Shep. Yet will Time the deluge stop;
Then may Switzerland be blest :
On St. Gothard's hoary top *
Shall the Ark of Freedom rest.
Wand. No!-Irreparably lost,
On the day that made us slaves,
Freedom's Ark, by tempest tost,
Foundered in the swallowing waves.
Shep. Welcome, Wanderer as thou art,
All my blessings to partake;
Yet thrice welcome to my heart,
For thine injured country's sake.
On the western hills afar
Evening lingers with delight,
While she views her favourite star
Brightening on the brow of night.
Here, though lowly be my lot,
Enter freely, freely share
All the comforts of my cot,
Humble shelter, homely fare.
Spouse! I bring a suffering guest,
With his family of grief;
Give the weary pilgrims rest,
Yield the exiles sweet relief!
Shep's Wife. I will yield them sweet relief:
Weary pilgrims! welcome here;
Welcome, family of grief!
Welcome to my warmest cheer.
Wand. When in prayer the broken heart
Asks a blessing from above,
Heaven shall take the Wanderer's part,
Heaven reward the stranger's love.
Shep. Haste, recruit the failing fire,
High the winter-faggots raise:
See the crackling flames aspire ;
Oh, how cheerfully they blaze!
St. Gothard is the name of the highest mountain in the canton of Uri, the birthof Swiss independence.
Mourners! now forget your cares,
And, till supper-board be crowned,
Closely draw your fireside chairs;
Form the dear domestic round.
Wand. Host! thy smiling daughters bring,
Bring those rosy lads of thine;
Let them mingle in the ring
With these poor lost babes of mine.
Shep. Join the ring, my girls and boys;
This enchanting circle, this
Binds the social loves and joys;
'Tis the fairy-ring of bliss!
Wand. O ye loves and joys! that sport
In the fairy-ring of bliss,
Oft with me ye held your court;
I had once a home like this!
Bountiful my former lot
As my native country's rills;
The foundations of my cot
Were her everlasting hills.
But those streams no longer pour
Rich abundance round my lands;
And my father's cot no more
On my father's mountain stands.
By a hundred winters piled,
When the glaciers, dark with death,*
Hang o'er precipices wild,
Hang-suspended by a breath:
If a pulse but throb alarm,
Headlong down the steeps they fall,
-For a pulse will break the charm-
Bounding, bursting, burying all.
* More properly the Avalanches; immense accumulations of ice and snow, balanced on the verge of the mountains in such subtle suspense, that, in the opinion of the natives, the tread of the traveller may bring them down in destruction upon him. The Glaciers are more permanent masses of ice, and formed rather in the valleys than on the summits of the Alps.
Struck with horror stiff and pale,
When the chaos breaks on high,
All that view it from the vale,
All that hear it coming, die :-
In a day and hour accurst,
O'er the wretched land of TELL,
Thus the Gallic ruin burst,
Thus the Gallic glacier fell!
Shep. Hush that melancholy strain;
Wipe those unavailing tears:
IVand. Nay-I must, I will complain;
'Tis the privilege of years:
'Tis the privilege of Woe,
Thus her anguish to impart :
And the tears that freely flow
Ease the agonizing heart.
Shep. Yet suspend thy griefs awhile:
See the plenteous table crowned;
And my wife's endearing smile
Beams a rosy welcome round.
Cheese from mountain dairies prest,
Wholesome herbs, nutritious roots,
Honey from the wild bee's nest,
Cheering wine, and ripened fruits :
These, with soul-sustaining bread,
My paternal fields afford:
On such fare our fathers fed:-
Hoary pilgrim! bless the board.
After supper, the Wanderer, at the desire of his Host, relates the sorrows and sufferings of his country, during the Invasion and Conquest of it by the French, in connection with his own story.
Shep. Wanderer! bowed with griefs and years,
Wanderer, with the cheek so pale!
O give language to those tears!
Tell their melancholy tale.
|