a thousand banners to the airStreaming, a thousand falchions brandished bare,Proclaimed her sons' dread homage: We will die55Or live thy children, holiest Liberty!Oh think of this! Alas! the voice is vain;Poor injured land, thy brave, thy blameless train,Thy lovely landscapes, bursting bright around,Thy gleam that echoed every cheering sound,60Thy rocks that gleamed with many a high-hung cot,And Freedom's holy name, avail thee not!Then rise, insulted country! in despairLift thy brave arm so terrible, and swear,Swear thou wilt never sheathe the avenging steelTill thou hast made the fell invader feelHow vain the terrors of his glittering crest,How warm the flame that fires a patriot's breast!How nerved their arm, opposed to tenfold might,69Who for the dearest hopes, their homes, their offspring fight!And, hark! even now, methought stern Freedom called,From the wild shores of rocky Underwald!Rush like the mountain avalanche on thoseWho, foes to you, my sons, are Virtue's foes!Lo, where the legions of insulting FranceAlready on your ravaged plains advance;See your pale daughters, they for mercy plead;Behold your white-haired sires, they sink, they bleed!Oh! yet your patriot energies uniteTo quell the insolent oppressor's might!80Behold the scene where your forefathers brokeAnd sternly trampled on the Austrian yoke!Behold the spot where the undaunted bandFirst met, and, clasping each his brother's hand,Bade the Almighty hear their solemn vow,That never should their injured country bow,A slave! then lifted in the midnight airTheir spears, whilst the dun rocks echoed—We swear!Think that the dead behold you! He whose bow89Laid the grim tyrant of these valleys low,On yonder eminence yet seems to stand;To you he dimly wares his awful hand:Go forth, my sons, in each bold bosom swellThe injured spirit of another Tell!And rush, like yon huge avalanche, on thoseWho, foes to you, are Freedom's, Virtue's foes!So Freedom spake: she stood august and high;Like a pale meteor shone her troubled eye;She smote her shield, and, with indignant look,More awful her uplifted war-spear shook.100From many a wild and woodland solitude,O'erhung with snowy-silvered mountains rude;From glassy lakes, or where the brawling brookWells, sparkling, through some beech-embowered nook;From scattered chalets, decked with mantling vines,Above whose blue smoke wave the impending pines;From many a covert green, or gleaming rock,The bold defenders of their country flock!Upon a cliff, that at gray morning throwsIts shadow o'er the deep clear lake's repose,110Their gallant leader stands. Children, he cries,And one sad tear-drop gathers in his eyes,Their arms prevail! Helvetia mourns in vain!Bound by the ruthless victor's galling chain,We only 'mid these rocky ramparts findBrief shelter from the vultures of mankind;Hither they speed their desolating sway,They flap their bloody pinions o'er their prey;But we have hearts, my brethren, and we knowWhat to our country and our God we owe;120And we have arms, arms that may make them rue(Though rude our ramparts, our defenders few),The hour when they assailed this last retreat.123Feel we our hearts beat high, our pulses beat?Death calls us, yet, oh, lowly let us bend,And pray to Him who is the poor man's friend,That he would guard our orphans when we bleed,And shield them in the bitter hour of need!Now, soldier, let thy huge artillery roar,Thy marshalled columns flash along the shore,130Thy armed transports with long shadow rideTerrific o'er the lake's once tranquil tide,And thy loud trumpets bray, as in disdainOf the poor tenants of the snowy plain.They fear thee not, they are oppression's foes;Unscared, thy march of carnage they oppose;Though their fallen brethren have in vain withstood;Though yet thy sword be red with their best blood;Thy sword, thy steeds, thy legions, they defy,And death is couched within their flashing eye!140Age has new energies; in traces weakAn angry hectic rises on his cheek;And as his time-touched features kindling glow,Lead me, he cries, yet lead me to the foe!Stern manhood o'er his boy low murmuring bends,Then, as his deadly weapon he extends,Proudly exclaims, Freedom or death, my son!And thou, O God of justice, lead us on!Hark! with one shout they rush into the fight,The pale foe shrinks before their gathering might!150Fragments of rocks in wild despair they wield,And helms and shivered swords bestrew the field.The frantic mother, hushing every grief,Joins the dread scene, and to some plumed chiefAll pale with rage, with desperation wild,Cries, as she smites his heart: Hadst thou a child!Unequal strife! the scene of death is o'er;157Mother and child lie side by side in gore!When evening comes, through the lone cottage pane,No light looks cheerful in the darkening plain,No soothing sounds stray the dim hills along,No home-returning goat-herd trills the song;At intervals, wild accents of despair,Or shouts are heard, or dismal nightfires glare;But all is dark and silent near yon heapWhere the fallen heroes of the hamlet sleep;Save that, at times, a hollow groan is heard,Or melancholy cry of the night-bird;Save where some dog, amid the scene of death,Moans as he watches yet his master's breath;170Whilst with despair and love that seems to speak,He licks the blood that stagnates on his cheek.The morn looks through the hurrying clouds, the airSighs as it lifts, at times, the dead man's hair;Upon those slaughtered heaps the cold stars shine,And Freedom sighs: The triumph, Gaul, is thine!Now dawns the morn o'er vales with blood defiled,Where late affection's sweetest pictures smiled.O'er the still lake how sadly peals the bellThat sounds of every earthly hope the knell!180Pale on the crimsoned snow, without a home,The sad survivors of that death-storm roam;Their infants, outcast on the desert plain,Demand their mothers and their sires in vain;And when the red sun leaves the darkening sky,Amid those gory tracks sit down and sigh.Shores of Lucerne! where many a winding bayShone beauteous to the morn's returning ray;Where rosy tints upon the blue lake shone,And touched the rock with colours not their own;190Who now, with eyes that swim in tenderness,191Those scenes to every virtue dear shall bless!What pleasure now can the rich landscape yield,The sparkling cataract, the pendent field,'Mid hoar declivities, the sunny towerPeering o'er beeches that its roof embower,And cottage tops with light smoke trailing slowO'er the gray vapours looming far below!Who shall ascend proud Pilate's[189]height, and markThe motley clouds sail o'er the champagne dark,200Now breaking in fantastic forms, and nowDappling the distant promontory's brow?Then when the sun, that lights the scene, rides high,And far away the scattered volumes fly,Look up to the great God that rules the world,By whom proud empires from their seats are hurled,And feel a glow of holy gratitude,That here, 'mid hollow glens and mountains rude,Far from Ambition's march and Discord's yell,Content with Love and Happiness should dwell.210Who now along those banks shall, listening, strayWhen evening lights each inlet west away,And hear the solitary boatman's oarDip duly as he nears the shaded shore;Or catch the whispers of the waterfallThat through the ivied clefts swell musical?These scenes, these sounds, could many a joy impart,With sadness mixed. The wandering youth, whose heartWas sick with many sorrows, resting hereAt such an hour, forgot his starting tear;220He felt a pensive calm, sweeter than sleep,Steal gently o'er his aching breast; the deepAnd clear repose of the unruffled lake223His spirit seemed, unconscious, to partake;And still the water, as it whispered near,Or high woods, as they rustled, soothed his ear,Like the remembrance of a melodyHeard in his infant, happy years gone by.Now in his distant country, when, with tears,The tale of ruffian violence he hears;230Hears that the spot which smiled with lovely gleam,Like some sweet image of a tender dream,Upon his morning path, is drenched with gore,Its harmless tenants weltering on the shore;He will exclaim, whilst from his breast he drawsA deep, deep sigh, Avenge, O God, their cause!Who would not sigh for Switzerland! What heartThat ever bore in human woes a part;That ever felt affection's genuine flame;That ever leaped at injured Freedom's name;240Would not for her dark foes feel honest hate,And swell with indignation at her fate!If thus her lot of sorrow have impressedGrief and resentment on a stranger's breast,How must he hear the cruel tale of death,He who in these sad vales first drew his breath!'Tis his perhaps in distant climes to roam,Far from the shelter of his early home;Yet still, as fancy paints the spot, he seesHis father's cottage, and the mountain trees;250Again by the wild streams he seems to rove;He hears the voice of her who won his love,His heart's first love; for her he prunes the vine,Whose clustering leaves the rustic porch entwine;The mountain's van together they ascend;They see Alps piled on Alps far on extend;They mark the casual sunshine light the mass,257Or vernal showers along the valley pass;Whilst tinging the dark rocks, more lovely glowThe braided colours of heaven's humid bow.But now the maid he loved, with whom all dayHe used in summer o'er the hills to stray,The faithful maid he loved—oh! cold despair,Freeze his warm life-blood; and that thrilling air,Which erst he sang, when, all alive to joy,He carolled on the Alps, a shepherd boy,Let him not hear it now, lest tears quick start,And madness harrow up his broken heart!How touching was the simple strain! The tearOf memory started when it met the ear;270And he whose front was rough with many a scar,Whose bold heart bounded at the trump of war,Stood all dissolved in sadness at its tone,Remembering him of pleasant seasons gone.Perhaps full many a heavy hour had passed,Since in its native nooks he heard it last;And when again its well-known music thrilled,A thousand thronging recollections filledHis soul, that, sick with longing, homeward roved;Remote from scenes which most on earth he loved,280Cast on a world tempestuous, bleak, and wide,More ardent for his once-loved hills he sighed;And sighed again to think how it might fareWith sisters, brothers, friends, and parents there;For be its music and its name forgot,The desert is his home, and those he loved are not!
I was a child of sorrow when I passed,Sweet country, through your rocky valleys last;For one whom I had loved, whom I had pressedWith honest, ardent passion to my breast,Was to another vowed: I heard the tale,And to the earth sank heartless, faint, and pale.Till that sad hour when every hope had flown,I thought she lived for me, and me alone;Yet did I not, though pangs my heart must rend,Prove to thy weakness a sustaining friend?10Did I not bid thee, never, never moreOr think of me or mine? As firm I sworeTo cast away the dream, and bury deep,As in oblivion of the dead man's sleep,All that once soothed, and from the soul to tearEach longing wish that youth had cherished there.But when 'twas midnight, to the woods I hied,Despairing, and with frantic anguish cried:Oh, had relentless death with instant dartSmitten and snatched thee from my bleeding heart;20Through life had niggard fortune bid us pine,And withered with despair thy hopes and mine;Yes, yes, I could have borne it; but to seeThe accusing tear, and know it falls for me;Oh cease the thought—a long and last farewell—We must forget—nor shall my soul rebel!Then to my country's cliffs I bade adieu,And what my sad heart felt God only knew.Helvetia, thy rude scenes, a drooping guest,I sought, and sorrowing sought a spot of rest.30Through many a mountain pass and shaggy vale31I roamed an exile, passion-crazed and pale.I saw your clouded heights sublime impend,I heard your foaming cataracts descend;And oft the rugged scene my heart enduedWith a strange, sad, distempered fortitude;Oft on the lake's green marge I lay reclined,Murmuring my moody fancies to the wind;But when some hanging hamlet I surveyed,A wood-cot peeping in the sheltered glade,40A tear, perforce, would steal; and, as my eyeFondly reverted to the days gone by,How blest, I cried, remote from every care,To rest with her we loved, forgotten there!Then soft, methought, from the sequestered grove,I heard the song of happiness and love:Come to these scenes of peace,Where, to rivers murmuring,The sweet birds all the summer sing,Where cares, and toil, and sadness cease!50Stranger, does thy heart deploreFriends whom thou wilt see no more;Does thy wounded spirit provePangs of hopeless, severed love?Thee the stream that gushes clear,Thee the birds that carol near,Shall soothe, as silent thou dost lie,And dream of their wild lullaby;Come to bless these scenes of peace,Where cares, and toil, and sadness cease!60Start from the feeble dream! The woodland shedFlames, and the tenants of that vale are dead!All dark the torrent of their fate hath rushed;63Each cheering echo of the plain is hushed;And every joyous, every tender sound,In the loud roaring of the night-storm drowned.How cheerily the rocks, from side to side,Oft to the tabor's festive sounds replied!There, when the bells upon a holidayRang out, and all the villagers were gay,70In summer-time, the happy groups were seen;Youth linked with beauty bounded on the green,And age sat smiling, as the joyous trainRound the tall May-pole, tapering from the plain,Their locks entwined with ribands streaming red,And crowned with flowers, the rural pastimes led.Oh! on the bleeding turf the sad flowers throw,And weep for them that sleep in dust below;There sleep together, in their deathbed cold,The beautiful, the brave, the young, the old!80No voice is heard that charmed their earthly road:Around their desolate and last abodeThe blast that swept them to the earth yet raves,And strews with havoc their insulted graves.As on the lucid lake's unruffled breastSoft silvery lights and blending shadows rest,Above, around the heavens' blue calm is spread,And sleeps the sunshine on the mountain's head;Then purple rocks and woods smile to the eye,Like fairy landscapes of the evening sky;90And all is sad, save where some forest bird,With small and solitary trill, is heard.Sudden the scene is changed, the hurricaneIs up among the mountains, wind and rainDrive, and strange darkness closes on the vale;And high rocks to the lightning glimmer pale;And nought is heard but the deep thunder's roar,97Or vultures screaming round the desert shore.So mourns the prospect, changed and overcast,And shrieks the spirit in the passing blast!But ah! how feller burst the ruthless stormThat speeds the moral prospect to deform!To-morrow, and the man of blood may seeAgain fresh verdure deck the dripping tree;Again pure splendour light yon bursting views,And the clear lake reflect the fairest hues;Whilst the gay lark seems, with a livelier voice,In scorn of his stern spirit, to rejoice.But, hapless land, what dayspring shall restoreThe lovelier morals that now smile no more!110Affection tender as the murmuring dove,That in the noiseless wood her home-nest wove;And piety, that the blue mountains trod,With kindling eyes upraised to nature's God;Virtues that made thy streams, and woods, and hills,Thy lakes all sunshine, and thy shaded rillsLike pictures of no earthly paradise,Beaming remote from sorrow and from vice.Far from the earthly scenes that wasteful lie,Virtue and peace, and arts and freedom fly;120Arts which the wild surrounding views inspired,And freedom, such as genuine patriots fired.When the great sun sinks in the crimson west,And all the pines in golden pomp are dressed,Whose daring hand shall snatch the vivid light,That purples o'er the promontory's height;And with a Loutherbourg's rich pencil throwOn the warm tablet all the lucid glow?When the slow convent's bell sounds from afar,And the dim lake reflects the evening star;130When shall again the rapt enthusiast rove131And deck the visionary bower of love?Hushed be the Doric strain, that, in the shadeOf his own pines, the pensive Gesner played;Which oft the homeward-plodding woodman, near,Paused with his gray beard on his staff to hear;Whilst his lean dog, whose opening lips disclose,Just peeping forth, his white teeth's even rows,Lifted his long ears with sagacious heed,And fixed his full eye on his trilling reed!140High on the broad Alps' solitary van,Where not a sound is heard of busy man,Hark! with loud orgies, o'er the bloody dew,Lewd Comus leads his nightly madding crew!Strong shouts and clangours through the high wood run,And distant arms flash to the sinking sun;Dark forests their lone empire, the tall rocksTheir shelter, and their wealth their wandering flocks.To the proud Macedon, whose conquering carRolled terrible through the ranks of armed war;150Whose banners chilled the plain with fearful shade;Whose sovereignty a thousand trumpets brayed,The Scythian chiefs spoke nobly: What have we,King of the world, to do with thine or thee?Far o'er the snowy solitudes we roam,Or by wild rivers fix our casual home.O'er the green champagne let thy cities shine;We ne'er invaded fields or seats of thine;Nor will we bow, proud lord, at thy decree;Hence, hence, and leave us to our forests free!160But the stern soldier, with war's banners spread,Through thy still vales his glittering squadrons led;And wild despair, and unrelenting hate.163Stalk o'er thine inmost valleys desolate;And she, that like the nimble mountain roe,With step scarce heard, went bounding o'er the snow;She whose green buskins swept the frosts of morn,Who walked the high wood with her bugle horn;She who once called these hills her own, and foundHer loveliest sojourn 'mid the hallowed ground,170Blessing the spot where, shaded with high wood,And decked with simple flowers, her altar stood;Freedom insulted sees, as pale she flies,A monster phantom in her name arise!On weltering carcases it seems to stand,Waving a dim-seen dagger in its hand;Its look is unrelenting as the grave,Around its brow the muttering whirlwinds rave;Its spreading shadow chills the scene beneath,Ah! fly—it onward moves, and murmurs, Death!180Earth fades beneath its footstep, and aroundLong sighs and distant dying shrieks resound![190]Could arms alone o'er thy brave sons prevail,Helvetia? No, it was the fraudful taleOf this false phantom which the heart misled;That spoke of peace, peace to the poor man's shed,Then left him, houseless, to the tempest's gloomThat swept his hopes and comforts to the tomb!High towered the grisly spectre, half concealed,And gathering clouds its dismal forests veiled;190The clouds disperse, and lo! 'mid murderous bands,Dark in its might the hideous phantom stands!Now see the triumph of its reign complete!Behold it throned in its own sovereign seat!The orgies peal, the banners wave on high,195And dark rocks ring to shouts of liberty!Now, soldier, lift thy loud acclaiming voice!Children of high-souled sentiment, rejoice!Round the scathed tree, upon the desert plain,Dance o'er the victims of the village slain!200Thou who dost smiling sit, as fancy flingsHer hues unreal o'er created things,And as the scenes in gay distemper shine,Dost wondering cry, How sweet a world is mine!Ah! see the shades, receding, that discloseThe direst spectacle of living woes!And ye who, all enlightened, all sublime,Pant in indignant thraldom till the timeWhen man, bursting his fetters, proud and free,The wildest savage of the wilds shall be;210Artful instructors of our feeble kind,Illumined leaders of the lost and blind,Behold the destined glories of your reign!Behold yon flaming sheds, yon outcast train!Hark! hollow moaning on the fitful blast,Methought, Rousseau, thy troubled spirit passed;His ravaged country his dim eyes survey.Are these the fruits, he said, or seemed to say,Of those high energies of raptured thought,That proud philosophy my precepts taught?220Then shrouding his sad visage from the sight,Flew o'er the cloud-dressed Alps to solitude and night.Thou too, whilst pondering History's vast plan,Didst sit by the clear waters of Lausanne,[191](What time Imperial Rome rose to thy view,And thy bold hand her mighty image drew),Thou too, methinks, as the sad wrecks extend,227Dost seem in sorrow o'er the scene to bend.With steady eye and penetrating mind,Thou hast surveyed the toil of human kind;Hast marked Ambition's march and fiery car,And thousands shouting in the fields of war.But direr woes might ne'er a sigh demand,Than those of hapless, injured Switzerland!Oh, may they teach, whatever feelings start,One awful truth, that here we know in part:Whatever darkness round his ark may rest,There is a God, who knows whatisbest.Submissive, still adoring may we standBeneath the terrors of his chastening hand!240And though the clouds of carnage dim the sun,Bend to the earth and say, Thy will be done!
I was a child of sorrow when I passed,Sweet country, through your rocky valleys last;For one whom I had loved, whom I had pressedWith honest, ardent passion to my breast,Was to another vowed: I heard the tale,And to the earth sank heartless, faint, and pale.Till that sad hour when every hope had flown,I thought she lived for me, and me alone;Yet did I not, though pangs my heart must rend,Prove to thy weakness a sustaining friend?10Did I not bid thee, never, never moreOr think of me or mine? As firm I sworeTo cast away the dream, and bury deep,As in oblivion of the dead man's sleep,All that once soothed, and from the soul to tearEach longing wish that youth had cherished there.But when 'twas midnight, to the woods I hied,Despairing, and with frantic anguish cried:Oh, had relentless death with instant dartSmitten and snatched thee from my bleeding heart;20Through life had niggard fortune bid us pine,And withered with despair thy hopes and mine;Yes, yes, I could have borne it; but to seeThe accusing tear, and know it falls for me;Oh cease the thought—a long and last farewell—We must forget—nor shall my soul rebel!Then to my country's cliffs I bade adieu,And what my sad heart felt God only knew.Helvetia, thy rude scenes, a drooping guest,I sought, and sorrowing sought a spot of rest.30Through many a mountain pass and shaggy vale31I roamed an exile, passion-crazed and pale.I saw your clouded heights sublime impend,I heard your foaming cataracts descend;And oft the rugged scene my heart enduedWith a strange, sad, distempered fortitude;Oft on the lake's green marge I lay reclined,Murmuring my moody fancies to the wind;But when some hanging hamlet I surveyed,A wood-cot peeping in the sheltered glade,40A tear, perforce, would steal; and, as my eyeFondly reverted to the days gone by,How blest, I cried, remote from every care,To rest with her we loved, forgotten there!Then soft, methought, from the sequestered grove,I heard the song of happiness and love:
Come to these scenes of peace,Where, to rivers murmuring,The sweet birds all the summer sing,Where cares, and toil, and sadness cease!50Stranger, does thy heart deploreFriends whom thou wilt see no more;Does thy wounded spirit provePangs of hopeless, severed love?Thee the stream that gushes clear,Thee the birds that carol near,Shall soothe, as silent thou dost lie,And dream of their wild lullaby;Come to bless these scenes of peace,Where cares, and toil, and sadness cease!60
Start from the feeble dream! The woodland shedFlames, and the tenants of that vale are dead!All dark the torrent of their fate hath rushed;63Each cheering echo of the plain is hushed;And every joyous, every tender sound,In the loud roaring of the night-storm drowned.How cheerily the rocks, from side to side,Oft to the tabor's festive sounds replied!There, when the bells upon a holidayRang out, and all the villagers were gay,70In summer-time, the happy groups were seen;Youth linked with beauty bounded on the green,And age sat smiling, as the joyous trainRound the tall May-pole, tapering from the plain,Their locks entwined with ribands streaming red,And crowned with flowers, the rural pastimes led.Oh! on the bleeding turf the sad flowers throw,And weep for them that sleep in dust below;There sleep together, in their deathbed cold,The beautiful, the brave, the young, the old!80No voice is heard that charmed their earthly road:Around their desolate and last abodeThe blast that swept them to the earth yet raves,And strews with havoc their insulted graves.As on the lucid lake's unruffled breastSoft silvery lights and blending shadows rest,Above, around the heavens' blue calm is spread,And sleeps the sunshine on the mountain's head;Then purple rocks and woods smile to the eye,Like fairy landscapes of the evening sky;90And all is sad, save where some forest bird,With small and solitary trill, is heard.Sudden the scene is changed, the hurricaneIs up among the mountains, wind and rainDrive, and strange darkness closes on the vale;And high rocks to the lightning glimmer pale;And nought is heard but the deep thunder's roar,97Or vultures screaming round the desert shore.So mourns the prospect, changed and overcast,And shrieks the spirit in the passing blast!But ah! how feller burst the ruthless stormThat speeds the moral prospect to deform!To-morrow, and the man of blood may seeAgain fresh verdure deck the dripping tree;Again pure splendour light yon bursting views,And the clear lake reflect the fairest hues;Whilst the gay lark seems, with a livelier voice,In scorn of his stern spirit, to rejoice.But, hapless land, what dayspring shall restoreThe lovelier morals that now smile no more!110Affection tender as the murmuring dove,That in the noiseless wood her home-nest wove;And piety, that the blue mountains trod,With kindling eyes upraised to nature's God;Virtues that made thy streams, and woods, and hills,Thy lakes all sunshine, and thy shaded rillsLike pictures of no earthly paradise,Beaming remote from sorrow and from vice.Far from the earthly scenes that wasteful lie,Virtue and peace, and arts and freedom fly;120Arts which the wild surrounding views inspired,And freedom, such as genuine patriots fired.When the great sun sinks in the crimson west,And all the pines in golden pomp are dressed,Whose daring hand shall snatch the vivid light,That purples o'er the promontory's height;And with a Loutherbourg's rich pencil throwOn the warm tablet all the lucid glow?When the slow convent's bell sounds from afar,And the dim lake reflects the evening star;130When shall again the rapt enthusiast rove131And deck the visionary bower of love?Hushed be the Doric strain, that, in the shadeOf his own pines, the pensive Gesner played;Which oft the homeward-plodding woodman, near,Paused with his gray beard on his staff to hear;Whilst his lean dog, whose opening lips disclose,Just peeping forth, his white teeth's even rows,Lifted his long ears with sagacious heed,And fixed his full eye on his trilling reed!140High on the broad Alps' solitary van,Where not a sound is heard of busy man,Hark! with loud orgies, o'er the bloody dew,Lewd Comus leads his nightly madding crew!Strong shouts and clangours through the high wood run,And distant arms flash to the sinking sun;Dark forests their lone empire, the tall rocksTheir shelter, and their wealth their wandering flocks.To the proud Macedon, whose conquering carRolled terrible through the ranks of armed war;150Whose banners chilled the plain with fearful shade;Whose sovereignty a thousand trumpets brayed,The Scythian chiefs spoke nobly: What have we,King of the world, to do with thine or thee?Far o'er the snowy solitudes we roam,Or by wild rivers fix our casual home.O'er the green champagne let thy cities shine;We ne'er invaded fields or seats of thine;Nor will we bow, proud lord, at thy decree;Hence, hence, and leave us to our forests free!160But the stern soldier, with war's banners spread,Through thy still vales his glittering squadrons led;And wild despair, and unrelenting hate.163Stalk o'er thine inmost valleys desolate;And she, that like the nimble mountain roe,With step scarce heard, went bounding o'er the snow;She whose green buskins swept the frosts of morn,Who walked the high wood with her bugle horn;She who once called these hills her own, and foundHer loveliest sojourn 'mid the hallowed ground,170Blessing the spot where, shaded with high wood,And decked with simple flowers, her altar stood;Freedom insulted sees, as pale she flies,A monster phantom in her name arise!On weltering carcases it seems to stand,Waving a dim-seen dagger in its hand;Its look is unrelenting as the grave,Around its brow the muttering whirlwinds rave;Its spreading shadow chills the scene beneath,Ah! fly—it onward moves, and murmurs, Death!180Earth fades beneath its footstep, and aroundLong sighs and distant dying shrieks resound![190]Could arms alone o'er thy brave sons prevail,Helvetia? No, it was the fraudful taleOf this false phantom which the heart misled;That spoke of peace, peace to the poor man's shed,Then left him, houseless, to the tempest's gloomThat swept his hopes and comforts to the tomb!High towered the grisly spectre, half concealed,And gathering clouds its dismal forests veiled;190The clouds disperse, and lo! 'mid murderous bands,Dark in its might the hideous phantom stands!Now see the triumph of its reign complete!Behold it throned in its own sovereign seat!The orgies peal, the banners wave on high,195And dark rocks ring to shouts of liberty!Now, soldier, lift thy loud acclaiming voice!Children of high-souled sentiment, rejoice!Round the scathed tree, upon the desert plain,Dance o'er the victims of the village slain!200Thou who dost smiling sit, as fancy flingsHer hues unreal o'er created things,And as the scenes in gay distemper shine,Dost wondering cry, How sweet a world is mine!Ah! see the shades, receding, that discloseThe direst spectacle of living woes!And ye who, all enlightened, all sublime,Pant in indignant thraldom till the timeWhen man, bursting his fetters, proud and free,The wildest savage of the wilds shall be;210Artful instructors of our feeble kind,Illumined leaders of the lost and blind,Behold the destined glories of your reign!Behold yon flaming sheds, yon outcast train!Hark! hollow moaning on the fitful blast,Methought, Rousseau, thy troubled spirit passed;His ravaged country his dim eyes survey.Are these the fruits, he said, or seemed to say,Of those high energies of raptured thought,That proud philosophy my precepts taught?220Then shrouding his sad visage from the sight,Flew o'er the cloud-dressed Alps to solitude and night.Thou too, whilst pondering History's vast plan,Didst sit by the clear waters of Lausanne,[191](What time Imperial Rome rose to thy view,And thy bold hand her mighty image drew),Thou too, methinks, as the sad wrecks extend,227Dost seem in sorrow o'er the scene to bend.With steady eye and penetrating mind,Thou hast surveyed the toil of human kind;Hast marked Ambition's march and fiery car,And thousands shouting in the fields of war.But direr woes might ne'er a sigh demand,Than those of hapless, injured Switzerland!Oh, may they teach, whatever feelings start,One awful truth, that here we know in part:Whatever darkness round his ark may rest,There is a God, who knows whatisbest.Submissive, still adoring may we standBeneath the terrors of his chastening hand!240And though the clouds of carnage dim the sun,Bend to the earth and say, Thy will be done!
Donhead, 1801.
FOOTNOTES:[188]Inscribed (1801) to Mrs William Douglas, a native of Switzerland.[189]Mount Pilate, on the Lake of Lucerne.[190]Contrast between genuine liberty and the spirit of Jacobinism.[191]Gibbon completed his "Decline and Fall" in a summer-house on the banks of this lake.
[188]Inscribed (1801) to Mrs William Douglas, a native of Switzerland.
[188]Inscribed (1801) to Mrs William Douglas, a native of Switzerland.
[189]Mount Pilate, on the Lake of Lucerne.
[189]Mount Pilate, on the Lake of Lucerne.
[190]Contrast between genuine liberty and the spirit of Jacobinism.
[190]Contrast between genuine liberty and the spirit of Jacobinism.
[191]Gibbon completed his "Decline and Fall" in a summer-house on the banks of this lake.
[191]Gibbon completed his "Decline and Fall" in a summer-house on the banks of this lake.
The following compositions were written originally to be learned by heart by poor children of my own parish, who have been instructed every Sunday through the summer, on the garden lawn before the parsonage house, by Mrs Bowles. The object, which, to the best of my knowledge, is entirely novel, was briefly to describe the most obvious images in country life, familiar to every child; and in the smallest compass to connect every distinct picture with the earliest feelings of humanity and piety, in language which the simplest might understand; but which, from the objects represented, might be read, perhaps, with some interest by those whose minds were more cultivated. About fourteen of these little poems were composed with this view many years ago; but it was not thought of extending their knowledge beyond the village circle, to which they were originally limited, except by a very few copies given away. I have now added to the number, and revised the whole; thinking that, when early education is so greatly extended, they may be found upon a wider scale to answer the purpose for which they were written. They may also prove acceptable to mothers in a higher station of life, who might wish to impress upon the memory of their children as they grow up, a love of natural scenes, combined with the earliest feelings of sympathy and religion. Some of these verses, such as "The Mower," "The Swan,"etc., are purposely designed for the exercise of a more advanced intellect.
The following compositions were written originally to be learned by heart by poor children of my own parish, who have been instructed every Sunday through the summer, on the garden lawn before the parsonage house, by Mrs Bowles. The object, which, to the best of my knowledge, is entirely novel, was briefly to describe the most obvious images in country life, familiar to every child; and in the smallest compass to connect every distinct picture with the earliest feelings of humanity and piety, in language which the simplest might understand; but which, from the objects represented, might be read, perhaps, with some interest by those whose minds were more cultivated. About fourteen of these little poems were composed with this view many years ago; but it was not thought of extending their knowledge beyond the village circle, to which they were originally limited, except by a very few copies given away. I have now added to the number, and revised the whole; thinking that, when early education is so greatly extended, they may be found upon a wider scale to answer the purpose for which they were written. They may also prove acceptable to mothers in a higher station of life, who might wish to impress upon the memory of their children as they grow up, a love of natural scenes, combined with the earliest feelings of sympathy and religion. Some of these verses, such as "The Mower," "The Swan,"etc., are purposely designed for the exercise of a more advanced intellect.
THE VILLAGER'S VERSE-BOOK.
1 O Lord, in sickness and in health,To every lot resigned,Grant me, before all worldly wealth,A meek and thankful mind!2 As, life, thy upland path we tread,And often pause in vain,To think of friends and parents dead,Oh, let us not complain!3 The Lord may give or take away,But nought our faith can move,Whilst we to heaven can look and say,Our Father lives above.
1 O Lord, in sickness and in health,To every lot resigned,Grant me, before all worldly wealth,A meek and thankful mind!
2 As, life, thy upland path we tread,And often pause in vain,To think of friends and parents dead,Oh, let us not complain!
3 The Lord may give or take away,But nought our faith can move,Whilst we to heaven can look and say,Our Father lives above.
1 When from my humble bed I rise,And see the morning sun,That, glorious in the eastern skies,Its journey has begun,2 I think of the Almighty PowerWhich called this orb from night;I think how many at this hourRejoice beneath its light.3 And then I pray, in every land,Where'er this light is shed,That all who live may bless the HandWhich gives their daily bread.
1 When from my humble bed I rise,And see the morning sun,That, glorious in the eastern skies,Its journey has begun,
2 I think of the Almighty PowerWhich called this orb from night;I think how many at this hourRejoice beneath its light.
3 And then I pray, in every land,Where'er this light is shed,That all who live may bless the HandWhich gives their daily bread.
1 As homeward by the evening starI pass along the plain,I see the taper's light afar,Shine through our cottage pane.2 My brothers and my sisters dear,The child upon the knee,Spring when my hastening steps they hear,And smile to welcome me.3 But when the fire is growing dim,And mother's labours cease,I fold my hands, repeat my hymn,And lay me down in peace.
1 As homeward by the evening starI pass along the plain,I see the taper's light afar,Shine through our cottage pane.
2 My brothers and my sisters dear,The child upon the knee,Spring when my hastening steps they hear,And smile to welcome me.
3 But when the fire is growing dim,And mother's labours cease,I fold my hands, repeat my hymn,And lay me down in peace.
1 The bee is humming in the sun,The yellow cowslip springs,And, hark! from yonder woodland's sideAgain the cuckoo sings!2 Cuckoo, cuckoo, no other noteShe sings from day to day;But I, though a poor cottage girl,Can work, and read, and pray.3 And whilst in knowledge I rejoice,Which heavenly truth displays,Oh! let me still employ my voiceIn my Redeemer's praise.
1 The bee is humming in the sun,The yellow cowslip springs,And, hark! from yonder woodland's sideAgain the cuckoo sings!
2 Cuckoo, cuckoo, no other noteShe sings from day to day;But I, though a poor cottage girl,Can work, and read, and pray.
3 And whilst in knowledge I rejoice,Which heavenly truth displays,Oh! let me still employ my voiceIn my Redeemer's praise.