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And the Alpine herdsman's lay,
To a Switzer's heart so dear!
On the wild wind floats away,
No more for them to hear.
But when the battle-horn is blown
Till the Schrekhorn's peaks reply,
When the Jungfrau's cliffs send back the tone
Through the eagles' lonely sky;

When spear-heads light the lakes,

When trumpets loose the snows,
When the rushing war-steed shakes
The glacier's mute repose;
When Uri's beechen woods wave red
In the burning hamlet's light;-
Then from the cavern of the dead,

Shall the sleeper wake in might!

With a leap, like Tell's proud leap,
When away the helm he flung*
And boldly up the steep

From the flashing billow sprung!
They shall wake beside their Forest-sea,
In the ancient garb they wore
When they link'd the hands that made us free,
On the Grutli's moonlight shore:

And their voices shall be heard,

And be answer'd with a shout,
Till the echoing Alps are stirr'd,
And the signal-fires blaze out.

And the land shall see such deeds again
As those of that proud day,

When Winkelried, on Sempach's plain,
Through the serried spears made way;
And when the rocks came down
On the dark Morgarten dell,
And the crowned casques,t o'erthrown,
Before our fathers fell!

For the Kureihen's‡ notes must never sound
In a land that wears the chain,

And the vines on freedom's holy ground
Untrampled must remain !

*The point of rock on which Tell leaped from the boat of Gessler is marked by a chapel, and called the Tellensprung.

+ Crowned helmets, as a distinction of rank, are mentioned in Simond's Switzerland.

The Kureihen, the celebrated Ranz des Vaches.

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And the yellow harvest wave
For no stranger's hand to reap,
While within their silent cave
The men of Grutli sleep!



The Swiss, even to our days, have continued to celebrate the anniversaries of ancient battles with much solemnity; assembling in the open air on the fields where their ancestors fought, to hear thanksgivings offered up by the priests, and the names of all who shared in the glory of the day enumerated. They afterwards walk in procession to chapels always erected in the vicinity of such scenes, where masses are sung for the souls of the departed. See Planta's History of the Helvetic Confederacy.

LOOK on the white Alps round!
If yet they gird a land

Where freedom's voice and step are found,
Forget ye not the band,
The faithful band, our sires, who fell
Here, in the narrow battle-dell!

If yet the wilds among,

Our silent hearts may burn,
When the deep mountain-horn had rung,
And home our steps may turn,
-Home-home!-if still that name be dear,
Praise to the men who perished here!

Look on the white Alps round!
Up to the shining snows,

That day the stormy rolling sound,
The sound of battle rose!

Their caves prolonged the trumpet's blast,
Their dark pines trembled as it passed!

They saw the princely crest,

They saw the knightly spear,
The banner and the mail-clad breast
Borne down, and trampled here!
They saw-and glorying there they stand,
Eternal records to the land!

Praise to the mountain-born,
The brethren of the glen!
By them no steel array was worn,
They stood as peasant-men!
They left the vineyard and the field
To break an empire's lance and shield!

Look on the white Alps round!
If yet, along their steeps,

Our children's fearless feet may bound,
Free as the chamois leaps:
Teach them in song to bless the band
Amidst whose mossy graves we stand!

If by the wood-fire's blaze,

When winter-stars gleam cold,
The glorious tales of elder days
May proudly yet be told,
Forget not then the shepherd-race,
Who made the hearth a holy place!

Look on the white Alps round!
If yet the Sabbath bell

Comes o'er them with a gladdening sound,
Think on the battle dell!

For blood first bathed its flowery sod,
That chainless hearts might worship God!


Some of the native Brazilians pay great veneration to a certain bird that sings mournfully in the night time. They say it is a messenger which their deceased friends and relations have sent, and that it brings them news from the other world.

See Picart's Ceremonies and Religious Customs.

THOU art come from the spirits' land, thou bird!
Thou art come from the spirits' land!

Through the dark pine-grove let thy voice be heard,
And tell of the shadowy band!

We know that the bowers are green and fair
In the light of that summer shore,

And we know that the friends we have lost are there,

They are there-and they weep no more!

And we know they have quench'd their fever's thirst
From the Fountain of Youth ere now,*
For there must the stream in its freshness burst,
Which none may find below!

And we know that they will not be lured to earth
From the land of deathless flowers,

By the feast, or the dance, or the song of mirth,
Though their hearts were once with ours;
Though they sat with us by the night-fire's blaze,
And bent with us the bow,

And heard the tales of our fathers' days,
Which are told to other's now!

But tell us, thou bird of the solemn strain!
Can those who have loved forget?
We call-and they answer not again-
Do they love-do they love us yet?
Doth the warrior think of his brother there,
And the father of his child?

And the chief, of those that were wont to share
His wanderings through the wild?

We call them far through the silent night,
And they speak not from cave or hill;
We know, thou bird! that their land is bright,
But say, do they love there spill?

* An expedition was actually undertaken by Juan Ponce de Leon, in the 16th century, with the view of discovering a wonderful fountain, believed by the natives of Puerto Rico to spring in one of the Lucayo Isles, and to possess the virtue of restoring youth to all who bathed in its waters.

See Robertson's History of America.


An early traveller mentions a people on the banks of the Mississippi who burst into tears at the sight of a stranger. The reason of this is, that they fancy their deceased friends and relations to be only gone on a journey, and being in constant expectation of their return, look for them vainly among these foreign travelPicart's Ceremonies and Religious Customs.


"J'ai passe moi-meme," says Chateaubriand in his Souvenirs d'Amerique," chez une peuplade indienne qui se prenait a pleurer a la vue d'un voyageur, parce qu'il lui rappelait des amis partis pour la Contree des Ames, et depuis long-tems en voyage.


WE saw thee, O stranger, and wept!
We looked for the youth of the sunny glance,
Whose step was the fleetest in the chase or dance!
The light of his eye was a joy to see,
The path of his arrows a storm to flee!

But there came a voice from a distant shore;

He was called-he is found 'midst his tribe no more!
He is not in his place when the night-fires burn,
But we look for him still-he will yet return!
-His brother sat with a drooping brow
In the gloom of the shadowing cypress bough,
We roused him-we bade him no longer pine,
For we heard a step-but the step was thine.

We saw thee, O Stranger, and wept!
We look'd for the maid of the mournful song,
Mournful, though sweet-she hath left us long!
We told her the youth of her love was gone,
And she went forth to see him-she passed alone;
We hear not her voice when the woods are still,
From the bower where it sang like a silvery rill.
The joy of her sire with her smile hath fled,
The winter is white on his lonely head,

He hath none by his side when the wilds we track,
He hath none when we rest-yet she comes not back!
We looked for her eye on the feast to shine,
For her breezy step-but the step was thine!

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