The League of the Alps

’Twas night upon the Alps. The Senn’s wild horn,Like a wind’s voice, had pour’d its last long tone,Whose pealing echoes, through the larch-woods borne,To the low cabins of the glens made knownThat welcome steps were nigh. The flocks had goneBy cliff and pine bridge to their place of rest;The chamois slumber’d, for the chase was done;His cavern-bed of moss the hunter press’d,And the rock-eagle couch’d high on his cloudy nest.

Did the land sleep? The woodman’s axe had ceasedIts ringing notes upon the beech and plane;The grapes were gather’d in; the vintage feastWas closed upon the hills, the reaper’s strainHush’d by the streams; the year was in its wane,The night in its mid watch--it was a timeE’en mark’d and hallow’d unto slumber’s reign;But thoughts were stirring, restless and sublime,And o’er his white Alps moved the spirit of the clime.

For there, where snows, in crowning glory spread,High and unmark’d by mortal footstep lay;And there, where torrents, mid the ice-caves fed,Burst in their joy of light and sound away;And there, where freedom, as in scornful play,Had hung man’s dwellings midst the realms of air,O’er cliffs the very birthplace of the day--Oh! who would dream that tyranny could dareTo lay her withering hand on God’s bright works e’en there?

Yet thus it was. Amidst the fleet streams gushingTo bring down rainbows o’er their sparry cell,And the glad heights, through mist and tempest rushingUp where the sun’s red fire-glance earliest fell,And the fresh pastures where the herd’s sweet bellRecall’d such life as Eastern patriarchs led;There peasant men their free thoughts might not tellSave in the hour of shadows and of dread,And hollow sounds that wake to Guilt’s dull stealthy tread.

But in a land of happy shepherd homes,On its green hills in quiet joy reclining,With their bright hearth-fires, midst the twilight glooms,From bowery lattice through the fir-woods shining--A land of legends and wild songs, entwiningTheir memory with all memories loved and blest--In such a land there dwells a power, combiningThe strength of many a calm but fearless breast;And woe to him who breaks the Sabbath of its rest!

A sound went up--the wave’s dark sleep was broken--On Uri’s lake was heard a midnight oar--Of man’s brief course a troubled moment’s tokenTh’ eternal waters to their barriers bore;And then their gloom a flashing image woreOf torch-fires streaming out o’er crag and wood,And the wild falcon’s wing was heard to soarIn startled haste--and by that moonlight flood,A band of patriot men on Grutli’s verdure stood.

They stood in arms: the wolf-spear and the bowHad waged their war on things of mountain race;Might not their swift stroke reach a mail-clad foe?--Strong hands in harvest, daring feet in chase,True hearts in fight, were gather’d on that placeOf secret council. Not for fame or spoilSo met those men in Heaven’s majestic face:To guard free hearths they rose, the sons of toil,The hunter of the rocks, the tiller of the soil.

O’er their low pastoral valleys might the tideOf years have flow’d, and still, from sire to son,Their names and records on the green earth died,As cottage lamps, expiring one by oneIn the dim glades, when midnight hath begunTo hush all sound. But silent on its height,The snow mass, full of death, while ages runTheir course, may slumber, bathed in rosy light,Till some rash voice or step disturb its brooding might.

So were they roused. Th’ invading step had pass’dTheir cabin thresholds, and the lowly door,Which well had stood against the Fohnwind’s blast,Could bar Oppression from their home no more.Why, what had she to do where all things woreWild grandeur’s impress? In the storm’s free way,How dared she lift her pageant crest beforeTh’ enduring and magnificent arrayOf sovereign Alps, that wing’d their eagles with the day?

This might not long be borne: the tameless hillsHave voices from the cave and cataract swelling,Fraught with His name whose awful presence fillsTheir deep lone places, and for ever tellingThat He hath made man free! and they, whose dwellingWas in those ancient fastnesses, gave ear;The weight of sufferance from their hearts repelling,They rose--the forester--the mountaineer--Oh! what hath earth more strong than the good peasant spear?

Sacred be Grutli’s field! Their vigil keepingThrough many a blue and starry summer night--There, while the sons of happier lands were sleeping,Had those brave Switzers met; and in the sightOf the just God, who pours forth burning mightTo gird the oppress’d, had given their deep thoughts way,And braced their spirits for the patriot fight,With lovely images of homes that layBower’d midst the rustling pines, or by the torrent spray.

Now had endurance reach’d its bounds! They cameWith courage set in each bright earnest eye,The day, the signal, and the hour to name,When they should gather on their hills to die,Or shake the glaciers with their joyous cryFor the land’s freedom. ’Twas a scene combiningAll glory in itself--the solemn sky,The stars, the waves their soften’d light enshrining,And man’s high soul supreme o’er mighty Nature shining.

Calmly they stood, and with collected mien,Breathing their souls in voices firm but low--As if the spirit of the hour and scene,With the woods’ whisper and the waves’ sweet flow,Had temper’d in their thoughtful hearts the glowOf all indignant feeling. To the breathOf Dorian flute, and lyre-note soft and slow,E’en thus of old, the Spartan from its sheathDrew his devoted sword, and girt himself for death.

And three, that seem’d as chieftains of the band,Were gather’d in the midst on that lone shoreBy Uri’s lake. A father of the land,One on his brow the silent record woreOf many days, whose shadows had pass’d o’erHis path among the hills, and quench’d the dreamsOf youth with sorrow. Yet from memory’s loreStill his life’s evening drew its loveliest gleams,For he had walk’d with God, beside the mountain streams.

And his gray hairs, in happier times, might wellTo their last pillow silently have gone,As melts a wreath of snow. But who shall tellHow life may task the spirit? He was oneWho from its morn a freeman’s work had done,And reap’d his harvest, and his vintage press’d,Fearless of wrong; and now, at set of sun,He bow’d not to his years, for on the breastOf a still chainless land he deem’d it much to rest.

But for such holy rest strong hands must toil,Strong hearts endure! By that pale elder’s side,Stood one that seem’d a monarch of the soil,Serene and stately in his manhood’s pride--Werner, the brave and true! If men have diedTheir hearths and shrines inviolate to keep,He was a mate for such. The voice that criedWithin his breast, “Arise!” came still and deepFrom his far home, that smiled e’en then in moonlight sleep.

It was a home to die for! As it roseThrough its vine foliage, sending forth a soundOf mirthful childhood, o’er the green reposeAnd laughing sunshine of the pastures round;And he, whose life to that sweet spot was bound,Raised unto Heaven a glad yet thoughtful eye,And set his free step firmer on the ground,When o’er his soul its melodies went by,As, through some Alpine pass, a breeze of Italy.

But who was he that on his hunting-spearLean’d, with a prouder and more fiery bearing?His was a brow for tyrant hearts to fear,Within the shadow of its dark locks wearingThat which they may not tame--a soul declaringWar against earth’s oppressors. Midst that throngOf other mould he seem’d, and loftier daring,One whose blood swept high impulses along,One that should pass, and leave a name for warlike song--

A memory on the mountains!--one to stand,When the hills echo’d with the deepening swellOf hostile trumpets, foremost for the land,And in some rock defile, or savage dell,Array her peasant children to repelTh’ invader, sending arrows for his chains!Ay, one to fold around him, as he fell,Her banner with a smile--for through his veinsThe joy of danger flow’d, as torrents to the plains.

There was at times a wildness in the lightOf his quick-flashing eye; a something bornOf the free Alps, and beautifully bright,And proud, and tameless, laughing fear to scorn!It well might be!--Young Erni’s step had wornThe mantling snows on their most regal steeps,And track’d the lynx above the clouds of morn,And follow’d where the flying chamois leapsAcross the dark blue rifts, th’ unfathom’d glacier deeps.

He was a creature of the Alpine sky,A being whose bright spirit had been fedMidst the crown’d heights of joy and liberty,And thoughts of power. He knew each path which ledTo the rock’s treasure caves, whose crystal shedSoft light o’er secret fountains. At the toneOf his loud horn the Lammer-Geyer had spreadA startled wing--for oft that peal had blownWhere the free cataract’s voice was wont to sound alone.

His step had track’d the waste, his soul had stirr’dThe ancient solitudes--his voice had toldOf wrongs to call down heaven. That tale was heardIn Hasli’s dales, and where the shepherds’ foldTheir flocks in dark ravine and craggy holdOn the bleak Oberland; and where the lightOf day’s last footsteps bathes in burning goldGreat Righi’s cliffs; and where Mount Pilate’s heightCasts o’er his glassy lake the darkness of his might.

Nor was it heard in vain. There all things pressHigh thoughts on man. The fearless hunter pass’d,And, from the bosom of the wilderness,There leapt a spirit and a power to castThe weight of bondage down--and bright and fast,As the clear waters, joyously and free,Burst from the desert rock, it rush’d at last,Through the far valleys; till the patriot threeThus with their brethren stood, beside the Forest-Sea.

They link’d their hands, they pledged their stainless faithIn the dread presence of attesting Heaven,They bound their hearts to suffering and to death,With the severe and solemn transport givenTo bless such vows. How nobly man had striven,How man might strive, and vainly strive, they knew,And call’d upon their God, whose arm had rivenThe crest of many a tyrant, since He blewThe foaming sea-wave on, and Egypt’s might o’erthrew.

They knelt, and rose in strength. The valleys layStill in their dimness, but the peaks which dartedInto the bright mid air, had caught from dayA flush of fire, when those true Switzers parted,Each to his glen or forest, steadfast-hearted,And full of hope. Not many suns had wornTheir setting glory, ere from slumber startedTen thousand voices, of the mountains born--So far was heard the blast of freedom’s echoing horn!

The ice-vaults trembled, when that peal came rendingThe frozen stillness which around them hung;From cliff to cliff the avalanche descendingGave answer, till the sky’s blue hollow rung;And the flame-signals through the midnight sprungFrom the Surennen rocks, like banners streamingTo the far Seelisberg; whence light was flungOn Grutli’s field, till all the red lake gleamingShone out, a meteor-heaven in its wild splendour seeming.

And the winds toss’d each summit’s blazing crest,As a host’s plumage; and the giant pines,Fell’d where they waved o’er crag and eagle’s nest,Heap’d up the flames. The clouds grew fiery signs,As o’er a city’s burning towers and shrines,Reddening the distance. Wine-cups, crown’d and bright,In Werner’s dwelling flow’d; through leafless vinesFrom Walter’s hearth stream’d forth the festive light,And Erni’s blind old sire gave thanks to heaven that night.

Then on the silence of the snows there layA Sabbath’s quiet sunshine--and its bellFill’d the hush’d air awhile, with lonely sway;For the stream’s voice was chain’d by winter’s spell,The deep wood-sounds had ceased. But rock and dellRang forth, ere long, when strains of jubileePeal’d from the mountain churches, with a swellOf praise to Him who stills the raging sea--For now the strife was closed, the glorious Alps were free!